June New Moon * * * * * * * Issue #2
Created from the Milky Way shining into Mother Moon,
Reflections from that ancient light emerging from her womb.
A sad guitar, a raging sax, emoting through the sea
Of stories sung through ages all, what was through what will be --
Were you the Lady of that lake, were you the piper's reed?
Were you the luscious, sacred fruit fulfilling every need?
Yes, you the child dancing in the fullness of the night
To ring the rune and cast the spell to make the darkness bright.
Of goddess born to keep us safe and sing our lullabies
Till we emerge as sparkling stars to light the dreaming skies.
"Religion" How did something so beautiful in concept become so twisted?"
"Unnatural selection" The bird is half organic and half metal. Inside the bird's eye is a human pilot.
" Plugged in " part 3 of the evolution painting.
All (c) Rachel Thompson. These paintings are the creation and property of Rachel C, Thompson. All rights reserved; reproduction by written permission of the artist only.
The firestone gatherers all wear brightly coloured turbans or skull-caps:
violet, green, lemon, hot pink
and each has his or her own tale to tell or song to sing
in finely modulated voice.
One man sings of the laughter in his daughters eyes,
another of heroic deeds performed by some great hero
in the dawn of the world.
A young woman (wearing a mirrored skull-cap on her shaven pate)
describes the fruit (and hieratic properties assigned to them)
that grow in lavish abundance in her homeland beyond the Prismatic Forest;
an old man with a tame cockatoo on his shoulder
extols the virtues of dreamweed
pausing between stanzas to puff at his dragon-shaped pipe.
Thus the hours pass pleasantly as we descend the wooded slopes
towards the shores of the beckoning Ocean,
invisible but audible every now and then
as the liana-festooned pathway twists this way and that
like an eager emerald snake.
Finally we catch sight of the sea
just as the first gorgeous stars are filling the sky with their beauty
and firestones are still gleaming brightly
with the last true fires of the dying Sun
burning in their jealous and imprisoning hearts.
Leaving off our individual stories or solitary reminiscences
we raise our voices in unison
in praise of the fallen Goddess
and all Her crystal tears,
promising her that we will only use her gathered children's power
in the finest and most elegant of magicks
and never for personal gain.
No sooner has this final stanza of our hymn left Dame Theodora's
but an owl hoots in a nearby pee-pee tree
and a topaz star falls from the darkening heavens
making the world a richer and even more mysterious place
- an ever fertile ground for firestone-gatherers
and devotees of Primitive Wonder.
The Missing Children
The rose that blooms in the high snowfields is rarely seen by men but every seven years or so (the figure is not exact), a child is born in the Valley of the Two Villages and the high Rose calls to that child's mind when it reaches the age of ten.
One year it called with a song and a dream to a poor shoe-repairer's son who lived with his father and mother and fourteen brothers and sisters in a dilapidated wooden shack on the left bank of the stream that ran through the valley where the Village of the Unfortunates was chiefly built; and, at the same time, to a girl, far removed in station and rank, who lived in the Village of the Educated (as they called themselves) on the right-hand bank of the stream, whose father lived in a very big mansion and who owned the Two Villages Department Store, a highly lucrative Peddle-taxi company and about three-fifths of the Two Villages Bank (his brother owned the other two-fifths). The girl herself, whose name by the way, was Susan, had four rooms all of her own: a bedroom, a playroom, a homework room, and an entertainment room - this last one not being as you might think a room full of interesting and entertaining things, but rather, a room in which to formally entertain the well-dressed and well-to-do sons and daughters of her Mother's rich and Educated friends with Tea and Cakes and Anecdotes.
One moonlit night when the snow began to fall and owls were all hooting in the trees the boy, in the room he shared with his fourteen brothers and sisters, and the girl, in her lavish peacock-wallpapered bedroom, both heard the calling of the Rose like a nightingale singing on the breeze.
The boy (whose name was Tom), careful not to wake his snoring siblings, dressed quickly but quietly and tiptoed out of his parent's hut in his best hand-me-down boots (the pair with only two small holes and matching shoelaces).
The girl, putting on an especially warm fur-lined duffel coat and fur-lined Wellington boots, crept past her sleeping maid's door and out into the night.
Tom followed the song of the nightingale, or what he thought was the song of a nightingale, along the left-hand bank of the swiftly running stream, past the ramshackle huts of carpenters, metal-smiths, butchers, seamstresses and candle-makers until he had left the Village of the Unfortunates altogether and was out in the moonlit fields; whilst Susan, for her part, also followed what she thought was a nightingale's song through the rich suburbs and garden-parks of the Village of the Educated (carefully avoiding Night Watch-men and Hour-clangers in their splendid red and silver-buttoned uniforms) alongside the poplar-lined right-hand bank of the stream until she too had left the residential environs of the Valley of the Two Villages behind and was in the open country.
Eventually of course, their two paths crossed, on a little wooden bridge under which the fast-flowing stream flowed coldly but happily, fed by the distant high snow-fields wherein the magical Rose sang ever so softly and sweetly. And there, with a field of moonlit corn-stubble to one side of them and a field of late starlit turnips to the other, where everything was silvery and still, except for the gentle falling of the Winter's first snow, and the mysterious hooting of owls, and the gurgling song of the stream, and the haunting song of what they thought was a nightingale, they met; and if Tom was momentarily nonplussed by the little girl's rich fur-coat and fur-lined Wellington boots, and if Susan was for a second or two somewhat dismayed by Tom's somewhat ragged appearance and his terrible hand-me-down boots, they soon put such quibbling differences aside as, together, they answered the call of the Rose and followed what they thought was the song of a nightingale on the high path that led, over hills and moors, through old and mysterious forests to the Secret Country where only those with fearless hearts or those who are called by the Rose, might safely enter and tread.
Of course the families of the two children searched for the missing boy and girl for many days and many of the Villagers helped in the search; but the falling snow had covered up their footprints and no sign was found of either of them.
Then Susan's father accused Tom's father and many brothers of kidnapping his daughter and demanded that they hand her over immediately; but though the Police searched every corner of the Village of the Unfortunate's, they could find no trace of the missing young heiress and they were forced, reluctantly, to release them from the cells they had for a while imprisoned them in.
Many years passed and the missing boy and girl were forgotten by almost everyone, except of course their families who were thereafter continually suspicious of each other and could not pass each other on the street (which was not very often) without getting very worked up and causing an affray.
