Expanding Metaverse - EV10 - November 2007

On Another Plane (c) Craig Blair

Sonnet--Vision Five

Quadrangle-- an university--long since;
Across its width, I spi'd a blaze of gold;
Through an arch (Roman), light spill'd. Slant
rays and, bold,
Stream'd from some eldritch source. Wond'ring
at hints
(Of what must be tremendous), I edg'd near.
Downspilling lines defin'd a glowing cone,
That pool'd on pavestones. Enrapt, still I came
And then--the light grew less...Soon, as I'd
(When I approach'd that arch), gold faded off.
And I was left as others have been, bereft
Of this (most magic access to Otherness)...
It seem'd an emanation from realms lost,
Or yet-to-discover--yet lovely past pow'r
True fire (divine) pour'd from a mystic

copyright Robert David Michael (cerello)
November 3, 2007

Sunset Flower (c) Cody Seekins

How I Really Feel

You burst my heart

with streaming,
iridescent cool-mint

of leaping, sparkling,
transcendent, ineffable

joy --

I am bathed
in beauty
and light


Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson 8/17/07


The utter familiarity
of loving you

startles me afresh
every time our
breath intermingles

as we pull close
into each other’s orbit –

There is no
gravity here

Just heat and
shooting stars

Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson

Fight of Ideas

Confusion illusions a million years of little memories

Envelope my psyche, repeating, consuming endlessly.

Relentlessly questioning the stability of sanity.

Inquisitive my mind ominously opening to accept all.

Seeking bizarre fragmented interpretations of reality.

Thinking about everything of past, present and future

Become real yet surrealistic unrealistic false serenity.

Somewhat like seeing the man in the moon smiling.

The face is there looking, feeling, knowing yet vague.

Haunting, manipulative superlative collective unconscious!

I scream in the night in fright, fool shut the door now!

Yet intrigue perks my curiosity further into the depths.

Compelled to continue driven forced and unable to stop.

This ever proportionally large, unknown, but known quest.

Deemed to repeat itself with rampaging emotions forever.

Increasing, escalating, ever larger, consuming, consummating.

Exploding surreptitiously until all that is and was becomes clear.

Lekiss 07

Art and Poem by Lekiss (Leslie Ekiss)

Chief's Candle Holders (c) Cody Seekins

Forest Books.

I will take to the Forest to read the Forest-Books
books written long ago on the undersides of leaves
and on the barks of trees
books written on pools of golden sunlight
and in the delicate calyx's of flowers.
Who wrote these books?
was it the orange-robed or ash-smeared mendicants who still come
to the woods today
embedding the unwritten sutras of the mind upon impressionable nature?
No, the Forest-Books are older than that
older than any written language of men or system of philopsophical thought,
older than Buddha and older than Shiva
older than the Rsi's of the Vedas who taught the people to worship
the Sun with fire
and set the feet of their minds upon the neverending road...
Was it Lucifer perhaps, wandering in Eden's unspoilt vastness
before he first met Eve and spoke to her in the form of a serpent
giving form to the inchoate thoughts that bubbled up within her
yearnings and desires planted there by God when first he formed her of clay
and Lilith's dreaming breath
and opened her eyes with the gentle kiss of life...
or was it the androgenous Elohim or six-winged Seraphim
that first recorded Heaven's Wisdom upon the fragile leaf,
upon the tight-curled bud or unfurled feathery fern,
upon the medicinal herbs and plants,
upon the wings of butterflies and the rainbow scales of lizards
upon the petals of primitive flowers and the brightly coloured plumage of birds
fashioning the syllables of the divine word into birdsong and the silver music
of streams and rivers and waterfalls
the dripping and splashing of rain
the rumbling and roaring of thunder, the drumbeat of the downpour
the cry of the deer, the growl of the cat
the chattering of the monkey, the laughter of the hyaena
the rising and falling mantra of the cicada
the croaking of the frog...
Perhaps if I study the Forest-Books diligently enough these things
will be revealed to me
or perhaps it is other mysteries that I will first unravel
- whether the nut or the tree came first
what factors determine the birth of a child
what precisely is death and will it always be so
which is the heavier burden upon the soul of God
- a cry of laughter or a tear-drop
whose name is it the ocean is always singing
what exactly is it the restless wind is seeking?
And when I have sat beneath the trees long enough
or wandered sufficiently between their ancient boles
and learned some or none of these things
I will return to the town or the city
and see if I remember any of it still.
Who knows but that the Forest exists everywhere
and one does not even need to leave one's room to enter it.
Within the forest of the heart many Forest Books are written perhaps
- one merely has to find the entrance to the hidden heart
the heart of many things
the One and Indivisible heart of Everything.

