Jung @ Heart, EV12 ~ July 2008 ~
"The Gateway" (c) Pamela Matthews
A guide to entering the faerie realms
© Copyright 2007, John Stone
All rights reserved.
For the Faerie Realms
Long ago, in an age almost forgotten, the small spirit keepers of the earth lived and worked within the consciousness of humanity. We then expected the presence of faeries, sprites, gnomes and the other earth spirits in our lives.
Closely aligned with inspirational realms, their job was and is of holding heart consciousness; of maintaining that presence to help us stay closer to the longings of our hearts. And in a world often dominated by fear, it is a job that requires diligent labor, waiting for moments when they might whisper of hope to an aspirer of magic.
Even though mostly unseen, their gifts have inspired much of the great artistry and enduring creations that exist in our world.
It is with the most soulful energy that faeries resonate—and help to perpetuate. But if when we leave childhood, we become too focused in the physical world and begin to adopt beliefs of consumption, forgetting the natural world—our ability to see their reality diminishes.
It of course does not cease to exist; it is only that our connection to it weakens. Their work continues with or without our conscious awareness, though in eras where great violence occurs, they must pull back and leave our midst. But all the while they wait, hoping that we will soon be able to transcribe our aggressions into something more conducive to our survival—and to our ability to hope.
Hope is a request for their presence.
The faerie realms, still quite close to children, usually begins to disappear from our consciousness as we reach adolescence and become more focused upon how we might survive in the world. It of course doesn’t have to be this way. We don’t have to lose consciousness of these worlds. But if we are to remember them, we must make choices that allow our hope to survive. How we choose to provide for our sustenance must include a connection to feeling and inspiration, as when we lose innocence, we lose consciousness of their realm.
There is much written about the faerie worlds, many wonderful and informative books. But in my own writing, I prefer to share my own personal experiences, or things I have been told from these realms. As such, my only experience is with faeries of the light, so these will be the ones that I speak of.
Because of how we lose consciousness of the fey folk, we find them again by choosing to live more simply. When we look for innocence within ourselves, seek to heal emotional pains that inhibit our ability to feel, our spiritual bodies vibrate closer to the frequency of their dimension. It is our ability to feel their presence that opens the door to a fuller perception.
Spending time alone in solitude gives us the opportunity to reflect upon our lives, release tension and create a bridge to these worlds. Well beyond our awareness, faeries and elemental spirit forms are all nearby, especially when we are in natural settings. Many, even live in our homes.
The sylphs of the air, gnomes of the earth, salamanders of fire, and undines of water are just a few of the elemental spirits that remain unacknowledged by us.
My personal experience has so far been mostly limited to winged faeries of several sizes and the little people that walk and live on the surface of the earth.
The little people are spirits of a small stature, perhaps six to eight inches in height, and tend to take on some of the physical characteristics of the humans they live near or with. While they are not particularly height to weight proportionate, they are quite agile and can dart about with tremendous speed. I’ve not seen a thin little person, all so far tend to be more round in appearance.
But I can tell you, that they have an intense aversion to cats. The presence of cats, or an aggressive cat, will leave the little people with nowhere to move about, as a cat will often make chase upon spying one of these spirits.
Little people tend to reflect the energy of the people that they live with. If there is harmony in the household, they will reflect that, and likewise reflect any disharmony as mischief. They can and will knock lighter physical objects over, make noises and add to the general confusion in a chaotic household.
Winged faeries however, seem to be much more consistent in their joy, as they aren’t tied to a physical person in the same way that the little people might become.
I have mostly seen these faeries to be outdoors, and am told that they care for the plants and flowers in gardens. For instance I once saw, completely encapsulated in a yellow sphere, a beautiful and gracious faerie near my daffodils. The color, all tightly contained in the sphere, followed the actions of her flight with surprising precision.
It seems the faerie’s color matches the flowers that she cares for, so it is quite common to catch a glimpse of a yellow orb near daffodils, or blue orbs near blue flowers, etc. And it tends to be easier to see the orbs at dusk or in the dark, but it is possible during any time of the day or night.