Then one day, or rather, one night, several years later, when many of Tom's brothers and sisters had children of their own and Susan's father now owned not one but three Department Stores as well as four chemists, two Post Offices, a Canon-making Factory and five-fifths of the Two Villages Bank, the young son of the Chief of Police was awakened by moonlight shining through his window and the distant hooting of owls. He quite naturally got up out of bed to look at the Moon and listen to the owls; and as he was doing so he heard the song of what he thought was a nightingale singing from the forest.
Quickly, he got dressed, let himself out and followed it along the banks of the stream and through the pea and potato fields until he came to the purple eaves of a part of the forest he had never been to before; and there he sat for a while on the stump of an old tree just listening to the wonderful music. But then the birdsong stopped and young Robert seemed to wake up as if from a dream and wondered to himself just how he came to be sitting out there in the moonlight! He scratched his head for a while, and had almost decided to make his way back home, when a big white owl flew over him into the trees. And then the nightingale, or what he thought was a nightingale, began to sing again; and without hesitation Robert stood up and followed its beautiful song into the forest. For fourteen nights and fourteen days he followed it, over hills and high moors, alongside gurgling streams, through moonlit valleys and crystal caves, until he came at last to the wonderful fields where the Rose of the high Snows blooms; and there he was welcomed by a great King and Queen!
This went on for several score years. Children would be continually disappearing from the Two Villages. The community would search for them extensively, all the old tales and accusations would be dredged up again, but in the face of no evidence of the children's flight or fate they were eventually given up as mysteriously but irredeemably lost. A legend grew up of a powerful demon that lived in the forest that tempted the children away with its song and then devoured them. Of course not everyone believed such nonsense.
Several families eventually joined together to organize a month long search from bottom to top of the Valley, including the ancient woods. Amongst them were Susan's family (although her father was dead now) and the family of young Robert. Tom's many brothers and their sons also wanted to be a part of this but the others would not let them and threatened legal action if they tried to "disrupt", as they termed it, the hunt for the Missing Children.
They explored the hidden nooks and crannies of the Valley high and low and penetrated most of the woodland but they never found any children. They looked in dry streambeds and in the tangles of riverweed; they went down narrow caves and shafts inside the earth but only found the occasional surprised toad or hibernating mammal. As the month drew to a close and one or two of Tom's more determined brothers and sisters also began to forage about in obscure places they had been wont to play in when they themselves were children, the old suspicions, accusations and feuds resurfaced, with family members accusing one another of stealing each others children. Windows of several homes were smashed and incendiary devices pushed through letterboxes.
As the search continued to uncover no clues the majority of the villagers, be they from the enclaves of the Unfortunates or the more prosperous suburbs of the Educated, became polarized and more entrenched in their prejudices and hostilities. A great and bitter war broke out in which virtually everybody between the ages of two and one hundred and two took part and barricades were erected between the Two Villages and Identity Cards issued. Some of the people quite forgot what exactly it was they were fighting about and when, as it happened, some amongst them went missing, it was naturally assumed the other side was responsible. There was no more childish talk of demons in the forest!
As the years dragged into decades and grandmother passed on inherited hatred to grandchild, as young men roamed the valley in belligerent military mobs and conducted regular guerilla raids upon their opposite numbers, the majority of the once prosperous fields and farms were laid waste and many people, young and old, man, woman and child, were killed, as well as most of the livestock and wild creatures of hedgerow, field and wood. Naturally, people blamed each other; and this in turn fuelled yet more hatred and fighting.
Then one year the rains failed and what remained of the already devastated fields produced no crops whatsoever and a great and terrible famine arose and what few people managed to survive this were then left to face the fierce ravages of disease and plague. Eventually only two old people were left alive in the entire valley.
As it happened, they were both great great grandrelations of the boy and girl whose families had started the initial feud in the first place. One cold winter night the old man in his hut on the left bank of the stream heard an owl hooting in the desolation. At the same time, the very old, gray-haired lady who lived in the crumbling ruins of the dilapidated mansion on the right-hand bank of the stream heard a lonely nightingale singing in what was left of the not too distant woods.
Together, mesmerized by the unmistakable call of beauty, they both rose up and, like Tom and Susan before them, they followed the ancient winding stream and met on an old but still passable bridge between what had once been lovely fields and were, on this one magical night, despite their desolation, still rendered silvery and beautiful beneath the Moon and timeless starlight. And like their great great Aunt and Uncle before them they put aside their differences and entered the Perilous Wood and traveled upon the road of High Enchantment to the far snow fields where the mystical Rose of the World still blooms to this very day.
There they were greeted by the King and Queen of Fairyland, who were of course, none other than Tom and Susan themselves! And just in time too - for they had been King and Queen now for a very long time and had grown somewhat tired of it. It was time for them, like the great Lord and Lady who had greeted them when they had first arrived in the Secret Country so many years ago, to retire; first for several weeks holiday on the Moon, and then to settle down in a nice little cottage in the Sun.
But first, of course, they had a great celebration with their great great niece and nephew and introduced them to all the children who had gone missing from the Valley of the Two Villages over the past two hundred years or so. Naturally, Robert was amongst them and proudly showed off his lovely two daughters and three sons and his beautiful wife, who was a great Princess of the Fairies. There was plenty to eat and drink and music was provided by a highly skilled and well-rehearsed band of owls and nightingales. Of course there was some sadness also when the children heard of what had happened to the Valley and its Two Villages, but the Rose cast the sweetest of her glamours over them and they put aside their sorrow and looked forward to the day when all such nonsense and silly in-fighting was seen for the sad and worthless squabbling that it was.
Eventually (it was quite a long party), the old man and woman (who had by this time become quite young again due to the rejuvenating influence of the mystical Rose) became the new King and Queen of Fairyland and had many children of their own.
Occasionally, a young boy or girl still manages to find their way to the high snow fields, although it seems to be getting more and more difficult as time goes by. It has been several hundred years now since Queen Matilda and I arrived here just in time to meet Lord Tom and Lady Susan before they went away to the Sun (we still see them now and then, of course, but it is so frightfully hot there!). We both hope some more children go missing soon from all the many villages and towns on Earth where people are still so stupidly and senselessly fighting amongst themselves and manage to find the way here - it's not really all that difficult after all - one simply has to listen to one's heart and follow the owls and the nightingales! Matty and I are both getting quite old again now; and we too are beginning to look forward to a holiday on the Moon and a nice little retirement cottage in the Sun. It's supposed to be very nice at this time of year, and of course we both look forward to seeing good old great great Uncle Tom and Aunt Susan again. I even went to see Rose and ask her whether or not some new children were due soon; but She just smiled mysteriously and nodded her beautiful head in the breeze.
