Sacred Earth, EV#7 - April 2007

Vision Quest (c) Alicia Schordine

It's really a simple story Beings find planet. Beings treat planet badly. Planet goes about her business. Beings start to realize that they need planet, and had best learn to make friends rather than futilely keeping up enmity.

Gaea: A Ritual Performance

layers of imagery, music, tribal drums, futuristic dreams

Gaea was there, in the beginning. Gaea was all. Gaea was wise.
How could we not have seen, in the blindness of pride, of avarice,
of service pledged to false gods?

The journey was long.
The journey was cold.
The journey was lonely.

Asleep in a box with wilderness dreams.
Or awake on the watch, wondering what was to come.

Thus it was those false gods bespake us:
Out of the cold vastness of space and time,
out of the fear that was all the companion we knew,
out of a need to make it all Someone else's responsibility,
out of a need to believe all would be well for our kind.

Our planet was dying.
We did what we could to survive.
Survival we find
an appopriate end
to any means.
Survival will give us
the time we need
to find a better way
to survive.

The strongest of us,
the proudest of us,
the meanest of us,
would not allow us to die.
We took off in our ship with the barest of plans

to find another land
where our kind could live ...

hybrid children evolved
from refugees
fleeing a hostile star
Skygods and Earth Mother of ancient lore.

It's time we relinquish fear and hatred,
accept Gaea as partner and home
that we may all live and thrive.

The land, when we found her was so warm and inviting.
We felt safe, supported, encouraged to grow.

We ate of her fruit and her herds.
We built with her trees, stone and clay.
We drank from her cool crystal streams
which we soiled with our waste.
Gaea was saviour and womb.
We repaid her with rape.

We didn't understand,
thought her merely land,
thought ourselves masters from afar.

Gaea sent storms to bring us to our senses, wild winds and seas.

Gaea tried to shake us off: Earthquakes, Floods, Famine, Plagues
sending us scattering into hiding,
intermingling with her primates, Gaea's children.
Without question or shame, we murdered what we could not steal.
Without honor or remorse, we laid waste to our host,
to our adopted home,
then cursed her for not giving more.

By accident or design, chimera adapting to Gaea's marketplace,
creating new ways to define our origins from outer space.
We lied to our halfling children, denigrated their Gaean kin,
twisted their virtues into a false concept that we called "sin."

What Gaea did to us? Cruel, evil, in need of the whip.
We seal over her bounty
into mad parody of Mother Ship.
Unforgiving of the mess of living, the miracles of life.
In our ignorant pride we gave ourselves law to decide
propriety over fate
in our minds
mother love
into a mirror of hate.

Frozen in fear and rage, children swept out in the storm,
trapped in a self-made cage we had hoped to protect us from harm.

Gaea, we cry, why do you treat us so angrily?
What will it take for us to wake up and see it is we who are wrong?
To hear and be aware of Gaea's song singing in our blood?
To learn the cycles, the seasons,
the reasons for fire, wind and flood?

To redefine our race,
to find out that our place is here among our Gaean kin?

The telling of new tale must begin.

Gaea opens to sunshine to ease our agitation.
Easy winds, easy gushing of summer rain.
Feeding the greedy young grains,
growing along the plains, the flowers of the storm.
Feeding the beasts of the field,
continuing the cycle, as all is revealed.

Love is the web,
craftily spun by great mother spider,
Gaea's familiar,
weaving magestic grace
no longer concealed. It was never our place
to control, nor others' to steal.

Gaea creates in intricate arrangements,
feeding us all of us all, a transformative stew.
So much energy wasted; painful lies to find our way through
our beings to create such beautiful
children, reaching out to become and be free,
enjoying our destiny,
as Gaea's beloved.

Arising in the circle, giving voice to pain --
grateful to Gaea's grace, dancing in her cleansing rain,
we sing in voice united:

It would be so nice (paradise)
You and I
Floating in the sunlight
Ready to break free
To be
Exactly who we are.

