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

Contributors to Expanding Metaverse

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: libramoon42@mindspring.com

Craig Blair

Craig Blair received his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania . The many places that have displayed his work include the Bowling Green State University Planitarium, the Fort Wayne Museum of Art and the Center of Science and Industry in Toledo. His works can be found in private collections in throughout the United States and in Europe. He was the show coordinator (and participating artist) of the International Surrealist Show 2006 in Spencer, Iowa. He serves as President of the Weston Arts Council.
Craig lives in Northwest Ohio with his wife, Alaire, and his daughter, Briana, where he is in the process of restoring a 100 year old house.
Visit Craig's web site at

Robert Michael Cerello

was born in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York, and presently divides time between San Diego, CA, USA and Europe. He is an Objectivist philosopher and author. He graduated from Sayville High School, Pomona College, Laverne University's Teacher's program and holds an MA from the University of Virginia and an ESL certificate from S.D.S.U. He has written plays, novels, short stories, songs, screenplays, criticism, non-fiction, verse and poetry for forty years. He aspires to be a scientist of the arts and is well-known as a lecturer, actor, singer and teacher.

Cody Seekins

My art is much akin to an archeological dig but of a psychological nature. I alternate between moods, states, contexts through a period of time working on a project, and try to allow those variations to include themselves as a feedback with as much possible precision in the process of building the ultimate image. It might also be appropriate to say that i make work of a shamanic nature through a practice of some kind of animism coupled with the formal trainings of classical academic representations.

Short description of me: I grew up as a child as a military dependant for the U.S. Army, and traveled extensively to live in locations throughout the United States as well as Europe, chiefly Italy and Germany. Once i began creating art it was oriented in the pursuit of the fantastic not only in the experience of making work as a feedback mechanism but also in the final image, which generally places me in what many consider to be a surrealism. Later i explored representational excellence at Wichita State University and now build paintings which are evolving hybrids of those two sets of styles. In terms of artist statements i generally do not try to give a literary meaning to the work because i find that such a stark rationalism given to audiences creates confusion and stifles the opportunity for the observer to give meaning to the piece themselves from the vantage point of their context.

The best place to find more of my work, information about shows, and to reach me via email is my website:

I currently have a BA in Studio Art in Painting and continue to expand that degree as well as to pursue another degree related to Math and Physics.

Rev. Rebecca Guile Hudson

“I have known and cherished this spectacular, gorgeous, quite remarkable woman, for the last 12 years. She contributes so much of her light, generosity and genuine love to every one she meets – no one is a stranger to her. I believe everyone and anyone can and will benefit from knowing her, knowing about her.

Her story is quite unique: She spent her first 17 years at the torture level of abuse (3rd worst out of 4 levels of abuse). Now, 37 years later, even as she lives daily (with some humor, even) with the resultant psychological difficulties, she is the award-winning author of Out of Cullen Street (A House of Madness), (available at
amazon.com), and is an internationally published, award-winning poet. She belongs to Phi Theta Kappa, the Academy of American Poets, and is the Secretary/Treasurer of the Valencia County branch of the New Mexico State Poetry Society.

She is also an Editorial Advisor for The Taj Mahal Review, an international journal, of arts, culture and literature, a founding member of the Rosa Parks Wall of Tolerance & the Martin Luther King, Jr., Memorial Project, as well as being a member of Doctors W/out Borders, Amnesty International, the Interfaith Alliance & the ACLU, among others.” -- Bill Pearman

Poetry came with me when I came here to earth.

Literary Awards:
2007 – 1st Place, Valley Visions, Writings and Find Art from the Rio Abajo
2007 – Semifinalist in Poetrysoup.com’s quarterly contest
2007 – The International Who’s Who in Poetry
2006 – Honorable Mention, Sol Magazine Winter Edition (online)
2006 - International Poetry Award of Excellence;
2005 - 1st prize in Poetrysoup.com's first international online contest;
2005 - International Poetry Award of Excellence;
2005 - The International Who's Who in Poetry
2004 - President's Certificate of Literary Excellence;
2003 - Shakespeare Trophy of Excellence
2003, 2002 - Nominated International Poet of the Year; named International Poet of Merit by the National Society of Poets

Sample Works Featured online at:

http://www.trextop.com/article/category/arts-and-entertainment/poetry/; http://ezinearticles.com/

Books in which my poetry has been published:

The Taj Mahal Review-International Journal of Arts, Culture and Literature: 2003 thru 2007 so far;
Explorers (Anthology) (2004);
The Ferment of Images (Anthology) (2004);
Symphonies (Anthology) (2003);
Summer & Autumn 2003 anthologies from The People’s Poet in the UK
PoetryMagazine.com (Spring, Summer anthologies, 2003)
Last, not least, I am a Minister with Universal Ministries.


I have been an artist and poet since a very young child. After a career in Nursing for 17 years ended by disabling accident, I now have time to pursue my art I vowed never to stop as both of my very talented parents had. I am currently working seriously in Primarily Prismacolor Pencil and have completed several works in preparation to create a portfolio at last. Due to physical disability, I have to work on a much smaller scale but have found my forte in this form of art.

I also enjoy working a plethora of other media. The piece shown here is one of my first graphic art works. Visual art is my focus and first love poetry my second. The poems I write come to me in wave like surges of passion. The task of compiling them is partially completed and has been a bit daunting. I am finding I enjoy working a piece of art to words I’ve written and vice verse.

Currently I’m working on my website, which is, not up yet. Meanwhile, you can see more of my work here:
My E-Mail is Lekiss@cox.net


Leslie Ekiss


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.

