#4 Scales, Veils & Tales* * * *October 2006


Soul Mates
(c) 2006 Cameron Gray

Path of Beauty

On their path to beauty
Many walks and many ways
They are from many nations
Woman Nations
Seeking to restore
The balance of the ways
The ancient and necessary ways
Of caring for the Mother Planet
Raising healthy children
Looking to the future
With their cultures
In an ancient past
They seek
And find
And hold dear
The values and the lessons
Of the grandmothers
They watch
And do not cower
As so many violations
Are imposed on the living Mother
They speak
In ever growing voices
To call for peace
And recognition
They venture
Ever forward
Children in hand
Traditions in tow
Not to replace the Male Nations
But to offer them
The strength
The power
The endurance
That is the providence
Of the Woman Nations

Corina Roberts 8/15/06

(c) 2006 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

News Flash!

by Jason Matson

We apologize for the interruption
In your programming,
However, we have breaking news to report.

Reliable sources
Have just confirmed a recent discovery
That has people around the world
Dancing in the streets.

People everywhere
Celebrated as the news spread across the globe
That we are not our credit reports.
I repeat, * we are not our credit reports! *

This shocking news was immediately followed
By a landslide of related discoveries:
It turns out that we are also
Not our resumes
Not our cars
Not the brand names we purchase
Not our stock portfolios

We are also not
Our children
Our parents
Our friends
Our employees
Our jobs
Our positions
Our titles
Our awards
Our prizes

Nor are we
Our Social Security numbers
Our telephone numbers
Our employee numbers
Our customer numbers
Our account numbers
Our license numbers
Our claim numbers
Our case numbers

Naturally, this raises the question of
What are we?
It is our understanding that we are something
But what, has yet to be determined.
Scientists, philosphers, and
Leaders of the world’s great religions
Have gathered in Johannesburg, South Africa
To discuss how these very important discoveries
Will affect their explanations about
Life on Earth.

The most anyone can say at this point
Is that who or what we are
Is far greater than anything previously imagined.

We have also just learned that
Diamonds are not really forever
Because forever is actually much, much longer
Than we ever thought.
Nor are they necessarily a girl’s best friend
In fact, it seems that a girl’s best friend
Is none other than
Her best friend.

It has also been confirmed that
Money does not make the world go around
Nor is it the root of all evil.
In fact, money is really nothing at all
And has absolutely nothing to do
With value or worth.

The news of these discoveries
Has undoubtedly had a profound impact on the world
And especially in the United States.

In California, tanning salons and gyms began closing
As soon as people realized they could
Exercise outdoors in the sunshine.
Disneyland was abandoned once people understood
That happiness is not a place or a meal
Nor a thing to be pursued
But an attribute of nature
That is universally available to anyone
Who chooses to experience it.

In Las Vegas, casinos were empty once people
Noticed that nothing at all was happening in them.

In the mid-west, major league sports teams disbanded
When the players and fans realized
Winning has nothing to do with competition.

Some of the world’s most prestigious schools and universities
Have announced they will stop charging tuition or issuing diplomas
Instead, anyone who wishes to learn
May freely learn from anyone who wishes to be taught.

Doctors and nurses around the globe
Have begun treating and healing people for free
Because they now understand
That it’s wrong to only care for some and not for others.

Wars have been halted
And world-wide peace has broken out
As soldiers everywhere are laying down their weapons
And are choosing instead to help repair and heal war-torn nations.

By all accounts, it appears that a global revolution has begun to occur.
The world’s stock markets have all collapsed and
People on every continent have begun to help each other
Out of kindness and compassion
Out of love and respect
Out of forgiveness and gratitude
Out of joy and celebration.

Some governments have even forgiven all debt
And countries that were once impoverished
Are now seeing truck-loads, plane-loads,
Boat-loads and train-loads
Of food, books, supplies, tools, and people
Lining their ports and borders
Eager to alleviate hunger and suffering.

In fact, a new world economy has begun to take shape
An economy not of competition, capital, and power
But of equality, diversity and integrity.
An economy of balance and peace.

People everywhere, freed from the pressure
To buy more, have more, in order to be more,
Are quitting their high paying corporate jobs
And starting to do things that are really important
Like traveling, learning, healing, evolving, and creating.

There has been a flood of new art, poetry, and music.
Many museums and galleries are now open 24-hours a day
And are packed around the clock with artists and patrons
Of every genre and media imaginable
Enjoying the free exchange of ideas and creativity.