Most people will see the orb to the side of their vision, then quickly try to rigidly focus in that area. But a hard focus takes us away from their dimension, as it requires a light and gentle heart to catch a glimpse of their world. And technically, the third eye helps to register the depth where the color exists, so looking solely with the physical eyes cannot reproduce the image. A faerie exists primarily in a higher dimension.
You may also notice something resembling a flying insect zipping by in front of you, then upon further inspection see no evidence of anything physical. This is how we begin to see into their worlds.
We first unconsciously see the edge of their body forming, but do not fully notice until we see them moving about—the movement creating a horizontal line that actually registers in our minds. We often just assume it was a small bug flying by. But when we begin to notice such things more often, we come to understand that it was something from beyond this dimension.
As one becomes more comfortable in acknowledging this phenomenon, we can continue to see more. Its also tends to be easier to see the little people in dusk or darkness, and with a little conscious attention focused upon them, we will eventually be able to fully make out a complete silhouette of their bodies. Lucid dreams offer more details of their appearance, but children have been known to see such creatures as if they existed solely in the third dimension.
I learn more each day about the faeries, but I also understand that many of them can share knowledge relating to our lives. For an example, a faerie once gave me information about my missing cat. Quite benevolent of the faerie I would say, considering that my cat would love to eat her!
But because most of us are unable to really maintain a sense of their energies on a moment-to-moment basis, their influence is primarily on an energetic level. Their unheard whispers are received in our feeling bodies as intuition, and influence the choices we make in our lives.
And if we are so bold that we might actually begin to consciously perceive them, we are even more blessed to receive their gentle reminders that our souls have a much greater depth than we can know.
I cherish every meeting, every flash of color or spark of energy that I see beckoning me to remember my deepest longings, my clearest intuition and greatest hope. They remind me, while reaching for my gifts, that there are worlds of harmony and joy that exist just beyond my everyday consciousness—inspiring me to share them with whoever might become a kindred soul.
A Faerie Dream
Once after falling soundly asleep, my light body leaving my physical body in bed, I found myself quite conscious and drifting though the back wall of my home. Making my way into the backyard, I was now standing in front of a row of daffodils. Marveling at the intensity of the experience, I fully realized that I was out of my physical body.
In a state of consciousness that far exceeded my normal daily experience, my eyes widened in amazement—I was now focusing on a faerie hovering just above a daffodil. Her cute and petite figure, barely five inches in height, was held tightly in a sphere of yellow energy.
Also in their light bodies (astral), two neighbors stood nearby but were unable to perceive the faerie. As their eyes met my own, they unconsciously sensed the amazing event that I was experiencing and a slight tension wracked their bodies. Their uneasiness then pulled my own spiritual vibration downward.
Turning back to the faerie, she now appeared semi-transparent, but still remained within my perception. Slightly disappointed that she seemed to be disappearing, her excitement increased, and she began to race upward in flight before turning to fly horizontally in a circle several feet above our heads. Whizzing around and around within the small opening in the trees, she expressed the purest joy from being seen and acknowledged by a human.
First make yourself as physically comfortable as possible. I prefer lying down, as if preparing for sleep, but you could also choose a contemplative upright position.
After closing my eyes, I allow my thoughts to wander as they will, my mind often recounting experiences of the day. I don’t try to prevent this, but all the while, I maintain an awareness of the area around my heart. I try to consciously feel the feelings in my chest.
If I remain aware of my heart as my mind struggles to let go of the day’s challenges, the energy in my chest will increase. This slightly raises my spiritual awareness, further helping me to place my thoughts and fears into the proper perspective. When I see resolution with the current consideration, my mind releases and moves on to the next.
While at this stage in the meditation it is not likely that you would glimpse other worlds, at least not initially, but you are creating a path, building a foundation for future visions. We must first learn to release the mundane before reaching to higher worlds and perspectives.