The Prince of the Seven Lakes and the Mermaid
The Prince of the Seven Lakes liked to get up early in the morning and walk along the shores of his little aquatic realm, talking to the trees and watching the fine white clouds scudding merrily above the not-too-distant sea.
One morning he saw a mermaid laying fast asleep and dreaming upon a little island in the largest of his lakes. Approaching her quietly so as not to startle her he leaned over her and stared into her beautiful pale jade face, framed by silky emerald tresses.
At that moment she woke up and fear leapt quickly into her eyes but after a brief moment she recognised the Prince's nobility and smiled at him.
The Prince returned her smile and asked if he might join her, to which the mermaid assented.
"I hadn't realised there was an underground connection between my lake and the sea," he said. "Do you come here often?"
"There isn't and I don't," replied the mermaid, tossing back her hair in a most delightful manner. "Actually I was carried here last night by a rather large and extremely naughty wave. I had been sitting on one of those nicely jagged and sea-weed festooned rocks out there," she said, indicating the wicked shoal of barnacled stone known to local fishermen as 'Old Horny's Teeth', "idly admiring myself in an old mirror or two when I noticed a superfluous face next to mine in my harmless trinket's reflective surface. It was Moon-Sister - she was standing right behind me! What is more, I couldn't help but notice she had a large pimple right on the end of her nose, which she had, apparently, been inspecting in my mirror.
"She did not seem at all happy that I had noticed it and scowled at me in a mean and nasty manner.
"'If you must know, she said, I was struck by a meteor in my Moon-form.' But if you ask me, judging by the flecks of dried cream about her mouth, which she hadn't seemed to have noticed, it was more likely due to her excessive love of devouring cornucopia, a habit of hers which even we humble mermaids have heard about.
"Anyway, she was obviously annoyed at my noticing her pimple and snatching the mirror out of my hand, called upon a passing wave, an old friend of hers, to pick me up and carry me inland. Which is how I came to find myself on your island here. Luckily he wasn't a completely wicked wave really as he deposited me quite nicely, if a little roughly, in the lake itself. I hope you don't mind but I'm afraid I had two of your ornamental fish for supper. Naturally, I asked their permission first and they were very polite about the whole business, assuring me they quite looked forward to being reborn in Golden Carp Heaven, where they would become handmaidens to Princess Silver Minnow Bodhisattva as a reward for their self-sacrifice."
"Well I can hardly complain if they didn't," said the Prince, "but really - that Moon-Sister! As it happens, I'm due to meet her brother Tawny Sun-Friend at 11 o'clock this morning. I'm having a new pavilion built in the Garden of Telepathic Orchids and he's agreed to allow his image to be represented above the eastern entrance. Lu-fuen is coming from White Mountain village to make a few preliminary sketches. I'm sure if I have a word with him he'll be just as appalled as I am at his sister's bad behaviour and see that she's suitably punished.
"In the meantime we'll have to see if we can think of a way to get you back to the sea - a rickshaw filled with water perhaps."
"That would be quite suitable, I think," replied the mermaid demurely, "and would allow me to inspect something of your charming Kingdom in a leisurely manner."
"It is the least I can do," said the Prince, admiring his guests lovely turquoise eyes and exquisitely scaled tail.
Now as they were both young people with frank and curious minds, their conversation soon passed to other less pressing matters - the manner and custom of things in their relative worlds, the merit of this or that opera, the wisdom of this or that sage, that delightful colouration of the peach-blossom on the nearby tree and the relative lack of butterflies under the sea.
It soon became obvious to each of the conversationalists that they had quite fallen in love with with each other and did not wish to be parted, despite that the mermaid was beginning to develope a bit of a headache from being out of salt-water for so long.
They were discussing various aspects of agriculture when a golden fluttering in the air above them announced the arrival of Tawny Sun-Friend. Off in the distance the venerable white-haired figure of Lu-Fuen could be seen ambling towards them, a retinue of young boys carrying his easel and boxes of paint.
The Prince of the Seven Lakes struck the back of his hand to his brow in dismay and consulted his pocket watch. It was twenty minutes past eleven already. How the time had flown!
Apologising profusely to Tawny, he introduced his new friend and explained the circumstances of her arrival upon the little island.
Tawny Sun-Friend became quite red, first with shame and then with indignation.
"Really," he said at last, "this time Moon-Sister has gone too far. I'll give her pimples! And as for that ill-mannered wave - I'll see that it doesn't touch sand for a fortnight at least!"
The Prince had never seen Tawny looking quite so angry.
By now Lu-Fuen had arrived, crossing the narrow filigree bridge over to the little island, and everything had to be explained to him.
"Excuse me," said the mermaid, after being introduced again, "but I really must immerse myself in the lake. I'm afraid the lack of salinity is beginning to have an adverse effect upon my appearance."
Actually, she was in fact beginning to feel quite ill, but didn't like to say so. Fortunately Lu-Fuen was not only an accomplished artist but had in his younger days studied various branches of medicine and alchemy under Master Lao Chung Wei and recognised the cause of Princess Mei-Mei's distress (for of course the beautiful mermaid was indeed a Princess in her own Country, her father being no less than King Honourable Sea Jade Trident and her mother the regal Queen Irridescent Anemone Calyx). Calling over one of his catamites to bring him Auxiliary Briefcase Number Two, he rummaged a moment in its depths before producing a phial of bright blue crystals, a box of small pink pills and an unusual test-tube carefully wrapped in delicate tissue of congealed tortoise sperm in which a number of little lively things moved. Mixing the three ingredients together and adding a jab of cadmium yellow from his number five palette, he handed the resultant foaming concoction to Princess Mei-mei, who after a moment's hesitation, sniffed it, held her nose and swallowed it in one gulp.
The Prince of the Seven Lakes turned away and coughed delicately while the Princess went into a brief involuntary spasm, violet fumes wafting violently from her ears, much to the delight of Lu-Fuen's retinue of young boys, until Tawny Sun-Friend admonished them sternly with a baleful glare, scuffing the largest and most pig-faced looking across the face with one of his wings.
Presently, the Princess hiccoughed politely and announced herself quite recovered, praising the venerable Lu-Fuen for his esteemed intervention and promising him a suitable reward just as soon as she might think of something appropriate.