(c) April 7, 2006 Laurie Corzett

Nierica (c) Robert Forman

Blue Smoke Woman (c) Stevon Lucero

She moves through fields of forgetful flowers.

She moves through fields of forgetful flowers
nodding their heads,
nodding her head.
Her cheeks are pale white blossom,
her lips a bud of frost-rimed red;
her legs are like two lily stalks,
her arms are two pale vines...
O Lady of thin vapours and mists,
once upon a time you were mine.

I sit beside the old dark tarn
that holds so many reflections
but none are true and I eschew,
at last, false introspection.

Come, my Muse, and guide my feet
towards new fields and pastures...
O but the ghost of love precedes me
like a wounded dove,
bleeding all over the land
and looking down I see I clasp
a bloodied arrow in my hand.

Stormclouds are gathering,
the mid-day skies are darkening;
sensible folk seek shelter from the oncoming rain
but I will wander a little more
with the pale white spectre of pain...

She moves through fields of forgetful flowers,
my amnesiac Queen, robed in sorrow
and garlanded with stinking weeds.
In this desolate hinterland upon the rim of the world
there is no today or tomorrow,
only the endless parade of moments gone by,
frozen in the sickly mist,
all once living things caressed and kissed
by the malignant breath of regret.
The river weeps,
leafless trees creak and sigh,
the Sun and Moon pass mournfully by.

copyright Willowdown

The Fire Flower c. 2003 (c) Philip Rubinov Jacobson

Lucien y Isepia (c) Robert Forman

Regarding The Angelus

It may have been 1312 or some other now obscure date in the early fourteenth century of Europe, but as any day, the sun would swing round, arc high in a summer's sky and begin its journey downward until the sky along the horizon became mixed in purple and pink hues, finally darkening into some kind of indefinable blue late into the evening while upon the rich warm earth, the peasants stopped amid their field of potatoes perhaps, or beets, or some other worthy crop growing under the blanket of a hot afternoon; and even still into the night, and though the laborers may have been a great distance away from the tolling of bells in near and distant villages, where others also stopped their daily vigor, they too in unison with those laboring in the dirt; those lacking craft of skill or social merit, but all of these with and without, together upon a great religious pillar of faith, all of those souls together in grievous thought, though already forgiven, still seeking indulgences, the remission of sins despite any crucifixion, standing or kneeling, scattered under heaven, the pious, bowing their heads in devotion to the memory of the incarnation of Christ, calling aloud once a Hail Mary, acknowledging all that is before God, twice a Hail Mary, for sins yesterday, today and tomorrow and thrice: Hail Mary with all the other prayers and the most penitent heart: Lord have mercy, Christ have mercy; while another minute passed away from the beginning, closer to an uncertain end; to a far away place without any heavy garment of flesh to encumber the soul, and this is the dream of the rich nobility who have stopped this moment to pray the Angelus and this is the dream of the poor in the field as the sun sinks still deeper and the sky sheds its golden glow for another evening born again and another day dead, the Angelus will sing like a soft wind over a hot field, like a tender veil so strong, protecting the fallen, filling them, raising them up in a new day, long after many more sunsets and many more recitations, the Angelus...for mercy, in Christ, for Mercy, Hail Mary...pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