This meditation provides an access to divine wisdom, which when properly cultivated, will increase ones spiritual vibration or awareness on a daily level. It is this ability that truly opens doors to greater visionary experiences and guidance. And this is how perception of the faerie worlds begins. When we walk each day with a higher spiritual awareness, it is much harder to discount the magic and hope that begins to descend into the way we experience life.
This is the entrance into their world.
When we finally reach the point where we can truly release the physical world for a moment, we may glimpse a vision into the ethers. Perhaps the image of a faerie, or a vision related to an issue that we are facing, for the purpose of understanding how best to handle the situation.
Back to the Meditation:
Regardless of wherever my thoughts may go, I continue to bring my consciousness back to my chest. Lying in comfort or even in discomfort, my body is sloughing off stress, healing itself and remembering how to more deeply connect with my feeling and emotional bodies.
Light physical activity can ease us into a more receptive state if we feel overly agitated.
It does take time to develop this ability to release the physical—it requires great trust in a higher power. (I also believe it is important to regularly ask for psychic protection from our higher power.) And there will be many things about this process that must be learned on your own as you adapt this general practice to fit your own lifestyle and personality. This meditation may not always offer the sense of peace that we seek.
But regardless of what we experience, when we reach this level, we have become very conducive to seeing faeries in dreams, seeing their colorful orbs floating in the air or perhaps against a ledge where a faerie may be resting.
Seeing a faerie means that we are finding a greater sense of wholeness. And it is when we can maintain an awareness of our heart in our daily lives, pulling the fragmented pieces of our soul back to us, that we may truly see beyond the illusion in which we live.
This place is a place of silence and truth—
It is a place of many doors, sometimes locked
A place of freedom, sometimes restriction
A place of life, sometimes death
This place seems to hold my fascination,
as often think of it
I don’t always have the courage
to this place—
Part of me wishes I would live there
There is no pretending in this place
There are no lies there
Most cannot see this place, but I can
Many do not believe in it, but I do
Few understand why I like it here
It is a place of beauty and trust
Empty and full
A place of tenderness and courage
It is a place of wholeness
There are no differences there, only uniqueness
There is no betrayal there, only compassion
No separation, only oneness
I long to be in this place
A place of great depth, a place of limitlessness—
Love is it’s only rule
Trust—the key to its door
I came to a far country of rolling hills
just like I had imagined, and there, painting
a picture under a large and glowing tree,
is small man who whistles happily as he paints.
I don’t notice him much at first because the tree
is so beautiful, with millions of fine silvery leaves
and a trunk and branches which seem to glow
from within with a life of their own.
He is painting a portrait of the tree,
and one of the leaves is perfect.
He looks up, not surprised to see me.
He motions that I should follow, and leads
me to a low cottage with white stone walls
and a growing grass roof.
There are trees all around for shade.
He asks if I would like to go in,
and says that I may stay as long as I like.
You can repay our faith
in dragons with little
bags of gold coins,
so that when we peel
off the foil we can be
surprised by golden
snitches and boxes
of earth to regrow
all our gardens.
For even when the jackals
sneak in and poison our water
or bulldoze our trees, your silver
acorn will always be there
waiting for a single warm breath
or a sprinkle from a little
plastic watering can
to spring once more
and become the party tree.
All we have to do is let go.
copyright -Vanessa Kittle
(c) David Harrington
The mystic meditates lazily beneath a shady fruit tree and envisions spiritual enlightenment, his key to achieving inner peace.
Through a kaleidoscope of colors which spin before his eyes, he sees the seven riders of the rainbow in their horse-drawn chariots blaze a trail of fire across the spiritual sky. And closing his eyes, he traces their path with his finger.
Ever so gently he reaches up and plucks a virtuous fruit, careful not to disturb the serpent who lay basking in the midday sun. But cherubim watch over the garden with their flaming swords and guide the seer on his mystical journey through the land of shadows and spiritual darkness, where evil lurks behind every hidden doorway.
So taking a bite, the mystic's eyes open wide and he finds himself strolling down a winding road through a lush rain forest covered in moss and evergreen, where primeval giants tower above his head.