Lu-Fuen bowed deeply, his long gray beard touching the ground, and declared that no reward was necessary but that if it were permissible he would be honoured to incorporate Mei-Mei's image upon the western entrance to the new Pavilion, to which the delighted mermaid readily agreed, as obviously that would necessitate prolonging her sojourn in the Prince of the Seven Lakes' Kingdom a little longer and give her further opportunities to converse with him.
Lu-Fuen got very little painting done that day; but was quite happy to engage Princess Mei-Mei in conversation concerning art and undersea alchemy (although admittedly the Princess was not overly acquainted with this subject), whilst the Prince of the Seven Lakes and Tawny Sun-Friend set about arranging for a suitably majestic rickshaw to be made waterproof, and barrels of saltwater to be brought up from the sea to fill it, in order to escort the Princess back to her native realm, where she was regally received by her honourable brothers and sisters. Naturally the Prince of the Seven Lakes forwarded many priceless gifts to placate the honour and wrath of the Princess' parents; but the truth of the matter was, they hadn't actually missed her yet and were quite surprised at all the commotion.
"Girls will be girls," said King Honourable Sea Jade Trident to his consort, who nodded absently, being quite engaged in throwing a pot at the time - her latest passion.
Nevertheless they were pleasantly pleased with the Prince of the Seven Lakes' gifts and readily permitted their daughter leave to sit to have her portrait painted by the venerable Lu-Fuen, whose fame had even penetrated to the bottom of the sea.
Tawny Sun-Friend himself visited the Court of the Undersea King and Queen, employing a special diving suit he had invented that permitted him to stay underwater for up to 12 hours at a time. Once again he apologised for the outrageous behaviour of his sister, vowing by his ancestors to have her horse-whipped.
"Very well," said King Sea Jade Trident. "We'll let that be an end of it. Between you and me, the man who invented mirrors is the real culprit - womankind, whether surface-dwellers, sub-marine or celestial, have never been the same ever since. The Superior Man takes pimples in his stride and does not allow his equanimity to be compromised - the pimple, like its elder brother the volcano, is a naturally occurring phenomenon by which the Tao reasserts equilibrium in structures and forms inevitably given over to forces inimicable to each other. Harmony consists in the perfection of control in small spheres and in moral rectitude. Both the Moon and the Sea, due to the prevalence of Yin in their make-up, tend to err in favour of impetuosity.
"Nevertheless," he added, "a whip of delicate horse-hair can be an admirable tool with which to regulate overly unruly offspring. As for that regrettable wave, please leave the matter to me."
"As your Majesty wishes," said Tawny Sun-Friend, bowing low, a bubble or two of sunlight escaping from his diving suit and being chased merrily hither and thither between the pillars of the Undersea Throne Room by several mischievous little fish.
Over the course of the next few weeks both Princess Mei-Mei and Tawny Sun-Friend had a number of paintings made of them by Lu-Fuen. After the Princess showed one of the preliminary sketches to her mother, that August person decided that she also would like to have her portrait painted and commanded the presence of the honourable Lu-Fuen, who readily complied, wearing a diving suit Tawny Sun-Friend made for him, which did however leave both hands free for the execution of delicate brushwork.
Naturally Lu-Fuen had to experiment with various substances in order to manufacture suitably waterproof paint; but this was the sort of challenge he relished, and over the next few years he received many commissions and exhibited in galleries as far away as Lyonesse and Mu (his pig-faced apprentice accompanied him on many of these trips and in time became a not inconsiderable artist in his own right although of course he never achieving the sublime mastery and subtlety of nuance of his venerable Master).
But to return to Princess Mei-Mei. Naturally, the Prince of the Seven Lakes found various excuses to be present for most of the sittings of her portraits; and as a Prince of course it was quite acceptable for him to invite her to dine with him and walk with him (or to be more precise - be carried in her watertight rickshaw) around the Royal Gardens and Orchards, a somewhat cod-faced chaperone in the form of Mei-Mei's Great-Aunt Halibut accompanying them at a respectful distance. (Actually she was fairly genial and often turned aside to inspect this or that flower, allowing the Prince of the Seven Lakes to steal a kiss from the slightly salty lips of his sweetheart.)
Of course it wasn't too long before their engagement was officiously announced and invitations issued far and wide for the auspicious event. It promised to be one of the most splendid occasions for many decades, with special suites of pools being hastily constructed to house the many important undersea guests. A tunnel was also constructed, linking the lake where the Prince and Princess Mei-Mei had first met with the sea; and the little island was enlarged somewhat and a palace built thereon which soon became the favourite place of the Royal Couple.
Naturally Tawny Sun-Friend was present at the wedding - indeed he was best man (or bird!).
Tawny Sun-Friend never really spoke much of the punishment he had meted out to Moon-Sister; but she was much more well-behaved for at least six months afterwards and was even invited to the wedding. After some careful thought on the subject, she even came, presenting the Prince and his lovely bride with an exquisite set of black enamel boxes, lacquered with real moonlight and containing matching his and her cuff-links, collar-studs, wrist-watches and the finest quality chop-sticks embedded with a King's ransom of the highest quality Moon-stones.
I'm not quite sure either of the chastisement King Honourable Sea Jade Trident visited on the reckless wave that had first washed up Princess Mei-Mei onto that auspicious little island; but needless to say he learned the error of his ways.
Indeed he became quite friendly with Princess Mei-Mei afterwards and his sons and daughters often played with the many sons and daughters that were later born to Mei-Mei and her husband.
If you are ever passing that way, be sure to visit the Pavilion of Heavenly Asceticism in the Garden of Telepathic Orchids. It is considered by many to be one of the finest examples of the architectural styles of that period; and the many portraits embellishing its exterior walls and entrances are masterpieces of the now-deceased Master Lu-Fuen's craft. His Tawny Sun-Friend, Princess Mei-Mei and Queen Irridescent Anemone Calyx at her Potter's Wheel are considered particularly exquisite.
There is even a portrait of Moon-Sister just to the left of the South Gate, next to the honourable Servants' Entrance. If you look very carefully you can even see her pimple.
to know you before I form you
o pretty one
for a glance at the mystery of your face
to look into your hidden eyes
i open the channels of my mind
for you to bathe in my life-juice
just that you might speak to me now
you know, my little love
what your fate would be if ripped untimely
from my womb, should you chose to make your abode in me
would you come back to me, my baby to be?
would you linger an eternity between the flames and the clouds?
would you find another mother?
would you miss me?
come now, sweetness
and just smile a second at me
my arms are open in embrace
my fingers will tickle you out of silence
my eyes are tears to refresh you
my heart welcomes you, and will keep you
till the acceptable time is at hand
to put you into my flesh
to form you with the aid of a father who loves us both
when i've made my world ready for you.
in the meantime,
i bless you
and rock you with my spirit, reaching out to the stars
trying to touch your light again.