But as incredible as this news is,
Not everyone is pleased about it.
Particularly the wealthy and the powerful.

Some have been observed wandering the streets
Desperately trying to hire people to guard and protect them
But since the news about the discoveries broke
It seems that no matter what wage is offered,
The position remains

There are reports of small groups of men and women
Demanding to be told who they are
Huddled together near banks, court houses, and other government buildings
Fending off anyone offering to help or explain
Who is not wearing an official uniform.

In some cities, confused individuals
Spend days and weeks in front of television sets
Flipping endlessly through channel after channel
Trying in vain to find a product they can identify with
But the only thing being broadcast
is PBS.

Wait a minute, we’ve just received an update.
This just in from the United States government:

The White House has just issued a statement
Claiming that these amazing discoveries
Are false.

In fact, the President insists the sources responsible for these claims
Are actually terrorists who hate freedom and hate America
And are organizing an attack to destroy everything that we
As freedom-loving Americans hold so dear.

Government officials are urging everyone to
Pay close attention to their television
For information and instructions.

In the mean time, the government is recommending that everyone
Simply carry on, and continue to work and shop as normal,
But to be careful of “terrorists” or “evil doers”
Who are very unpatriotic, and want everyone to be poor
And not eat meat and go bare-foot all the time.

The President, in an address to the public this afternoon,
Issued a message to all freedom-loving Americans
That we must be prepared to sacrifice our liberty
In order to preserve our freedom by liberating
The un-free who freely wish to be liberated
By freedom fighters who will fight
For the freedom and the liberty
To spread freedom to those
Who have not been fully liberated
From their own freedom
So that we, as the liberators of freedom
Will have the liberty
To Freely liberate ourselves
On the world.

We now return you to your regularly scheduled program.

(c) Jason Matson All Rights Reserved

(c) 2006 doktor J - www.doktorj.ca


Grey light shines through the raindrops on my windows;
I look out through diamonds.
There is no gloom in this shower, in the trees waving back and forth
Twitching in pleasure as the wind whistles through their bows.

My love, he stirs beside me.
The bed creaks as he bolsters his head on my breasts, kissing them.
I stroke his dark hair as the rain slides down the window
We kiss, two mouths become one wetness.
The drops on the pane slide into each other
I move my hips to bring him into me, but he doesn't meet me.
Instead there is a jewel in a box, between my breasts.
He puts it on my finger and we resume our lovemaking.
I wrap my arms around him, and there are rainbows about the room.

(c) ME Jones All Rights Reserved

(c)2004 Stevon Lucero All rights reserved.

Blue Eyes

Still, I wait.

Allow my self

to lift away

from myself.

Black and silver




release me.

My eyes glow red

underneath the blue


so I cannot see you

as you are, glowing

green light from your chest,

violet between your eyes.

Instead, shadowed by my past,

you wear the tint of that day

long ago

when I first lost you.

So nothing you do matters,

when always

you are leaving me behind.

Still, I wait.

Shadowed blue like everything,

there is a stone within this

glass walled world.

My head scratches against it

to peel me away and

free me.

At this stage alchemy

is nothing more than

sweeping away ashes.

The new skin shines brightly

now I see you clearly

through walls made of


and beyond.

(c) Michele Neve/Kala Snowflower

Celestial Image: “Rusalka”
(c) 2006 Leland Auslender

A Dream of Water

Water means secrets
Something deeply buried
Moving, unconsciously, through
Chthonic thought-rivers,
Emotional waterfalls,
Pools of sacred transformation.
Or sex. Or money.
That which flows,
Yet never without consequence.
Deeply felt; deeply brought in
To those secret liquid pathways
Etching out existence as
We know it.

A dream of water is a prophecy
Written into the DNA,
Waiting for the day to manifest.
It is a dream about secret dreams,

Sacred ceremony,
That which cannot be named.
That which is always present.
Somehow the source is speaking
Perhaps in rhyme and metaphor,
Yet speaking still, insistently.
Let it insinuate into all the senses,
Let it speak.

Times are tentative.
I cannot always know what
Is safe to say. Or whisper.
The dream tells me that
There are secreted beaches
In the cacophony and stench
Of the callous city.
Places meant for refuge, re-creation.
They are hidden from the hostile streets,
But hardly peacefully obscure.
The hordes are slipping through the
Tear in the chain-linked fence,
Pushing, uncaring, blindly moving
Toward the sand.
They push and tumble into the ocean,
Far too overwhelmed by their numbers,
Their size.
No room! No room!
"But there's plenty of room,"
Roar the jolly clowns
Like over-inflated plastic beach toys.