copyright Willowdown

(c) 2007 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico


(c) Kepa Rasmussen

Oweynagat: Cave of the Cats

Undoing everything
the darkness speaks
knocks on the door

scared shit I pull the covers
over my ears, keep out
spiders, shush voices

all rational underpinnings
fall away like destiny
which too is rational

and nothing like the chaotic
symphony each moment portends
each moment holding

clues to the next, yet
it all changes

entirely new creatures
take off in the jet stream
clinging to my shoes

make their way into
the bright

Ancient people angry at me
for not opening my ear
tired of my fear

that is meaningless to them
when all they desire
is to be heard

like any one
of us
like me.

I am closing, closing
embracing myself
in the dark room

alone, alone
is what I've wanted

and there are those outside
who will never again enter
I keep them out.

I am not
Maiden opening
Mother nurturing

I am Crone alone
claiming space to writhe in
scream in, howl my pain in

slice through those who come
with my sword, Warrior Queen
on my bubbling throne

smite them, smother them,
protecting my Tribe, my claim
to my cave

allowing entrance only to those
who tie bits of their hair
to my tree

who expect nothing of me,
who come stripped naked
to feed with their flesh

my darling hungry Ravens
and who ask nothing and buried alive
die in the silence.

Your mind, your anguish, your anxiety, your fear
are nothing to me
but decorations

leave them at the entrances
and enter wiped clean
of who you thought you were--only then

my cool arms open to cradle you
my wet cave spreads wide to rebirth you
once you reach my core

you will never feel so safe
so loved, so real
so you again.

(c) November 12, 2007 Kala Snowflower

(c) Kepa Rasmussen

Bugs and Nicotene 94
(c) Joey Masciotra






We are interconnected:
A widening web of information
Taking in knowledge of all sizes
(for though one size can not fit all
All can find the size they relate to).
We are diversity writ so large,
Encompassing all into one,
So that each thread upon the web,
That spreading neural network,
Is a conduit to and from
An expanding universe
Of interconnected ideas.

Swimming in an amniotic ocean.
Breathing the essence of eternity.
Finding our way, day by day, week by week,
Era by era.
Entranced in entrainment to a hypnotic beat,
Now and then to break into awakening,
To find that time and place and language
Have morphed again,
Into another image of the dream.

(c) 2005 Laurie Corzett/libramoon

Eclipse Scrying

Where's the fun
in hiding in the eye
of the hurricane?
I want to be bodysurfing
the storm,
madly dancing in the rain,
cast off from restrictive form ...
I want to taste sweet grapes
breaking crisply;
Embark on a journey of ecstasy
to be all the people I have
thought to be;
Yet safely reside
in a place deep inside
away from the prying norm.
I want romance in the sense of
sensation inviting and free.
I want a chance to believe in magic.
And I want what I want to be
crazily in love with me.

(c) September 11, 2007 Laurie Corzett

Black Waves (c) Virginia Patrick

Poets of My Soul

Combat my heavy lids with your words
So sweet
That verdant vistas yawn as they rise
To greet
Your lyrical truth as fruited narrative
Of earth
And the universe of sprinkled night
That lives
With our passionate quest to touch
And know
As all heavenly places we do and may dwell
With grace . . .
Glorious dreams of the mind and heart--
Our hope

Copyright 2007 Jim Ross

Purple Moon (c) Virginia Patrick

ThotWalker (c) Stevon Lucero

The Romanian Rhapsody

copyright Fred Hose

Nicholas and I parked our Harleys outside that great majestic landmark hotel in downtown Manhattan.

We sauntered into the foyer of all foyers in our most confident cavalier way. A foyer the size of a football field, all chandeliers and marble columns.

