I'm a Poet, a Prophet, and a story-teller, who
wanders alone between glowing constellations 'till I
find a barren, rocky asteroid to set my easel on. In
order to capture the vastness and beauty of creation
in a painting, I must have vibrant colors that art
supply stores simply don't contain. My knee pops as I
teeter on one leg, stretching my arm out to dip my
brush in the flaming tail of a passing meteor. The
molten red and orange colors steam and hiss, dripping
from my melting brush as I apply them to the painting.

Giddy and breathless, I'm working at a feverish pace -
reaching, reaching inside myself for a way to give the
viewers back on earth a glimpse of the elemental
forces surrounding me with their pulsating light and

The search for perfect expression is unending.
Here's a poem I wrote that expresses this idea of
continual reaching, of never being quite satisfied
with our creative efforts.


A small astronaut stands on tiptoe
enslaving the pale blinking light
of a distant star in his chubby grasp.

Life's mysteries litter the ground
at his feet, discarded like
cardboard juice containers on a
muggy August day

yet his thirst is not quenched.

Creating a painting is more than just documenting
life experiences. These are only the raw material. At
some point, your creation may take on a life of its
own and transcend its sources. There's no feeling
quite like creating that "something new." No one else
could have done it quite the way you did, because you
are unique and one-of-a-kind! It is my hope that I can
provide some small inspiration for others through
sharing my art.

painting and text (c) Jim Cox All Rights Reserved

Dead poet

Head tilted back, cradled on unraveling threads
my gray mouth gapes inches below a sagging satin roof

eager to taste the tangy yellow mustard
on a fresh cooked dawg at the beach again.

I long to see the bright colored sport shirts
that Asian tourists wear on vacation

or smell the pines in a valley below
towering snow capped peaks

or listen to the loud clanking sound of manhole
covers when New York cabbies run over them.

I'm so hungry for lifes sensations
but all there is to experience today
is mockery.

In the green lizard shade of the churchyard
above me, people are snickering
and giggling as they view my gravestone

making light of myself, and many here
who dreamed of something better.

They boast about the good times
failed marriages
credit card debt

"What else is there?" (they loudly proclaim)

but chiseled words beneath my name
will temporarily suspend ridicule's
unerring tread

"He lived by faith"

A large man peers, then shrugs
leisure suited shoulders
and strides away

He missed out on everything.
Never deny myself pleasure.

I sift through hoarded nouns and adjectives
to honor someone special
but it's too late

a grinning melody with rolled-up cuffs
just skipped across the sky
extending an invitation
to me the way playful sunshine calls
to a kid on the last day of class.

ordinary dirt bulges and fractures
and mouths go slack
as many hop and stagger to keep their balance

I'm being changed by Love's alchemy and awake
to the hilarious belly hoots, and heads-thrown-back
heaven bound hollers of others like myself
whose lives have just been redeemed

I'll leave behind a tear stained legacy
of a faith embraced
through hard but shining years-

along with a few poems.

(c) Jim Cox All Rights Reserved

(c) Patrick Delorme

Two Realms to Rule
(c) 1982 by M. David Woodall

I went to get a glass of orange juice and found the pitcher empty of all
but a few droplets. As I took out the frozen concentrate, I felt an
awkward, drunken dizziness overwhelm me.

"Jeric, my son, someday all these will be your kingdoms to rule," my
father, the king, said with a sweep of his hand. As I looked out over the
countryside from the mountain top, I added three cans of water to the
concentrated juice and stirred, not wishing to wait for it to melt.
Somehow being two places at once seemed altogether natural.

"Yes, but I will not come into this power until after your death. Is that
not so, Father?" I poured myself a glass of orange juice and placed the
full pitcher back into the refrigerator.

"That is true, son. Hopefully my years of experience will benefit you when
that day comes." I listened to him relate battles of blood and battles of
bureaucracy, and as the sun set on my future lands, I placed the empty
glass in the kitchen sink and rinsed it out. "You are eager for the crown,
if not your father's death," he said turning his back to me and walking to
the edge of the cliff which overlooked his realm.

I looked out the storm window at the newly fallen snow and, wondering if
the car would start, reached a decision. I joined my father at the edge of
the cliff and put my hands on his shoulders.

"Yes, I am eager for the crown," I said.

"And hopefully I will not need your years of experience to rule
successfully," I whispered, shoving him off the cliff's end. Then, pulling
on my hat and coat, I prepared for another day of the old nine-to-five.

Copyright © 1982 by M. David Woodall
All Rights Reserved.
Originally published under one-time license in the
trade paperback anthology Channel X: Short-Short Stories.

(c) Jonathan Machen
Unity Church mural, Boulder, Colorado

"Life is Passion"

Life is passion.
Passion demands newness, each moment.
Passion is never satisfied.
Passion does not lie in ruts,
nor passively kneel to offer mantras to silent gods.
Passion sets bridges on fire as she rushes over
and laughs to see them burn.

She did not build the bridges
but only uses them to gallop across
the great canyons of time and space and mind.
Then she burns them
for she knows she can never return.