I must escape the suffocation.
The tunnel out is too small, stifling.
I must crawl, on my knees,
Pulling myself forward
With each wisp of breath.
There is no end,
I am certain.
Just agonizing suffocation,
Superhuman effort again and again.
Until the city reappears.

It is different; it is quiet.
Everyone is at the beach,
Reveling in the sunlight.
Here it is dark. Practically empty.
The store windows are lighted
For the night display, muted,
Like starlight.
It is a long comforting walk
In the night air.

But this is a dream of water.
There, that endless, inky lake,
Reaching out past north and south
Deep, solid, dense, darkly opaque,
I look out over the iron edge of the bridge
Upon which I gently walk along the pavement.
There are two children on the bridge,
Quietly playing,
Shining softly in the way
That happy children do,
At peace,
In the water's protective embrace.

(c) 2005 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

Moonrise at the Crossroads
Jude Cowell Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative 2.5

Children of the Wind.

It is raining again.

There is a little pale-faced girl at my window, peering in at me, her dark hair slick against her delicate, pathetic, sad features. As she taps softly against the glass and raises her timourous eye to mine a shudder passes through my soul - she looks as if she hasn't eaten for days. But I am determined not to let her in.

I know these creatures. They come on the thin grey wind, starting their lives as tenuous threads of drizzle that gradually put on limbs and features of mist and dirty crystalline sleet, flakes of oily snow able to mold themselves to the shapes of drifting dreams and the ghosts of unfulfilled desires that rise up from men's sleep, or continue briefly to roam the Earth after their souls have vacated their bodies at death.

By the time they have reached the Middle Worlds and the tiny towns and villages strung like semi-precious gems along the silver ribbon of the Great River they have already attained arms and legs, plastic features ready to assume the favoured forms of men and women's imagination.

Possessed of a natural prescient telepathy they intuit the features of our loved ones and carefully mimic them. Not exactly of course. That would be self-defeating. Men would throw up their arms in horror, recoiling from such obvious mockery. No, they choose subtle nuances and casts of the human form - the turned up nose of a lost daughter, the sloping cheeks of a sister who died in her infancy, the eyes of a brother or friend, the curving lips of a sweetheart we have never forgotten - putting them together with meticulous and terrible artistry to produce a form that is both familiar yet unfamiliar, that causes our intellect to question in cautious puzzlement but compels our inner hearts to open their doors unreservedly in welcome and joy.

How many men and women, seeing one of these creatures of mist and innocent malice at their door (for despite their hunger and vampiric need to feed on human emotion, they are merely elemental forms of nature, as cold, yet no more terrible - at this stage - than the grim North Wind they ride on) have opened their hearts and homes to them, taken them in and succoured them? It is only later, when they have imbibed enough of their compassionate host's energy and life-force that they begin to exhibit the first real stirrings of any independent identity, becoming more solid inside, as those that have taken them in become paler and weaker, older and less able to fathom the nature of what is actually happening to them

As the human hosts approach a premature senility - usually benign and accepted as the natural way of things by the rest of unsuspecting society - the wraith creatures begin to exhibit the traditional aberrations associated with the fully mature Changling: the tantrums and fits of unprovoked malice, the inexplicable cruelties that begin as mischief and spite but often lead to acts of deliberate torment and murder.

But because of the Age-old Ban on discussing or even admitting the reality of the Faerie Worlds that lay adjacent to ours, people hold their tongues and turn their eyes aside, unwilling and unable to admit to the full extent of the horror they have admitted into the houses of their affections. Perhaps their vehemence in denying the very existence of such things is the greatest proof of all that deep in their drained and betrayed hearts they know the terrible truth.


My fellow men call me cold and heartless, they shun me as they must shun all my fellow Wizards and Adepts of the Secret Knowledge.

Is it because they fear our magicks and spells, our learning and easy familiarity with arcane esoterica?

No! They come to us readily enough when they need simples and remedies for their ailments and afflictions. They are ready to part with jewels and gold that we might see into the future for them, to locate missing heirlooms, or officiate in the annual chanting of the Heart Songs in the open kirks of Hill and Forest.