We looked around expectantly. Our instincts have never failed us before. We knew that we had to be there that night. And we soon saw why.

In the distance, some 30 meters away, demarcated by a heavy golden rope advertised in a large sign that read “NY Poet and Writers’ Convention”.

We looked at each other, then walked over towards the sign, and settled down in plush seats very close to the crowd of writers.

As we listened to speaker after speaker, and to the questions and comments, we began to feel a heaviness. One man, with a theatrical yet innocuous voice, described how his cat had died; and the next speaker referred to the modern global steam roller that flattened all tendencies to show emotions. We heard evidence to show that the loss of inner hope of two centuries ago had been topped by the loss one century ago.

Worse was yet to come as we were told that intellectualism would be our new divinity, that belief and agnosticism were mutually interchangeable, that Man was capable of leading himself into the future because religions only caused death and bomb craters.

The dank smell of nihilism was in the air.

It was when someone stated, without any fear of being wrong, told the audience that poems written during surges of love were now passe and that geometrical construction was the artists’ way. That was when I looked at Nicholas, and he nodded.

We rose agilely to our feet and walked purposefully towards the table where the rather sombre committee members were sitting.

Finding an empty chair at the end of the table, I stepped onto it and then onto the table. There I raised my arms towards the crowd, then waved them backwards and forwards as I cried out.

“Oh you writers and you poets. You who once wrote about Hercules and Siegfried and the Dragon, do you remember Homer and the adventures of Jason?

Do you remember how Jesus felt someone touch his robe? Do you? Soon you will.”

I turned to Nicholas and called for our precious musical instrument, but there was more that I needed. As he turned to walk away, I cried out “and bring back some beers, will you?”

I looked again at the audience, and again questioned them.

”Have you all grown tired of life. Has the life force left you behind like empty paper bags? Has your all powerful intelligence atrophied your life streams? Has an X-box replaced your hearts? When you wear Versace suits and black pointed shoes do you cease to dream?

Listen to me, all of you. I wander along all of the paths. I see the bark of every tree and the wings of every bird. How dare you talk to me about the all pervading power of reason and the debatable possibility of God?”

As Nicholas arrived I saw that he had brought along two large tankards of beer. He had also brought along my treasured nut brown Mittenwald violin. Smiling broadly, I reached for one of the tankards.

I stood up, and after holding the vessel towards the group, I emptied it without gasping for breath. This I had learned as member of a German student union. One where duelling was still done in this present age.

“Here’s to you all. I hope sincerely that there’s not more poetry in this glass than in the whole of this fine lobby. As I drink this I let the golden liquid fill me with the wild ecstasy that lies at the heart of good poetry.”

Then, with a smile at Nicholas, I took the violin from him and began to play.

The Hora Staccato is the music for a wild, wild village dance. Its magic draws you in; whether you are 6 or 60 you begin to dance. Now there’s not much space on a table top, but with with flourishes of turns, high steps and heel-toe movements you can demonstrate the Gypsy nature of the music.

Sometimes the violin was high above my head. Sometimes I crouched over it as if I had caught a wild cat.

Suddenly it was over. No one cheered. In fact no one moved an inch. Not that I had expected them to. As my breathing returned to normal, I began to speak again.

“Oh I know you all have talents. Of course I know that. Otherwise you would not be here. God gave them to you when he gave you your souls. The question is what have you done with them?”

That was when I saw her. A young woman, in her mid-twenties, had risen to her feet and was gesticulating at me. She was yelling something at me.

“Who are you? How dare you come here and disrupt our meeting. It took a lot of organising. Come down here at once.”

I looked at her for a long time. Was she the one that was meant to help me?

I smiled and said “of course”.

I nimbly jumped down from the table and walked toward her until my face was only six inches away from hers. We stood like that for a few moments and then, satisfied, I placed my hand on her shoulder. Then I took her hand and led her to the table.

I helped her climb onto the chair and then the table.

I turned to her and smiled.

“Tell me sister. Do you think that we have hidden talents here in this hall?”

Still a little bewildered, she returned my gaze rather shyly.

“Yes, there are talents here. Doesn’t everyone have some?”

“And what did Jesus say to that slave that hid his talent in the ground and never used it?”