(c) ME Jones
from my latest book Snakebite, Copyright 2006, Michele Neve
Golden eagle fly, and fly
become a carousel horse
of darkening cloud,
release the day
Ariel spreads his wings
and down goes the edifice
crumbling to the ground,
stones kissing again
seduce the sunlight,
initiate a threesome.
Liquid eyes held my own still,
so different from the moody
and wild storms of the mirror;
hers soft as a rippling pool,
She kissed me then, soothing my fear
"all that lasts
all you try to save
all you create
will be destroyed,
come now, follow me inside,
breathe again deep down
and deeper, through
Rainbow Reflections: Ocala, FL
Alone in the trance
I remember moments
like the sun that flickered
poised and ready
to fly through air, piercing
a spanish imposition
keeping back conquistadors
with their metal buttons
glinting, their swords reflecting
cypress gleaming green as their skin
after the poison settled into flesh
rotten as their intentions.
This was before they learned
and burned it all down
claiming a scorched land
and killing the exposed warriors
who wept not for themselves
but for the trees gone
and the land never the same
since Ponce de Leon found the eternal
spring where these days Russian, German, French
tourists bathe their wrinkled faces
doing nothing to keep out the alligators.
Alone in the dance
I discover again
from the lips of my swamp brother
oak and pine medicine
pouring out of my shiny sister
who serves up love
in a New Orleans kitchen
out there in Babylon, Louisiana
where the billboards catch
She walks to work
breathing in mold spores
and flaking plaster
cannabis singing out from
doorways, ignored by the cops
who all see
that the hippies
Listen, all is revealed to you.
Your perfect thighs
are my thighs
your perfect breasts
Everything I come across
I offer you.
Everything I ask for
you give to me.
are my children.
My blanket is yours.
Everyone is fed here.
look into eyes
shining and soft
thank each other
the stars we are
Mother of us all.
Large Lady Themepark
Man I would like to ride the coat tails with this strangely
Drifting off to sleep yet awake and not set deep the babble
bondage now arrested so protested why me. Dug up from the "it" is sold bold
history like following another fall and the head wedding wall mystery. Let so
get by another echo calling law and the bed I lay sleeping said it all in this
fall. Listening in between the letters w h y as I spread over rivers and seasons
of another why cry through trying my me without reasons and thus read real
tribulation. Yet below lay slow sleepers undone and not one spoke up of the
vista visions say divisions have won. Deprivations in the devastations maddened
men one by one. Once undone doings had defaulted songs singing while non-metals started rusting in the thinking ray busting. Like a day sent back to once more
attract what way went bent backwards to undo the new dawning in cracks unspent spawning, they used magical thinkers until they stuttered and stared. The
mission reborn bringing sunny slang songs since ruins start running for
resurrection in those dazed and now grown breeding ground villages beneath the
sown zone. Aftermath toxins then mastered they them in forgotten mayhem what
grew bottoms got grim. In and now out of charm and resistance to go beckon some distance toward a puberty whim not unlike the entrapment suggested in the
oriental king fence. Now a how goes about this really real relevance of a raft
of deliverance upon which clung looters with grins. Yes once in metaphor said
the shore still said snore, thus then dropped unheeded on the priestly laid sand
of floor. Done but still doing the knob on the door and ever overlooking their
new found land with more hopping helms from the concept afar of a shore. Then
walk as falling failed to pass red letter head stones forging scores left to
stand for unknown missing logic known then only now not talking needed nor sown
saying not seeded. They would vest every mystery of their muddled minds making, never ever waking words to utter yet forsaken as learned so in their making did
return after the fact and the flood had been mistaken so they burned. Emboldened upon the great and terrible "raft craft" in its locking notion of a mocking
station without realms or divinations nor a truth in resignation. The delusion
crew grew old with gold mistaken so not taken in the never ever land of endless
wake making. By "raft craft" we are thrilled yet eccentrically powered to hide
the wobble yield field with the horse wild for less tilting and much tracking
when buzz bones would yield. Frozen in the laying letters were the temptations
and graven names that came for flame locked the clock to the sandcastle breaker
stops and the then tock tick. Hideous wording thoughtless throughout the hiding
of their history as more green wood gave into gray matter within mystery and
them. The water memory made heads lowered still, so clap I play slow strings and
stay morrow ring things. Only there and then with this "raft craft" in power and
your word once with choices are now stolen seal voices. Burn or bring they them
of that why and we way or will stray. Stunning thought so the temple then bought
yet never dropped and mankind killed to please the water me drop tease to
repress breathless stutter uttering. Humbled hounds borrowed graves that faint
with letters from the ground setup better and by again till tomorrow of hands
made in sand slow to know why and they them had to try and the dead letter
better became the web getter. The elders said one day one day the "raft craft"
would stop and the clock clipped the rockers where there heads read dogma
doodles in raw strangles and songs sang softly of man in denial and with swords
killed the moment like a smile did in trial throwing it out of hearing and out
of vision must quit fearing. This trial of today was right now yet once more. We
see through the play ploy and the bell with the boy. Like self to self without
deception yet the "raft craft" decoy. Sand sadly did say id me of my version
head or death to my ploy. Will you not not join for a coin and get to keep you
let loin? Jot and tiddle the kings did there deed. They denatured the venture as
the un-winged word, placed wasted want and upheaval then played sweet madness in
thirds lost in numbers while staring back as words. Words rising to the bottom
in this middle to show what got the forgotten leaven laid eleven in the door.
Divide and make take so they break need and make feed as for from my me I say
why greed? The king says to him obey or see slay he say. Why is a letter better
building false faith factories in we power of the hour not here nor now but
always the there and then only and if let back more. I am the dead letter
walking in the key resurrection tower yet not known alone and never somewhere
else higher. It is you and you and you that I am again and again talking.