Onward through the meadows he wanders, past fountains and streams where nymphs and gnomes frolic on frosted fields and hummingbirds are busy collecting sweet nectar from a honeysuckle bush. Where the first morning dew clings softly to silk-spun webs and fuzzy caterpillars hatch into beautiful living butterflies.
It's evening now and the long tall shadows of the late afternoon slowly disappear into the fading light. The mystic rests his tired feet on an old hollow log and listens to the nightbird call.
A nightowl screeches somewhere off in the distance, wolves and coyotes bay at the full moon and the wild wind howls down the canyon:
The dragon has awakened like some legendary mythical creature in a lost and forgotten story of old. The dragon's breath closes in on the seer now, surrounding him in a shroud of mist.
But through the haze he sees the golden hawk with its great wings of fire descending through the twelve solar gates, and it perches upon his outstretched hand.
So he plucks a feather from each of its wings: Now he has the magic power of Almighty God at his fingertips and he soars majestically off into the spiritual sky and up to the stars.
Carl Jung invented the technique of Active Imagination to interact with one’s subconscious thought forms using art such as music-making, painting or sculpture, dance, or by automatic writing. This technique brings a lot of subconscious material up to the conscious mind where it can be processed, acted upon, judged soberly, and – if necessary – corrected or rejected. Active Imagination is a basic technique for acquiring self-knowledge and effectively replacing obsessive habits and addictions.
Automatic writing is as simple and straightforward as its name implies; there is no trick to it whatever. If they had taught it to you in seventh grade (as perhaps they should) you’d have been doing it all this time and not giving it a second thought. Rest assured that anybody who really wants to do it, can do it. There’s nothing to it, although it does seem to work best when you have a strong need for information about problems you are facing, rather than when you’re just idly curious.
Choose a time when you are relaxed, alert, calm, and will not be interrupted. Either lie or sit down, as you prefer, with a pen and notebook in hand (though it can also be done on a typewriter or word processor). Writing down both your questions and the replies as they come, “ask” if there is any thought form who wishes to address you. If you don’t feel an impulse to write, then coax the thought form to appear: “Please come and talk to me. I am really trying to be open right now, I have this problem that I’d really like some information on, and I want to hear what you, my thought forms, have to tell me.” Etc. Use your own words and sentiments, mean (feel) what you are saying, but don’t stop writing until you start feeling an answer coming.
Usually in automatic writing a few words or phrases spring into your mind at a time, a little faster than you can write them down, so that you often don’t quite grasp the gist of what it is you’re writing until you go back and reread it. Sometimes you get whole blocks or paragraphs at a time. You may also feel the feeling you felt when you created the thought form (get a feeling of its personality). You might see memory pictures pop up before your mind’s eye, or get flashes of dream-like scenes as you write. Note all of that stuff down, because it’s all relevant. It may not make sense at the moment, but it will eventually if you keep a written record of it.
If nothing comes to mind in response to your entreaties; or if all that comes to mind is gibberish, it means that you are blocking – your conscious mind is too fearful to yield control of your writing thought forms to your subconscious mindmind. Your conscious mind might say, “This isn’t working; I’m not doing this right; there must be some trick to this!” in its effort to subvert the process. Don’t fall for this ploy! Keep trying, keep on writing, even if all it is, is gibberish. Whatever is written down is valid, so believe in it and trust in it no matter how much nonsense it appears to be. Sometimes rereading “gibberish” a day or week later reveals that it wasn’t as nonsensical as you believed at the time. In other words, don’t judge yourself. It often helps, if you find yourself blocking, to switch to your non-dominant hand. Just keep on writing, don’t stop, and at a given moment your conscious mind will relax its grip and you’ll start writing automatically. Then, just write down what the thought form has to say, asking any questions you like along the way.
Ask the thought form what its name is, and what function it serves in your psyche. Ask about its history; for every thought form came into existence at a certain moment in time, created by you in order to handle a certain situation, and to automatically handle all similar situations (decisions) in the future.