“I believe that he was most upset.”

“And what did Jesus say to the slave who multiplied his one talent manifold?”

“Oh, He was most pleased and praised that slave highly.”

“For using his talent?”


“For expanding his talents and wanting more and more?”

“Yes, yes. That’s how it was.”

I smiled as I nodded my head in affirmation.

“Now tell me sister. What do you know of David?”

“Why are you asking me all this on a table top?”

“Go on. Everyones’ listening. What do you know about David?”

“God loved him.”

“But was David a good man?”

“Well he was good and he was bad.”

“But God loved him anyway. Why do you think? Was it because he wrote beautiful poems and played wonderful music?”

“Yes, yes. That was what it was. I can see that now. God loved him because he was, among other things, a poet. Do you think so?”

“Yes I do. So let’s bring God here to us. Let Him come here and give us His blessings. Like He did for David.”

“How will you do that?”

I put my arm around her.

“Go and sit down sister. I’ll show you tonight. Listen and become a poet.”

I looked at the group and held out my hands to them.

“Tonight I’ll play for you. Tomorrow you will go out and write. Your soul will be awoken from its deep sleep. Go and write from your wildly beating hearts.”

I lifted my violin and began to play Georges Eunesco’s Romanian Rhapsody. There is no music on this earth to compare with it. It can make angels dance.

Its music came straight from the composer’s soul. In turn, no musician could play it and not be emotionally very deeply moved. It is spirituality in musical form.

When I stopped playing, I felt the presence of Jesus in the room. Perhaps it was my imagination but I could see that everyone had a new look in their eyes.

Divine Loneliness

God must be so very lonely.
Imagine being…
With nothing else to do
But be…
Alone In a universe
Which is yourself…
All yourself…
With no one…
No one… outside
Because outside
Is nothing more than a
Reflection of the inside
Of yourself…
Of all.
God must be so lonely…
So lonely…
That the invention of man…
Reality conversion
To manifestation
… all for companionship
… all for love…
from an illusion of
something … that is
nothing more than a reflection
to innumerable eternities
by personalities
which feels the pain
of loneliness
which blots out the light
of long ago origins…
long ago whims…
long ago fears…
long ago loneliness
of being

words and image © 11/73
Stevon Lucero


Worn-out wings you shouldn't borrow
to fly away from daily sorrow :
once their iron coats are rusted,
heaven's angels can't be trusted

Never trust an angel, even
if he guards the gates of Eden ;
where the leaves of knowlegde fell,
you'll find the roots of deepest Hell

Trees of Love and Leaves of Knowledge
do not show the robin's courage ;
Angels Right and Angels Wrong
cannot sing the sparrow's song

words by Che Gozin 2007
ART by Sandy Viktor Nys
Visit : http://hybryds.exto.nl/

Orchid (c) Cody Seekins


(c) David Harrington

After this I saw a strong angel sitting on the crescent moon in the wee hours of the morning with a bow in his hand frowning. And he took a bolt of lightning from a passing cloud and aimed it toward the earth. And when he drew back his bow, there fell fire down from heaven and purged the earth. And many were scorched to death because of this terrible plague.
And I saw another strong angel riding round the rings of Saturn with a ball of ice in his hand. And he took the ball of ice and hurled it with all his might into the sea. And instantly the waves crystallized and froze in their places, transforming the sea into a solid sheet of ice.
And the earth was plummeted into a deep freeze. And all those hiding in the mountains and caves were buried beneath thick blankets of drifting snow.
But the unbelievers were spared and chastened with fire and ice until the seventh day. And everywhere I looked I saw nothing but frost and shivering, thirst and much misery.
And thinking that the end of the world had come, I sank to my knees and begged Almighty God for forgiveness: When I heard another mighty angel flying through the heavens with the Ten Commandments shouting, "Behold: The old laws have come to nought! Let us establish a New Covenant with the inhabitants of the earth."
And he took the stone tablets and smashed them to bits against the Altar of Sacrifice.
And yet another angel appeared ascending out of the East with a golden cup filled to the brim and overflowing. And he cried with a loud voice, "Lift up your cup and drink down the wine, blood of salvation, fruit of the vine!"

Space Births (c) 2006 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

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