Jorge Myztico Campo

Myztico was born in Cuba and raised in the Times Square District of NYC. He is a self taught artist, muralist, musician, filmmaker and writer. His works have been collected by the Museum of Native Americans in Washington, D.C and held in private collections internationally. His work was recently showcased in TheVisionary Revue

He has showcased his work throughout the USA and his work can be seen and heard at: http://myztico.mosaicglobe.com
email address: myztico13@yahoo.com

Kepa Rasmussen

you can see more of my work:

Kala Snowflower

I'm very excited to have finished my latest book of poems, Snakebite, and currently am planning an e format release of it. A new book of devotional poems is in the works, so far entitled, Adore. 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 I recently began teaching classes in Reiki and passing attunements. I am enjoying this work immensely and learning so much in the process. My work as a healer and my work as a poet flow from the same source. 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 kalaalak@gmail.com. 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.

Joey Masciotra

The art work i do is based on my personal study of inanimate objects, life forms, color and ambiguous patterns. I find meaning in my work, usually personal; but i do some commercial work based on themes. My current goal is to produce all of my drawings into
paintings depicting surreal or abstract scenarios. The drawings i have collected since 1990 all are dying to be painted. Single imagery seems to be more aesthetic, however I have taken on the task of involving the drawings together to create more sync. Enjoy

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

is seeking clarity, wisdom, and ecstatic union with visions and art. She is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions, visionary art ezine; Seers and Seekers Yahoo Group; The Healing Dance Network Yahoo Group; Visionary Arts and Minds Tribe; anthologies of her writings; a leisurely emerging novel working title: Something Sacred; a quickly evolving (envisioned as) graphic novel (anyone want to do the graphics?), Acts of Desolation: http://www.gather.com/viewArticle.jsp?articleId=281474977172809
as well as 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 (temporily shelved due to lack of collaborators).

check out my book: Words from the Sky:
where you can also find
libramoon's observatory (blog)

Virginia Patrick

I am honored to say my work has been chosen for several magazines in the past year. Being a texas artist, I am known for various mediums of choice...pastel, charcoal, and watercolor are in the majority of my latest creations. I love to work with warm colors and try different styles and techniques. I love to take my originals, edit them to make several versions and showcase them in one display. I have several places to find and purchase my pieces. Please feel free to contact me for prices, and or commissions. @virginiapatrick@hotmail.com
Thnkx! Virginia Patrick


Jim Ross

I am the only subject I rarely write about; not that my life even remotely resembles “dull”, or is chary of light, but because it is by nature, looking within—a process best applied for reflecting on issues of personal survival, and the resulting efforts. Emerging visions on the other hand requires reaching forth with sensitivity to all things unknown, or where knowledge is incomplete. I find great passion for the quest; it culminates in works expressed in poetic forms, written and visual; stuff of the senses, metaphors to prompt quick, heart pounding trips to the stars—or reflectively, to a windswept beach to toss sticks to a wet, wagging dog.

Stevon Lucero

In human psychology and in contemporary art, there is an area between the purely abstract and the purely realistic. This is the area in which Denver artist Stevon Lucero maneuvers, exploring the edges of his subconscious mind where thought begins to intrude on the real world. Out of images seen in dreams, visions and separate reality experiences, Lucero creates powerful painted metaphors. His paintings are neither reflections of the visible world as in realism, nor depictions of the subconscious as in surrealism. Lucero's unique visualizations are somewhere in between – so he calls his work Metarealism. The psychological border area is the source of his creativity. The reality within is more intriguing than the external reality. Internal images become paintings when they have a powerful effect on Lucero. They also become messages that have something to say to all audiences. In his paintings, Lucero is always synthesizing what his introspective vision produces, gleaning forms, themes, and ideas that portray the similarities that unite humanity psychologically, not the differences that divide it perceptually.

Stevon Lucero can be contacted at:
or email: stevon@stevonlucero.com

Fred Hose

I'm a qualified MSc graduate engineer and worked in a steelworks, on two mines and in a project office for many years. I was regarded as very successful engineer and because of this was sent to many parts of the world as a troubleshooter and dealmaker.
I was also an exchange student and as such spent several years in Germany. While there, I was placed in a hostel with 40 Indians. Because of other events before and staying in this hostel, I became deeply involved in things Indian including learning about their ancient culture, their traditions. At one stage we formed a cricket team and did a tour of six English villages.
I was married, but after 6 months of marriage, my wife collapsed with a brain tumour. The operation failed and she lay in bed, a virtual vegetable. In this period I learned how to pray and come into close contact with God. She died, mercifully, after a year.
Then during an anaesthesia for an operation, I felt that I recieved a command to write. I was told to write and have compassion as my theme. As a result of this event, on leaving hospital, I resigned from my work and began writing. This happened about three years ago.
Since then I've written 5 unpublished novels and many stories and poems which I've sent to three writers' organisations. One of these novels is being considered by a Bollywood producer for the making of a full feature movie.

Che Gozin and Sandy Viktor Nys


David Harrington

I currently reside in Portland, Oregon with my wife Dawn and two sons. I have lived here for nearly twenty years now, but am originally from the East Coast.

The pieces here are from my collection of short, spiritually-charged allegories written over a twenty year period. These stories are rich with symbolism and strong characterization, but are both figurative and literal.

Several of my spiritual poems have recently been published in other online journals. They are as follows:

1) "Tiny Seed" - Esoteric Quarterly, Summer 2007 edition
2) "Golden Harp" -


3) "Flashback" - Mystic Living Today, August 2007 issue
4) "Great Mother" - Autumn Leaves, Sept. 2007 issue


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