So it was in 1312 or some other obscure time in the early fourteenth century, each day at sunset praying again until the ritual became an element of the morning too, and also at midday, one upon the last, again and again, in measured grace, ticks on an eternal clock, under a wandering old European sky where a great civilization grew up comported to ancient ways; then modern ones, thriving, heaping on baptisms and blessings in elegant churches filled with the mystery of the spirit; devoid of the soil from the earth except what might enter upon foot, but even then, there were those, in filthy clothes among the flies, sweating above it all that would stop to look at a potato, just raised from the dirt and notice its purely miraculous growth which took place quietly, hidden underneath the ground in perpetual darkness, while those in the cathedrals sang melodies high into the air reaching towards the windows, their stained glass glazed in light; the same light that shines on the peasants in the fields and the freshly dug potatoes, and they all prayed the Angelus; when they prayed the Angelus, some with generosity and some in a quick turn, not quite ready to give fully anything much more than the words themselves, but then some did, and maybe those that did, those that fully accommodated the moment, whether in the field or in the chapel had a pleasant affection imparted to them, like a gentle hand swept upon a tired brow; this caring fondness reaching over the soul, understanding the human condition, what it means to be alive, speaking great eternal truths, whispering under the sun, the hope of the passion of Christ, the graceful prayer of the Angelus, rising up like scented blossoms forever in a stillness of unknowable peace, every hunger satisfied, every thirst quenched, every pain extinguished; this is the moment, as obscure as any time, like a summer past, in 1312. This is the moment.


Hailee Vale

Urantia at Dawn (c) William Hays



"Queen" Copyright adam pinson

Sometimes I fall to my
releasing the need to stand
and just allow
the Earth to comfort me
the red moon glows
between thighs
and my fingertips
enter her dark soil
that drinking
drains my fear.

Invited to dance by God
via Hafiz via a child
I wear a smooth stone necklace,
lemon balm anklet, dress
of forest, crown of

and seeing the rain begin to fall
summer hard
I rush outside
to accept.

copyright Kala Snowflower

"Urantia Attended by the Stars" (c) William Hays











"Solar Crystal" (c) Andrew Thomas Bearce

Boy in a Corn Field.

A young boy walks in a field of corn, the tall sheaves towering over him like a magical forest in some enchanted, golden Otherworld. The sky is a lattice-work maze of brilliant blue corridors above him, a burning amethyst reflection of the yellow labyrinth below, alive with the intensity of a sentient radiance trapped within a wonderful jewel.

The golden forest is a hushed and quiet place, a living cathedral extending and replicating itself over a timeless landscape, archetypal and sacred, full of the soft murmuring of gentle winds amidst the tall, straight stalks tipped with their mysterious spearheads of corn hidden in pale green leaves: rank upon rank of dreaming warriors ensorcelled by some unfathomable spell.

Far, far away in some another country of dull and mundane things, the boy can hear the distant engines of cars and lorries on the smog-fumed motorway and, slightly nearer at hand, the chiming of bells telling the time in the tiny model village where he lives, with its aimless, wandering inhabitants smiling or frowning, shopping in imaginary shops, gossiping on street-corners, outside pubs, mothers pushing prams and sleeping babies along the dreaming, cobbled streets...

But if that is the realm of casual and ephemeral time, of unreal seconds, minutes and hours - then this is close to eternity...

Reality is this endless Kingdom of swaying, golden stalks growing out of the dry, warm soil, the endless narrow path of sunlight flanked on either side by cool chamber upon chamber of tall, narrow cells big enough to sit in, that stretch forever in all directions, criss-crossed at regulat intervals by other, identical golden paths -- a vast chess-board of sunlight and honeycombed shadow full of hush and stillness, gentle rustlings, the occasional skittering of some tiny, unseen animal, a field-mouse perhaps, as the otherwise silent forest of noble gold gently sways and waves of sun-warmed air run lazily over its surface as if it were a living ocean, which perhaps it is, and the young boy walking upon its warm, still bed, beneath the golden waves...

He sits in one of the infinite honeycomb chambers, the shafts of the corn tall and hushed around him and listens to their quiet creaking and rustling; and the dreaming, golden forest -- aware of him -- dilates its mystical sentience to listen to his quiet breathing, the beating of his heart, the slow trickling of red human blood through his delicate arteries and veins, the soft movement of his fingers upon the soil, the play of fabric across his skin.