Passion moves ever forward.
Always through it all, never above it or below it.
Passion charges, engages, bowls over and rides on.
She licks her wounds when night falls and rests,
hiding in a cave or log or abandoned warehouse;
or she stands alone under the moon
in a snow-covered expanse shimmering with crystal points,
giving thanks to the stars over her head --
she can be heard in the howl of the she-wolf
or the hooting of the great horned owl --
and although her body trembles with the cold
her heart burns within.

For those who would truly know,
their name becomes "Passion."
Their life engages death
and their death brings forth new life.
They know pain and suffering in time;
they know hunger and thirst;
they know loneliness --
but it blends to sorrow and sorrow becomes joy.
the joy of Passion:

Thus do they greet the morning light,
and thus are they empowered to ride on.

Forever across the endless.

(Sha'Tara EarthStar) Copyleft no rights reserved

(c) Desmond Donnelly


I am the mystery,
I am the manifest

I look out from the edge
of a far-flung galaxy
and see
a black, black hole

all is stretched, altered,
rendered unrecognizable –
densely compacted,
compactly massive

the hole is the zero edge
between the mystery and the manifest
it is the threshold
between conception and birth –
from non-tangible to tangible,
non-physical to physical

then in a whole ‘nother dimension I see
a living pink and lavender cloud
of translucent delicate feathers
and lacy fairy wings

the cloud breathes me,
I breathe the cloud
the cloud is breath, is
unseparated life, is
a beyond-within awareness –

this is the mystery which streams
through the zero edge
and becomes manifest
in the physical world

it is more ancient and wise
than pyramids and sphinxes,
hidden yet discoverable,
underneath and inside
the visible, tangible
world of the physical

(c) RG Hudson

(c) Desmond Donnelly

Oil PaintingThe Fulcrum is a contemplation of a significant moment on one's journey. The traveller stands with both the light and the shadow in his field of consciousness. He has journeyed far through subterranean caves and is about to finally attain his goal - to live in the light.
With great pause, he stops to meditate on the significance of this profound moment of commitment - to step out of the darkness of the cave and stand fully in the light of God I AM.


Simple acceptance
The dancer with the dance
entering pre-dawn mystery
quiet interval, enchanting music.
Undulating reverie
alone in Hekate's garden
breathing in the memory
of jasmine and spice.
Weary roads have been traveled
crossroad to crossroad
the journey continues.
Weary days have found sustanence
in secreted hovels, dimestore romance.
Convoluted talk, empty gestures,
soul-less ritual
take up the stitches of time.
Some brave midnight
if I learn my lessons well
I will eat the fruits of Hekate's garden
dancing in piquant reverie
leaving my tears and anguish
along the windswept trail,
ebuillent music
dancing me
as the Goddess kisses
my tearstains into

(c) March 13, 2006 Laurie Corzett

(c) Greg Edwards

Her Body Painted

by Kala Snowflower

Her body painted like sunset water
colors, the words of the gift burned
into her skin, the poetry
that so becomes her-
sheer fabric,
draped over her hips
to tantalize Beloveds, lifted
reveals the story told
and retold, at times
the letters themselves reforming,
retelling the kaleidoscopic life of the Lover
who holds a palette of bone deep wounds
and ecstatic caresses-
creating Herself
creating her World.

Her belly the sun spinning fire to prism.
Her arms wearing lush vines blooming blue
Water horses prancing joy into her
And kissed deeply into her ankle, sweet
scented jasmine.

Until morning, when dipping swift down
her cauldron of Art=Life,
offering vision for vision, releasing all form
toward emergence, pink fleshed, new,
unwritten, awaiting Dawn colors
while her light hot palms
hover over tendons strengthening,
joints loosening, fingers stringing
shiny beads swirling silver and gold
patterns around everyone she touches:

the cat who roots into her lap
and the green flesh of foxglove
crawling up her leg to be noticed.
Faery whispers, louder now
foretell the spiral garden her body
now builds, stone upon stone,
malachite, granite, dirt, seed,
flower and herb strung together

as a necklace for the Queen.

(c) 2006 Michele Neve

(c) 2o06 doktor J http://www.doktorj.ca/

Aquarian Dreams

Open your third eye
And your fourth
And your fifth
Make a wish
And wrap it up in bubblegum
Stick it to your bedpost
To dream itself awake
Into your dream
That is your life.
There are wishes made of water
Waving out to sea
Caught up in grievery
Cat-tails weeping
Weaving eerie reverie
Into the evening
Into the night
All through those dreamy,
Unaware of the hours days.
There are prophetic dreams.
They haunt or
Creep upon conscious walls.
Tell all is not
As simple as it seems.
There are reasons, portents, allies.
There are dreams
That wishes would simply die for.
They take us out of bounds
Into faery realms and more.
Sprinkling gold spun out of
Shining love and merriment.
Yes! The very mint
That stamps us sold,
That fulfills our greatest hopes,
Flies us to heights above
The most benign of clouds,
Sets our spirits free.
There are dreams
That bind
Define identities
Expose deformities
Deny extremities
Create barriers and rifts
Look to differences
As definitions
Defend what they define.
There are dreams,
There are dramas,
There are visions.
Tell me yours,
I'll tell you mine.

(c) 2006 Laurie Corzett (libramoon)

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