No - they despise us because when the North Wind blows and the thin grey rain is falling we will not open our houses to the pale-faced little urchins that come tapping at peoples doors and scratching at their windows.

And when they crumble into psychic decay, when their bodies and minds no longer continue to serve them, they secretly or openly curse our haleness and longevity. Sometimes I have even heard them whispering that it is us who are responsible for their premature aging and deaths.

But in truth it is the inevitable and tragic result of their own misplaced compassion in inviting the children of the wind into their hearts.

Many times I have wished it might be otherwise, that we might speak openly of the truth of these things - but the ancient edicts forbid it. And, I know, assuredly they would not listen.

But there it is again, the feeble scratching at my window, the pitiful mewling and whimpering as the creature becomes progressively weaker - for once, of course, it has assumed its given set of features borrowed from its potential host's mind, it is only with the greatest expenditure of energy that it can (if at all) change them. It is doomed to woo the mortal it has chosen as its surrogate parent or perish.

Alas, my little sad-faced fae of crystal and mist, in this case you have chosen unwisely. I recognise enough of the features you have borrowed from my mind to incorporate in your artful and ruthless disguise: the sad smile of Estarial my half-sister; the arch of eyebrow of a young woman I knew when I was a novice at Wizardskeep; the colouring of hair identical to my Mother's as she lay dying of fever so many years ago in our tiny house in the Viridian Hills.

Where have they truly come from, these impossible Children of the Wind, that feed upon mens imagination and the joys and sorrows of our hearts?

Certain wizards say they are the offspring of the Ice Queen in her Castle of Diamonds and Frozen Tears far away in the uttermost North; others aver they are the children of certain jealous stars who envy men their simple lives beneath blue skies and warm yellow sunlight.

But the truth of the matter is that there are many things that even Wizards do not know.

Ah, but now it has grown quiet, the tragic, heart-rendering whimpering has finally ceased. even the rain has stopped and the wind is but a remorseful sighing that blows fitfully down the cobbled streets and twittens...

I can return my full attention to my boooks of ancient lore, secure in the knowledge that by the morning someone will have removed the tiny, wretched body from my doorstep. The men and women of the town are quite meticulous about such things.
copyright Willowdown

The Mad Man

I am the secretary of madness
I play the flute of creation
To show the foundation with in
Which you must learn to walk upon
Without touching.
Without marring it's perfect surface
With fear.
And woe to the selfish ones
Who must touch the warmth of this surface To satisfy their fears of necessity
And quell the illusions
Which desensitizes sensitivity.
For little do they see,
How the dirt upon their feet
Swells from the energy of the
And sensuality is such a poor shield
To the one who sinks in the quicksand
Of illusion.

I am the madman of manifestation!
The watchman of nothing.
The dispeller of dark
I cut down the warriors of the opaque.
And give birth to the children
Of innocence.
For I am the womb of perpetual

Hear the light of my flute!
Can you see the cracks
On the walls that imprison
Your heart?
Can you see the walls of fear
Crumble to the feet of your illusion?
Let the light burn away the shields
Which, have turned the air into pain
Feel! How your dried colorless heart
Fills with light as it breaks free
From the rusted chains of reason
Whose games no longer have substance.

Follow my vibration of madness
For it will lead to the foundation.
But beware the whores of purity
They drive the bulldozers of piety
Which will bury you in tradition
And crucify you with self-righteousness.
For they do not dance to my flute
No! they dance to the fiddle of Death!
Who steals his tunes from me!
For I am the secretary of madness
And I play the flute of Eternity!

© 11/3/73
Stevon Lucero

'After the fall of eden'
copyleft Lucifer no rights reserved

Sister Scorpio

Black as hate; white and bloodless
shrieking Fury
punishing Saint.
Your patient, erratic torture
has left me broken,
bleeding torrents of pain
unable to move
unable to sleep
or engage in
polite discourse.

Yet you were never satisfied.
It was not me you wished to sacrifice.
I was merely inconvenient,
or too convenient.
Dressed in a goatsuit,
queued up to be driven to slaughter,
how could I expect compassion,
fellow feeling?
But it was the Executioner's blade
I expected,
not frenzied repetition of
back stabbings, epithets,
steel-wielding rage.

We could have been sisters,
giggling secrets in the schoolyard,
smoking pcp in the girls' room,
shooting up the classroom,
dying in each other's arms.

(c) March 26, 2006 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

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