Reflecting in this exploration of truth as uncontainable, with no why answer is
for me the unfolding of a great acceptance and a key to letting go... leaving the
dead letter dying and thus become the way word walker once more and not
lying-like the opening of my me and the crowning of our we. I am prompted to
walk with words choosing letters making me and yet beckoning understanding and
comprehension with no fee. This is a riddle made from sands left behind in a
once upon a power play. The who what where when and how all together do not
propose even one "why" absolute lost or hidden nor of time written. Likened to
some unpronounced test from some natural constant rooted and squared,
interchanging in reciprocal laughter as the unknown name whispers where ever
never land. I know I was where there. Uttered joy flying flowing down to numbers in your name, one more time, then another "just in line, then once more, last
again now another keep this up and be brother other. An event and a process of a
we in me via vie" remembering great and comforting yet hideous in omniscience, and this equivocates into fruition beyond vain attempts to find otherness
outside the last stone turning, the first stone found within. We go beyond the
"raft craft" and lift the first breath back to the beach taught to teach the
fruitless message ways and means of much much less and lesser in the seams. Now
let loose the clock tock-less and trek a path paved for talkers who say the why
thing, the dead letter daring doom beyond the "raft craft" keepers by the middle
of the womb who sing some there and then reality that in mortality hid the Moon.
Clinging with needs of winging broke the singing and the "raft craft" tumblers
killed the seers of the teachers in the name of the "raft craft" keepers and in
the unknown now remembered the "raft craft" left and there were finger pointed
peepers. A head lifted then one more and another made the flashpoint thunder
burning while the dead letter crook when turning sold the look that was laying
lost in names that kept clung their fear in book look. Tradition did until the
recondition hid was caught inclusive not illusive ousted id with caustic lid.
The following finders sowed as the river of wonder flowed. The first fall
bondage broke past wasted wall places only then left the last tall flaw as the
law was "raft craft" arrested as all the best entrapment vested last with a
cold myth of old it took with it book to pace past the now lost coast. Yes
abandoned to the present new day minds and modes and one more another then
mother brother other. Another fall of one man alone with one thought bought the
thinking tone home. We write the past so we may steal the taunts that haunt us
yet hidden in our shadow is the first cause with stillness laws. Now of the
western winds alone like the mystery of those boasted bones, another step and
awakened once again this time we wish and will not not resonate planned, be
still in the rhyme not designate the unknown wait rate climb. I now see ties
with what the extremities of chaos, pain, and rhyme can say of the season as the
reason and what isolation can do in an elitist society and what the powers of
transformation can overcome in their highest concerted ideology. Can the duality
of the transparent debunking station advise the lonely selector of the vector
and then elect her? With and wish and an undone drama drains the void in the pun
of the paranoid and the ever as if anyone beyond the forgotten and trapped
collective "isms" bought delusions rooted in rejection and masks of indecision
Â keyed in by dejecting a psyche lost in limbo and content with a lack of knowing
not the cost nor the window. The dreaming of doors forged fragmented
disassociations, selfless less ness self-alienations and most fabricated whys
more beget of more! Over we made the me and implied the there and then called thee them. Inflation aggravation remedy faked forces pushing ploys into play
while give gave to grave and into expression as if made. Many off to retreat
into aggression and the reason lesson lost creating a synergy across some black
out wing deadlock like a stick without a stock with a will nor a nay to drive us
curiously forward yet back with every day. A time upon a time when reformers had
no say. Welcome to toxic geometry where every jot and tiddle is tangled into
webbed fingers as an insatiable babble beyond the composition of any first tower
talking with a two legged drawing walking with a why near by yet beneath the
first vowel breaking open thus to try perhaps writing confounding findings will
fool the dusted dead and the why dining near a sailorÂs dawning red sky yet no
anchor was thought of nor pole star fell far of like the tricking lost twilight
at and past last night only now, yet every now, remains and IÂm right in the
sight when the why dies kept in light. Now, I mesh why modal mind map ways as an
escape from my me and old day madness the easy worded way. It may be sense out
of nonsense but I think this every day. Water your dreams in gardens in a
thought provoking way. A Journey Beyond the Rational Mind` The mind in mirroring
magically manifests again and again yet un-manifests as a journey into the
archetypal world where the why dies and the circular and the linear merge into
swimming perspectives de-structured to captivate the mind so that it can ideally
be transcended. Embracing my need for meaning in life, I seek to dissipate all
"why" rationalizations. I am often stretched by way of preconscious symbolism
rooted in the dawn of history.
* * *
2006 (c) Greg Edwards
Darkness is not about
the absence of light.
Shadow does not demand substance.
Darkness is a place of germination.
Mixing water, air and earth
to create the fire of life renewed.
enclosed in silence,
a tiny heartbeat starts,
sending out waves,
rippling through the earth.
Under water caves
feel the pulse, the beat, the becoming.
Time, space, and impulse converge.
Innocent and ancient,
taking up the tune
to play riffs,
singing the structure of images,
moving through the night
eerie demonic counterpoint
to pure essence
A thousand petals open
to reveal the heart of the lotus
mother of pearl.
(c) March 27, 2006 Laurie Corzett
(c) Dhira Lawrence - Shaktiweb
Before the sun
Waiting to explode
Across the horizon
A new day
Sunday morning silence
Pregnant with hope
Promise of warmth
Awaking the birds
Of a distant rooster
It is about to begin
Is about to begin
Night is over
Soon to chase away
The sky's darkness
Casting long shadows
On tired streets
Longing to awaken
In a different place
By the productive drone
Longing to awaken
To the smell of
Green grass and
On distant mountains
Longing for the possibility
(c) Corina Roberts
A drab Christmas--
you gave me a book,
"Poetry and Letters of Jane Kenyon."
After a few pages
I realized she was dead,
like your husband, and my friend.
How the little aspen
up at our lake cottage
seemed to sigh that summer,
leaf after leaf
trembling with light
a pool of curls
and twists and ovals
russet and brown,
as if it were
already in mourning
for many summers,
missing the lick of light
and column of wind;
as if dying
It hoped for still another summer
light crossing the bark,
grass climbing at the base.