A vast bank of cumulus passes over the corn-field -- immense, white, luminous: filling the narrow blue corridors of sky above the boy's head with its glare and brilliance and then, as it comes between him and the sun, its cool and welcome shadow. Away in the distance, an unseen owl calls, and further away another owl answers it.
A solitary crow croaks in outrage at this disturbance, but then it too falls silent, absorbed in torpid fury.

The distant village bell is struck five times in the miniature church steeple, causing a small frown to play upon the young boys features.
It is the the owls, and yes, the crows, who are the true inhabitants of the vast and empty skies as they pass above the dreaming villages and houses, the insubstantial roads, corner-shops and traffic lights; little villages nestled between hills and forests for security and protection, slightly nervous of rushing silver streams and rivers, ringing their church bells and holding their annual summer fetes in some vaque effort to assert themselves against the true and timeless nature of things...
And in their turn, the fields and forests are the little towns and villages of countless tiny animals and birds, whole communities of magical, emblematic creatures beyond the conventional 'wisdom' of men.
Perhaps the whole world is just a tiny village beneath the outstretched wings of the owl...

But a tiny crack has appeared in the shell of quiet enchantment over the dreaming corn field. The blue of the sky is deepening and presently the tips of the swaying corn are set on fire by the rays of the rapidly setting sun -- a sea of vermillion spears dipped in the blood of the passing Gods as they troop across the edge of the world.

He makes his way back to the village where, in the gathering violet shadows, little lights are being lit in people's homes and busy mothers are laying the tables for evening meals.
As a million invisible owls fly out of the door of the newly risen Moon and the silver bells of the shimmering evening stars begin to peal and chime, another magic works itself upon the soul of the little boy and he becomes both more and less of what he is -- a small boy, hungry for his dinner after a long day in the fields...