Thought forms are often in possession of memories and other information which your conscious mind has forgotten, or else doesn’t want to face. Thought forms are invaluable sources of information on what past lives you ought to run, which probable reality branches you should trace, and what memories you should recapitulate. They can even interpret your dreams for you. They can give you unbelievably accurate and insightful information about all your relationships and circumstances in life. You can invite particular thought forms to address you (those who possess the particular information you are after); or you can just invite one to come in who has some pressing comment to make regarding your current situation in life.
Remember that the thought forms you created as a child are still children, so it’s frequently difficult to understand what they’re trying to communicate to you. Needless to say, they have the most important information of all, so pay utmost attention to them and write down everything they say. Later you can ask another thought form to come in who can interpret the first thought form’s message in a way you’ll understand.
Indeed, the main limitation on active imagination as a technique is that it can’t be used to get at thought forms which were installed in us when we were preverbal (before we learned to think and talk). These forgotten thought forms can’t be recalled to conscious mind because they can’t be framed as concepts: they can only be felt or apprehended symbolically as quasi-dream images. The only way to manipulate them is through recapitulation (a technique for reliving memories – see http://groups.yahoo.com/group/MagicalAlmanac/message/29 for an explanation).
Active Imagination is a keystone in self-healing. Not only is the bodbody a thought form, but all of its parts are thought forms also, and it is quite possible to call upon them for information about health matters. Here is an example of active imagination done by a woman who was experiencing bleeding in the second month of her pregnancy:
Woman: My body, can you help me get in touch with the thought form who controls my uterus?
Body: Yes. You will be having bleeding all through your first trimester, but it does not mean that there is anything wrong with your baby at all, or for that matter that you have placenta previa. It is your body’s way of expressing unhappiness. I know it seems very weird to you and that you’ve never heard of anything like it before, but you are not the first woman to have this complaint. In fact, if you would like to talk to your uterus, I suggest you do so right now. You might be surprised.
Woman: Uterus, would you please talk to me?
Uterus: Yes, I will be happy to. You can hardly believe the incredible work that I am being called on to do. I know you take it all for granted – like the most normal thing in the world to do. Doesn’t every woman have a baby? But it still doesn’t change the fact that I am being forced to do a lot of extra work with which you, frankly, are not helping me. For example, I could use more herbal teas. I know you don’t like them, but I do. Make an alfalfa-raspberry mixture every day and drink three cups.
Also, eat meat or drink that iron tonic for these first three months. I just need more physical help in what I’m doing. You should be eating the chard that is wasting in the garden. Right now make the children eat what you want, not what they want. Drink more water. Put brewer’s yeast in your yogurt. And rest. I just need it, that’s all, and you’ve got to accept it. Rest at least two hours during the day. If you feel ashamed of this (which you do), too bad; I don’t, and I’m the one who is doing all the work. Otherwise I get overtired; I just do. Maybe other women don’t need two hours of rest, but you do. For your gestation you need oodles and oodles of meditation and dream experiences. Do you think that the Virgin Mary ran around all day long? No, she contemplated the stars and the moon – just as you should do.
So if you’re too stupid to know what you should be doing, I’m not; and I talk with blood whenever you get out of line and think that this thing of gestating a child is done on some sort of automatic pilot while you go merrily off to play. I need your conscious support and awareness. You help me and I’ll help you.
Give Active Imagination a whirl – it’s a treasure chest (or Pandora’s box – however you want to look at it) of surprises!
(Adapted from Thought Forms © 2000 by Bob Makransky, all rights reserved)
copyright Vincent G. Madrid 2008
A memory of haunting nostalgia
I cannot not touch it, taste it, hold it, know it, breathe it
Still it picques me at the corner of my eye, below the level of perception.
The words escape me.
One must be very careful of words.
They hold great power, mystic and legal and personal.
Words can weave a whole world, a whirl of worlds, a wild wind of words
They can create reality for those who get caught up in them.
The right word at the right time can catalyze miracles.
The right word at the wrong time can destroy the eternal.