(c) Linda Benninghoff
A Visit to El Santuario de Chimayo
A sense of the sacred
permeates these grounds
where El Santo Niño de Atocha walks
A sense of the truly holy
infuses the wind in the air,
the leaves in the wind
& that holy wind breathes itself into
the traveler here in search
of a miracle
A soft and single
splash of water kisses your praying hands,
then sparkles down
into the healing, blesséd earth
that gives beneath your resting knees
and you realize
you are in the middle of a shining, gentle rain
Your heart and mind stretch heavenward
and deep into your soul
as you continue your prayer,
kneeling, as you are,
on this holy, sacred land
Then a clean, clear drift
of shimmering, silent snow
brushes your face, your
heart, your mind and soul
with a singular grace and beauty
And you gaze dreamily up in wonder,
with strong and joyful tears
of truth and comprehension
baptizing your uplifted, enraptured face
As you know, and as you feel
throughout your entire being,
that you are healed,
and ever, forever belovéd
(c) April 2006 Rebecca Guile Hudson
The Venosa Syndrome
Copyright Keith Wigdor
All of the work (and believe me, it is work) presented here is the property of the individual artists. All of their rights are reserved. So, no lifting without permission. Contact information can probably be found on the contributors' pages. If not, check with me to contact anyone whose work you wish to use: email@example.com
I am happy to present what I find meaningful in our aesthetic community. Art is a touchstone and sign post giving way to growth and hope when Sharing truths of self. I believe that our livelihood and longevity may depend on it. Art is the illusion to transcend illusion "Liberate the Artist" Fractured Atlas has Fiscally Sponsored my project "Catalysts of the Psyche" To read my statement Please Go To: https://www.fracturedatlas.org/site/fiscal/?do=browse_projects&category=Visual%20Arts&letter=c#534 Art Publications for 2006: "The Garden of Three Suns," "Star Light Curves," and "The Lost Sunset" with bio info and Iconography has been Published and Released in Art Book "Unseen Worlds--A Virtual Journey", India '06 for new world envisionings. Poetry Publications for 2006 1. "Enmeshment Reflections" and "Slipping Tripping" 2006, published, League of American Poets: A Treasury of American Poetry III. 2. "Pop Cell Sleepers" 2006, published, Noble House: Songs of Honor. 3. Unwritten poem accepted for publication by the International Library of Poetry, 2006. NYC Gallery Goals for 2006-2007 1. "I am pleased to inform you that your work qualifies for Agora Gallery representation. With respect to the work, I particularly favor the "Resonate Rifts" body of the digital images, although all the work communicates the pathway to spiritual awakening and transcendence..." Agora 2. Nominated for the Sixth Annual International biennial of Contemporary Art, 2007. Arte Studio, Florenze, Italy. Except through this passion to reflect something higher than me alone and to free it, ever-reflecting it through and to appreciable otherness, I have no meaning!!!
Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson
Who I am is the possibility of Love, Light & Joy being fully alive, fully expressed & fully manifested. I believe in miracles & limitless possibilities, and have every intention of helping bring real peace to all mankind. My poetry's purpose is to contribute a new perspective to help change/heal the mind of the world, such that we "change our minds & keep the change".
I am a certified Peer Counselor for the Mentally Ill, trained paraprofessional crisis/suicide line volunteer, Hypnotherapist, and ordained minister. I sing bass with the Symphony Orchestra of Albuquerque's Adult Choir, and with the University of New Mexico, Valencia Campus choir. I live with my beloved husband, John, in Los Lunas, NM -- we have 3 sons, 4 grandchildren, 4 cats and 2 dogs and 1 very large puppy.
I wrote the poem for the Espanola Valley Visitors' Guide, here in New Mexico --it will be going to press very soon. I was hired to be the writer for the guide because I am such a good poetic storyteller, and we wanted to do something entirely different from the usual such guides.
Here's the link to my book, "Out of Cullen Street (A House of Madness)" available on-line: http://store.domesticsale.com/items/54931.html
I am always contactable via my email address, firstname.lastname@example.org
is seeking collaboration for her Flash Utopian Fiction Project: series of flash fiction pieces around a federation of diverse villages each working out their methods of community life -- little dramatic impacts illustrating creative solutions to social problems. Got ideas? libramoon's observatory (blog) email@example.com
Born 1953, Liverpool.
Have worked as a librarian, peanut butter processor, dishwasher and dogsbody in too many hotels to mention.
Also an artist - have contributed many black and white third world studies to numerous journals globally, often affiliated with Ananda Marga Yoga society for whom I've done voluntary work in S.E. Asia, including mural painting and work in various social projects.
Also worked as a volunteer at a large orphanage in Thailand.
Currently making and hand-painting jewelry/ craft boxes displaying fairies, dragons, Winnie the Pooh. Working off and on at a few appalling fantasy novels.
Occasionally make dolls' houses, castles and rocking horses... A regular contributor to a number of poetry websites.
For the Contact information: my website, http://www.surrealismnow.com/ email: firstname.lastname@example.org I am a Surrealist, and I am the Owner and Gallery Manager of SURREALISM NOW! http://www.surrealismnow.com/ My art and illustration work has been in many online zines and various publications.
Rachel C Thompson
is a writer, illustrator, political cartoonist, water color artist and human rights activist living in Bethlehem, PA.
"Most of my fine art is metaphorical in nature, and speaks to social issues via common or invented subjects. None of my watercolors are simply pretty pictures."
Her art is visionary in that she uses art to make unpopular social statements and/or observations using comfortable, non-threatening objects to draw the viewer in. Onlookers will see that the art work's title and pictured objects are often incongruent. The objective is for the viewer to think deeper. Rachel also uses multiple layers of symbolism in her art.
"My hope is that my art will inspire people to see past the surface, not only in my art but in all things. My art's message is to seek deeper meaning in all aspects of life."
Currently, Rachel's painting, "Dianne's Porch", can be seen at the William Way Community Center located at 1315 Spruce Street Philadelphia, PA. Her paintings (seen here), with the hummingbird motif, are from a three part work called "evolution" that can now be viewed at the Backer Center for the Arts, Muhlenberg College, Allentown PA. Samples of her political cartoons are in the current issues of, "Gaydar" magazine.
E-mail Rachel at Humanrights4all@aol for questions, comments or permission to reprint.
Even paintings are in motion set forth by the rhythm of brush strokes as the unseen, happening. Dancing Colors are illuminated when I touch them to the canvas but they go where they want; I'm the messenger only. Creation without pre-conception is spontaneous and images form through layers of formless shapes, colors, and lines.The brush is a tool for declaring the unseen...the same as your eyes. Landscapes of layered dimensions are forged from converging realities and the painting moves as you allow your eyes to unveil the scope of the journey, unfolding the movement of change, constant with your perspective. We all look at the same canvas yet none of us see the same thing. More appears with every viewing and conjures different feelings...The art is all inclusive, and the concepts are what you will, but, I present this space without conditions. And we are just beginning to enter...