copyright Willowdown

haramokngna sunset nice (c) Corina Roberts

Hide and Seek (c) Alicia Schordine

Communicating With Plants

Plants’ experience of being in the world is very different from the experience of us animals. Because plants cannot move about, they exist in a state of profound acceptance and peace within themselves. Emotions such as fear, hate, jealousy, possessiveness, etc. are wholly unknown to plants and would serve no useful purpose. On the other hand, plants are capable of experiencing a wide range of higher emotions the like of which we animals could scarcely conceive.
At the same time, there are feelings which plants share with us animals, such as love, pain, joy, thirst, etc. It is the feelings we share with plants which provide the basis of our ability to communicate with them.
Feeling with plants is not so different from feeling with people. For example, when we are about to have sex with someone who really turns us on, we feel a palpable surge of sexual energy connecting us to that person. Similarly, when we walk into a room to face someone who is madder than hell at us, we feel connected to that person by a palpable wave of anger and fear. When a baby smiles at us, we feel a rush of joy that has us automatically smile back. However, most of our interactions with other people do not have this feeling of connectedness and emotional immediacy. Most of the time we don’t even look the people we are addressing in the eye, let alone feel with them. Because of our social training, we tend to regard sharing feelings with other people as threatening. We are taught to close up and defend ourselves, and to keep our interactions as sterile and devoid of feeling as possible.
In order to communicate with plants (or people), you have to be able to regard them as your equals. If you are afraid (ashamed) to talk with homeless people, beggars, crazy people, etc. then you’ll also find it difficult to talk with plants. However, it’s actually easier to communicate with plants than it is to communicate with people because plants don’t have defenses and self-importance agendas in place which engage our own defenses and self-importance agendas. To feel with plants (or people) doesn’t mean to gush all over them; all it means is to recognize them as beings whose feelings are as important to them as your feelings are to you.
When first learning to communicate with plants, it helps to be in contact with the same individual plants on a daily basis. Ideally you should go out, preferably alone, to the same tree or meadow for at least a few minutes every day. If you can’t do this, cultivating garden or house plants will work just as well, although it’s easiest to communicate with large trees. This is because from a feeling (light fiber) point of view, humans and trees are very much alike – the light fiber (auric glow) configurations of both humans and trees are quite similar, whereas that of insects, for example, is very different from either. It is easier for humans and trees to communicate with each other than it is for either to communicate with insects.
Now even the least psychic person, going up to a large tree, should be able to pick up something of the personality (mood) of that tree. How does the tree make you feel – happy, sad, loving, jolly, heavy? Can you pick up its sex: sense a male or female presence – or its age: young and vigorous or old and mellow?
This isn’t all that hard to do – you can call upon your senses to buttress your feelings, as in the exercise of seeing pictures in the clouds, except that you do it by feeling rather than thinking – by relaxing into the process rather than controlling it. It’s exactly what a rationalist would term “anthropomorphism.”
For example, spiky trees (like palmettos and Joshua trees) have a sassy, masculine energy. Cedar trees tend to be clowns or wise guys. Banana trees are joyous and loving. Weeping trees really do have a doleful air about them. Tall, erect trees have proud and regal personalities. Trees that seem to be reaching longingly for the heavens are reaching longingly for the heavens.
A good time to learn to connect emotionally with trees is when they’re dying. The next time you see a tree being felled, pause and quiet down your thoughts and watch it attentively. You should easily be able to feel the tree’s agony just before it falls, since trees (and all beings) are filled with power at the moment of their deaths and profoundly affect the beings around them. Loggers triumphantly yell “Timber!” when a tree falls to cover their sense of shame and disconnectedness – to block communication with the tree at the moment of its death.
Another good time to pick up on plants’ feelings is when they are in motion. Plants are happiest when they are moving – blown by the wind and the rain. Wave back to them when they wave at you (it’s only polite). Watch how they dance in the breeze. See how the trees which overhang roads and walkways cast down blessings on all who pass beneath them. See how the young growing tips are more alert, vigorous, and naively impetuous than the older and mellower lower leaves. Be aware of the awareness of plants: when you walk through a wood or meadow, feel as though you were walking through a crowd of people, all of whom are watching you.
Some people pick up on the feelings of plants by seeing faces in the bark or foliage. They impose that thought form (of a face with a giggly, dour, saucy, etc. expression) over the feeling of the tree, since that’s how most people are conditioned to interpret feelings – by associating them with facial expressions.
What we’re tying to get at are feelings, which can be apprehended directly, without any need for sensory cues. However, the senses can provide a useful point of reference and serve as a bridge between imagination and pure feeling, which is how they function in dreams. When you see with your feelings rather than your mind, your visual attention isn’t focused on any one thing, but rather everything within your field of vision strikes your attention with equal impact (vividness), as it does in dreams. To see this way you have to have your mind quiet, and you have to be in a joyous and abandoned mood. If you’re bummed out or grumpy, you won’t be able to see what plants are feeling any more than you’d be able to see a baby smile at you.
Much of our social training entails learning to stifle our senses – to not see what is right before our eyes, to not listen to what our ears are hearing, to be offended by smells, discomfited by touch. Cutting off our senses leaves us feeling apathetic and disconnected from our world. Therefore, if we want to renew our feeling of connectedness which we had as infants, we have to start plugging our senses into our feelings again. And because they are so nonthreatening, feeling with plants is a good place to start.
Not only do different species of plants have different feelings associated with them, but also there is considerable individual variation in personalities between different plants of the same species, between different branches on the same plant, and even between different leaves on the same branch. By lightly holding a leaf for a moment between your thumb and forefinger, you can feel which leaves want to be picked for medicine or food purposes and which ones want to be left alone. The leaves that want to be picked have a high, vibrant feel to them, whereas leaves that don’t want to be picked feel dead in your hand.
Even if you can’t seem to tune in to the feelings of plants, you can still telepathically “talk” with them. Plants can talk to you in thoughts, and these (at first) seem indistinguishable from your own thoughts. That is, it will seem to you that you are the one who is thinking these thoughts, when in fact it is the plants which are sending you messages. That’s why it’s important to have your own mind as quiet as possible – to be in a relaxed mood – if you expect plants to talk to you; if your own mind is buzzing, there’s no way the plants can get a word in edgewise. Any thoughts or feelings you have while sitting under a tree or working with plants are probably messages from the plants.
So how do you know if you are actually communicating with a plant, and not just imagining it? The answer is: you don’t. You just go with your intuition rather than going with your concepts, what you’ve been taught. Instead of hypnotizing yourself into believing that the world of concepts is reality, you hypnotize yourself into believing that the world of feelings – of magic – is reality. The only difference between these two equally valid points of view is that from one of them plants talk to you, and from the other they don’t.
If you feel self-conscious talking to plants, just remember that what you have been programmed to call the “real” world is merely a figment of your imagination also. And if you start calling something else the real world, then that something else becomes the real world; it becomes as real as this one.
If you’re dubious, just ask the plant over and over, “Is this you, Mr. or Ms. Plant talking to me, or am I just imagining it?” And if you keep getting the same answer over and over, “It’s me, the plant! It’s me, the plant!” – then just assume that it is indeed the plant talking to you, and listen to what it has to say. You can ask questions and get answers, both questions and answers coming as though you were holding a conversation in your own mind.
It’s easy to learn to talk with house and garden plants, since these are particularly eager to discuss matters such as fertilization, watering, shade, grafting and transplanting techniques, etc. But in addition to such mundane affairs, plants (particularly large trees) can give you helpful advice on all sorts of matters. Take them your problems; ask them what they think you should do. Some of my best friends and most trusted advisors are trees.
Whether you are consciously aware of it or not, you are already communicating with plants all the time. The soothing, healing, tranquilizing feeling that comes when you are gardening or are out in nature is in fact your psychic attunement to the joyous vibrations of the plants around you. To follow this feeling one step further – to its source – is to put yourself into direct communication with the plants. It’s as easy as smiling at a baby.