How might I find the words to capture my dream, my destiny?
Enter the Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of the daily airwaves.
She is whirling blithely, eyes upon a distant rainbow, breathing in clouds
Breathing out daisies and daffodils and a brilliance of pansies.
She is dancing to her own symphony, entranced in her deepest essence.
Without thought, without prayer, without a government authorized identity
There are no guarantees, no happy ending.
There is a tale I try to tell.
Its point escapes me, withering into fairydust.
I breathe in the poisoned air, drink the poisoned water, eat the poisoned food
Like a desperately swimming fish in a polluted bowl, like a creature of the streets eating garbage,
Like a child.
The pattern is corrupted, but I follow it as best I can.
I have been told that if I can properly put the pieces in place
All will be revealed; all will be peace and beauty and love.
The pieces of my shattered heart.
(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon
"Crystal Angel" (c) Pamela Matthews
Foxglove days in the Forest of Friendship.
Foxglove days in the Forest of Friendship
- we thought they would never end!
Summer afternoons by the Stream of Golden Dreams,
autumnal evenings beneath an Artemisian moon:
we counted fallen stars until we were quite drunk with glory
and then when Mother Winter came
we invited her into our little cottage,
heaped logs upon the fire
and listened to her wonderful stories.
Wild-apple days 'ere the Witch of Dark Ways
came to Earth from some far star
- we collected sweet fruit from hedge-row and tree,
making jam and cakes and wine,
feasting and singing through youth's merry seasons,
our children glowing honey-brown in the sun,
sharing our love and our laughter with everyone
as if such abundance might never run out.
Languid days of longing and love
- we courted the naiads of river and stream
and played lively games with the folk of the Wood,
jousting with satyrs and fauns,
climbing the ivy-hung steps to green dryads boudoirs,
riding into the desert with bedouin ease
to flirt with lamia and bare-breasted sphinx
or else drink wine and play knucklebones and dice
with blue and green-skinned djinn
beneath the moonlit palm-toddy trees.
Ah, but then the Yellow Pestilence came
and the Silver Sickness that devours from within.
Beneath their combined influence
our beautiful comrades suffered and fell,
stricken externally with boils and sores
and eaten alive by the Hungry Radiance
that laid its eggs beneath the skin.
Within two terrible days of each other
my daughters, Penelope and Persephone, were taken
and before the week was through
my lovely wife Solemnity at last succumbed
to the leprous cankers and lesions
that had all but claimed her flesh,
her pure soul torn in two
between the Land of the living
and the pitiful voices that called her name
from beyond the Threshold of Death.
It was my curse and my doom to survive
and in these twilight days of the Earth
I watch the poisonous blossoms that prosper and thrive;
mottled purple orchids the size of great beasts
on serpentine stems that quiver and sway,
ever seeking the sweet scent of blood
so that they might feast;
cannibal sun-dew and weeping lianas
that cry out with the voices of women;
loathsome fungi whose spores incite men's minds to madness;
great swaying forests of things that once were men
but are now weird composite hybrids
of rot, corpse and foliage,
ever seeking to swell their numbers
with fresh recruits to their unmarching army
of blind and desperate hunger.
Idyllic days on the Islands of Innocence
- we sailed our kayaks and log-hewn canoes
through the archipelagos of wonder
but now those little, happy lands
have all been torn asunder,
sunk and submerged by earthquake and tsunami wave
and Wonder itself lies drowned and broken
in a deep and comatose grave,
an amnesiac Goddess bound in chains of coral and kelp
beyond all mortal succour and help,
nibbled at by great albino octopi
and nameless things that have no eyes.
Miserable days of madness and malice
- the Earth is ruled by an ugly old witch
who calls herserlf Alice
and demands daily gifts of White Chocolate Rabbits
and Pies full of Hearts and other fresh parts
plucked from the living in ruin and pain.