Self taught with no specific style to emulate, Dhira Lawrence has chosen a path that attempts to break the preconceived notion of what art has to be. Dhira attended the Honolulu Waldorf school which allowed her to express her creativity at an early age. A spiritual upbringing that was centered around Goddess energy along with the natural beauty of Hawaii helped her to form a powerful bond with the earth and Her many forms. This is what is expressed in her art. She has displayed her work in San Francisco, Hawaii and the Pacific Northwest. Her images have touched people across the globe.
born in Wurzburg, Germany in 1964, the daughter of a German/Russian mother and Scottish/Welsh/Cherokee father enlisted in the United States Army. Writing, photography, art and poetry are both a professional and a personal passion. Redbird, founded in 1990 and receiving federal recognition as a 501(c)(3) non profit association in 1994, is a Native American cultural awareness and environmental organization created by Corina some 14 years ago. Writing skill came early, with the first recognition at the age of nine and a novel called Red Rover, which won an all-school first place award against many older students.
Most of Roberts' work today focuses on cultural preservation and environmental education. She has written for a number of non-profit groups as well as doing freelance work. Her new novel, The Wisdom Walkers, available online at www.Lulu.com was the subject of a presentation titled "Telling Our Own Stories" on November 10-12, 2005 at the Southeastern University of Oklahoma's Sixth Annual Native Writer's Symposium in Durant, Oklahoma.
Recent poetry includes "Waking Up Screaming" in the July 2005 online edition of Autumn Leaves, collaboration with Virginia Morell on the National Geographic article "Sea Monsters" in December 2005, and inclusion in the International Poetry Society's 2005 Anthology with "The Honesty of Dogs". Other current online credits include "Jump - Getting Started" an article about writers on writing at www.RedCedarPublishing.com. Visit Redbird's website, at www.RedbirdsVision.org
Corina has several other projects in the works as well. Fairy Island, Inc. is a wedding location operation in its early development, with some very innovative goals and ideas, and for which serious partner/investors are being sought. Through her non-profit, she is also working on a project called "Redbird Ranch", an elder and transitional housing facility focusing on the Native American community, and providing peace and dignity in a culturally appropriate setting for families whose elderly are nearing their end of life.
Contact Corina Roberts at: (805) 217-0364
Or via email at:
Corina Roberts, Founder
P.O. Box 702
Simi Valley, CA 93062
Drawing for me is a subconscious process. I only realise what I am drawing half-way through a piece, or at the end. This gives me insight into my subconscious, which I believe is important for self-discovery and emotional development. I guess it's like therapy for me. A few hours a day of intimacy with a blank page saves hundreds on psychiatric fees. Apart from that, I draw because I love it. I love creating little worlds and watching them grow to maturity. I take comfort in the fact that when I'm gone, my art will still exist. It makes me feel immortal. I think having a child would fulfill that same desire for immortality, but since I find it challenging enough to look after myself, I'm putting that off for quite some time. I can be contacted at either of the following websites: http://beinart.com.au http://surrealartforum.com
I translated The Seafarer from Anglo-Saxon; the translation appears at www.electrato.com. I have published 2 chapbooks The Street Where I was a Child and Departures.
Painting - Birth of Consciousness. Let the art speak for itself.
ME Jones is an ambitious and contemplative student of life and, unfortunately at times, formal education. She loves to read both classic and contemporary works, with Samuel Taylor Coleridge as her favorite English language poet and Alexander Pushkin her preferred international bard. Her favorite novel is The Alchemist by Paolo Coelho. She seeks to understand the issues of modern society through spirituality and individual experience with an omnipotent Presence. She opposes legislation that would prevent others from making their own personal decisions and speaking their minds freely. She wants to have a profound, direct, and beneficent impact on the course of human events within her lifetime, when she is not sleeping to avoid the constant rush of thoughts in her mind. She seeks to study the manifold cultures of the world in hopes of discovering ultimate truths both human and divine. Her deepest wish is to live a life of passion, and that the products of her love of life, man, and a certain man in particular to whom she is now promised, make the world a better place. She can be reached at: email@example.com
Lifelong artist, Jude Cowell, currently works primarily in oil and watercolor pencil on paper. This Georgia native's drawings may be viewed online at Cosmic Persona Designs Art Gallery, and at Dreamyfish Art , where postcards and limited edition prints are available upon request.
Here you see "Gazer Future Past" with its Venus and Chiron symbols...a lady brimming with prophetic abilities. The Venus-Chiron combination refers to charisma, magnetism, and grace. Their cycle (appr. one year) is descriptive of initiatory rites of self-transformation, and the beginning of their cycle--the conjunction relates to one's pursuit of The Quest or to the following of a vision or dream; in fact, visionary skills are likely with the Venus-Chiron pairing.
This lady has the ability to see the long-range view while simultaneously keeping the past in her sights...a useful talent, you'll agree. And she is being published here on Emerging Visions for the very first time.
Cosmic Persona Designs is a collection of archetypal feminine images, cosmic-visionary art (some from an earlier series, Unscene World), childrens' art, and more. An astrological influence is apparent, for Jude has been a serious astrology novice for 10 years, and is writer and publisher of the Political Astrology blog, Stars Over Washington.
Dreamyfish Art is a gallery of Saturn's realism--botanically-drawn tropical fish portraits--blended with Neptune's watery, illusory qualities--a combination which neatly describes the artist's natal Sun Capricorn-Moon Pisces personality. Fish dream, too, and here you may have a sneak peek into their most favorite and secret dream locations undersea at Dreamyfish Art.
Several moons ago, Jude was an art student at Atlanta School of Art (now College of Art) on Peachtree Street, and even now you may detect a Fashion Illustration, Layout, and Design influence in her work, especially in the Cosmic Persona Designs collection. You never know what might show up at Cosmic Persona, but you are cordially invited to stop by when you can...and remember that fish dream, too!
For queries, to offer feedback, or for ordering details, email artist at:
Wishing Peace, Love, and Art to All,
http://cosmicpersonadesigns.blogspot.com, http://dreamyfishart.blogspot.com, and http://starsoverwashington.blogspot.com
Kala Snowflower (Michele Neve)
I'm very excited to have just finished my latest book of poems, Snakebite, and currently am planning an e format release of it in the Fall. In addition to keeping the flow of poetry alive year after wheel of the year, I am now taking my studies of herbal medicine to the next level by growing herbs and preparing my own medicines. Last year I received my third Reiki attunement and am currently preparing myself to pass attunements and teach. My work as a healer and my work as a poet flow from the same source. And I am grateful to be able to continue and deepen my understanding of life and love through my Art and artful living. You can reach me at firstname.lastname@example.org. I would love to hear from you about my poetry, the healing arts or to share in awe over the Beauty of this sweet Earth.