(excerpted from Bob Makransky’s book Magical Living)

"Alice" Copyright adam pinson

Forest Nymph 3 (c) Renata Ratajczyk

Earth Mother, teach me about love?
Earth Mother talks with the Weaver of Rainbows

"Earth Mother?"
"Yes, Rainbow Weaver—"

"Teach me about love?"

Love is the smell of jasmine
At first light on the warm
Moist breeze of Summer Solstice

Love is the way Mount St. Helens
Rumbles, dances, and then
Is suddenly silent
In the cool morning stillness
It is the great plume of
Ash and steam that love
Propels towards the stars

Love is the beauty of this moment
Seeing brightness in your eyes

Love is choice
Love is choosing to see clearly
Unafraid and face to face
Nose to nose and eye to eye

Love is knowing that
We choose to love and also
What we choose to love

Love is the sunlight
Warming the cool wet sand
Under your bare feet

Love is in the knowing
Heart of every bumble bee
Humming bird and butterfly
That only has eyes for
Just the right flower

The bright silver light
Bouncing off the deep still waters
Safely guiding you home
This too, is love

Bite into that sweet
Crisp, first apple that
Begins the Autumn harvest
With juice so sweet and wet
And you will know love

Love is choice
Love is what you value

Love is knowing how
Pennies per cubic yard
Can be saved by
Dumping toxic waste into
The deep ocean at night
Thinking no one will know

Love is feeling noble
About finding a cure for
The cancer caused
By the toxic waste
In the water we all drink

Love is the sound of longing
Mournful, wailing cries
From a baby elephant
Watching, helpless and alone
His mother stumbles and falls motionless
Great is the crashing silent finality
Resounding off the steaming savannah floor

Love are the tears in his eyes
Her brains and bone and blood
On his tiny baby trunk and gentle flowing ears

The rest of the herd can
Only watch as his mother
Ancient Matron of her clan
Now systematically "harvested"
Her butchered body parts
Auctioned to the highest bidder
In the death markets of all "civilized" nations

Love is the sound of ink
Pen scratching across gilded paper
"$ 10,000 then?" says the hunter— "bout do-it" replies the guide
Love is "tourist" dollars keeping the elephant population "alive"

Love is making sure
Everything has the right price

Love is the price you
Let others put on your head

What price do you pay
When that which is made
So freely abundant to you
Is allowed to be bought and sold?

Love is choice
Love is seeing clearly

"Look into my eyes Rainbow weaver
Tell me, what do you feel and
What do you see?"

"I feel your tears on my cheek, Earth Mother
In your eyes I can see only Love"

Thank-you Earth Mother
You are welcome, Rainbow Weaver

Love & Blessings,

Concealed yet present
The common ground we search for
Right beneath our feet!

How Marvelous!

Copyright (c) 2007 William A. York. All rights reserved.

last warrior of the plains Copyright © by Duncan Long. All rights reserved.





secret knowledge Copyright © by Duncan Long. All rights reserved.

Sacred Geology

Rich earth
decomposing life
imbuing myriad layers
of sacred spirit
Memories upon memories
scarred into the land
making it holy
a bounty of beauty
irrigated by tears
and less voluntary bodily fluids
living loam
luscious fruits
giving back what was taken
Partaking of the feast
we are blessed
renewed in holy essence
In the fullness of time
the cycle reclaims
all that we are
that we may become
yet more richly

(c) April 30, 2006 Laurie Corzett

Cosmic Seamstress (c) Stevon Lucero














church Copyright adam pinson

Too Soon the Monsoon

Air and she seem
Breathless, still

Anticipating at once the end
And simultaneous beginning

Of day, of night, of life

Near the horizon,
A feathered edge of unfinished rain
Laces the summer edges
Of late desert sunset

And then
The crash comes,
A lightning wave pulverizing
The drifting sands of time

Sometimes, there is nothing worse
Than when your dreams come true

copyright Rebecca Hudson

The Temple (c) 2006 Philip Rubinov Jacobson

Earth Day

I watch green grass
Turn sandy
In autumn’s cool-down days

Watch the yellow-brown-orange-hued
Blowing dance of scattering leaves

So fiercely courted by airborne
Sister Wind and
Earthbound burnt-umber-sienna Brother Dirt

The sky of Autumn’s early dusk,
So pale, it’s almost white –

The mountains, sporting grey cloudy wisps
Are bathed in liquid amber light,
Awash in vanilla-ice, lemon soda air

Look – over there? By the full-blown,
Heavy, Harvest moon?
The evening star glows alone and bright

Then brighter still as sleepy sun
Spreads out its blanket, night

copyright Rebecca Hudson

Mini-Raven (c) Corina Roberts
















Encroachment (c) Stevon Lucero

Dead Faint

After sleeping for a month, I wake on the ground in the familiar rainforest, the thick scaly tree trunks dividing and reaching out sideways, gracefully, just enough to make a seat, then angling upwards, lush with their gifts to the world. The light surrounding them vibrates and I can see the darkness of the non made world through their pulsing, the darkness their glow pulses out of. I can feel the intense pleasure of the pulsing glow from the leaves. It is my friend. It is me.

The moment threw me to sleep when my student, sitting across from me on the rainforest floor, said "Juan, really, why should I feel grateful for the plant kingdom for giving of itself? It's just doing what it does. I eat it. What do I care? Look, man, it's not alive?"

It was like being hit over the head, or in the stomach. My breath went out of me before I knew it. The tiny leaves around me had beautiful edges, ringed in red, and they shimmered as they shivered back and forth with the wind. Dancing mosaics, they interpenetrated the art of each other, and I stared into their patterns.

I looked at his eyes. "It's like when you asked me to send you love and healing, or draw in the earth energy from the ground. I did feel the prickling and ants crawling. But that was where the feeling stopped. I didn't feel any energy in my arms, or light in my heart." He wasn't trying to hurt me. He was simply reporting on the progress of his latest lesson, which he had come all this way and was paying me for. He was trying. But it was like being smothered by his dead world.

I looked at his heart. I was already being knocked out by what he had said. My head seemed to go forward towards him into a tunnel, and I began to feel as he felt when he came to consult with me about his extreme boredom with every moment of his life. He found no joy in anything, even the delights of breathing, drawing the world into the fullness of the lungs.

My sleep was like the dark cumulus clouds in black and white photographs made with polarizing lenses. Only one month, but it felt like the life of a forest. Normally, I dream 13 dreams a night, and quickly paint them on little cards, and shuffle them, whenever I have time. I would use them with my students to help them become who they were. My dreams would interpret their lives.

Lately, time has been wrapping itself into the pockets I wear on my trousers. I sew them on, extra large for the cards to fit in. Sometimes, when I want to go into a moment further, I close my eyes and feel my dreams with the palm of my hand and it tells me which one to pick. Like the leaves, they are ringed in red. They dance with each other like the mosaic leaves, and I am like the wind. It is not the body you could see before you who shuffles the cards like the wind, creating the patterns. The bored man saw nothing but the edges of my skin. He saw nothing past the edges of the leaves.

The sleep wanted to hide from dreams. It didn't want to go into the dreams that would follow. I could see the colors of his clouds moving out of him. I realized I had not taken precautions. I tried to believe it would be OK. My sun in my chest was being covered, and my consciousness faded out.

Now, as I wake, I feel resistance to remembering my dreams. The animals in the rainforest have gotten used to me. I'm glad he left me here. I'm glad he left. A month ago. So many things he said that day. I knew we were doing exercises that were hard for him. Exchanging love and gratitude and healing with all is hard for someone to do who has never felt anything. I knew we were pushing the life force through his darkness. Chiseling.

"I've been feeling this strange buzzing sensation here and there since I started coming to you. I'm really feeling it today. It moves from place to place." As the energy moved through him, clouds flew off his darkness. They rolled like a storm my way. Like smoke. Like factory exhaust. Like carbon monoxide.

The glowing at the edges of the leaves smiles good morning to me, lighting up more as I glow at it, coming my direction, dancing through me, changing, and I make it change well for it, and well for me. A mountain lion has been here. I can feel it. I can hear her thoughts and feel the residue of them around me. As I move my arm, I realize it is stuck in a cobweb made of the clouds, grey, nonsensical. As I move, the flimsy cobweb of boredom breaks apart. The vines have come into my clothes, wrapped around my legs. I can feel the sap in the tree behind me, running upwards, and I feel myself running along with it. The moss around me has woven its spirit through me like another layer of clothing. Snakes have crawled over me leaving their thought trails, and slugs, leaving their glowing slime. The light from the leaves has sent itself into my body, and there are many lines of that light running through my veins, through my ligaments. A nest has been built above me. The birds are starting to wake up. It is spring.

copyright Tantra Bensko

The tide at crest carries me
To the hard land of my ancestors,
Mountain glen, green onion meadow.
Ebb tide pulls me to open seastead,
Washes from me
One poem at a time.
Swirled water teems with life
When the world tilts…falling-off words
Know laughter, salt tears.
There is no way to write
This gently: There may be a plant called
Dead man fingers, in the slough, the bog,
The estuary, where my life begins or ends,
Bursting with an unshallow tongue.
Also, common birds of sudden flight,
Glorytime. In spite of all that
Slip under my womanwing…
Plunge like a gull from the infinite
To find harbor in the lee:
I offer contemplation
Of greenbunched daffodils,
Or a rudderless leaf riding to the sea,
Home again.

copyright Barbary Chaapel

Drum Lesson at Bonet's (c) Corina Roberts

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