And I, I sit here with my notebook and pen,
perpetually bound in my own white-hot chains,
beseeching the heavens to cleanse the foul world
with sweet falling rain...
but it has not rained now for seven hundred years
and for each of those years
I have tried to weep some brief bitter tear
but my grief and sorrow all turn to lava on my cheeks,
running in fiery rivulets down my stiff granite beard.
Prometheus am I
and this is my second and most terrible weird.
"the first communion - the pill of truth" copyright Kris Wlodarski
When the Golden Bough Breaks.
When the Golden Bough breaks
the wild boys of Cornwall rouse the Green Man
and parade the beast that never sleeps
through the cobbled streets,
past McDonalds and the Wine Bar
underneath the shame-faced stars.
Who will weep for the pitiful dragon,
blind and lame but not allowed to die?
Similarly in Liverpool city centre
they sacrifice a virgin every Friday night,
crowning her with bright red bras and vodka.
Up and down the ragged shores of Albion
and stradding the Pennines spine
the bastard sons and daughters of Arthur make merry,
more treacherous than Modred or Morgause,
pretenders without hope or cause.
No King or will arise from mystic lake
or rocky hollow to chide them,
no wizard will descend from Hiberian forest to guide them;
like the teeth of the Hydra they are animated
only by desire and a false idea,
slaves of an intoxicant glamour
and world-devouring chimera
easily available beneath and over the counter,
on supermarket shelves and on every street corner
- no alchemy bit alco-pops,
brightly coloured elixers that offer only lies.
In Manchester, Malvern and the Mumbles
mythology is mutilated and murdered;
the sick beast slouches towards Camelot,
past empty Oxford and ruined Viriconium
and in its wake neither fear, remorse nor pandemonium
but merely drunken calls for another round.
Will no-one put the beast out of its misery,
will no-one blind its one remaining, rheumy eye
before the Final Trumpet sounds?
"the charm" (c) Sandy Viktor Nys
You are a toad,
...........a charming toad perhaps
...........but your warts are burned
...........on the back of my eyes
...........and a toad you will be.
Now frogs are another thing.
...........Over and over
...........frogs become princes
...........Over and over
...........without so much as flicking a flipper.
...........The sunlight shimmers
...........over their iridescence
...........and they move
...........with the grace of Nureyev.
...........The beauty, the beauty
...........of such motion.
How I love my frogs
...........we needn't breathe
...........when we swim
...........and the treasure
...........is the time.
...........the dragon's cave
...........and shower me
...........They would still be rocks.
...........and you, sir, would still be
(c) Terra Wolfe
"The Serpent's Curse" (c) Duncan Long
Cool and sleek, he knows the contours of the earth
and inhabits the crevasses of our consciousness.
His brilliant colors slide gracefully in the summer sun,
casting chilly shadows on the souls of men.
The gentlest Indigo, the most lethal Cobra
are all the same in our primal memory.
Even children who touch them in the summer.
Keep them in mayonnaise jars and catch insect food,
even children grow and in December's sleep
scream our nightmares of the writhing forms,
as graceful as a bird, but of the earth.
The tempter of mythology still beckons
induces us to taste the apple,
accept the sensuality of flesh.
Religious men to keep their innocence intact
have slaughtered them on sight for a thousand years.
But still the silent smile intrudes without a warning
and through the terror, fascinates.
Knowing we, too, are creatures of the earth.
(c) Terra Wolfe
Blood down form
From out of the sparkling
Nothing she emerged
Sipping hippy crack
Releasing from her skin
Into sheer air.
And poetry came with her.
Although then still wordless
Awaiting the symbols to match
The sound of her universe.
When they came she grew larger
Her eyes even bigger
And at school they called her owl
Because she stared at everything.
It took her years to realize
The truth behind the slight.
The wisdom she always held
That the children saw
Or perhaps knew
But did not know how to grasp it.
And how since then, perhaps
Always, she has longed
Not to be understood
But to be loved
Even in misunderstanding.
Thus the poems flowing
Year after year
That she locks in the drawer
At the bottom of her being
Takes out now and then
And then hides away again
As if they weren’t her world.
As if they didn’t mean everything to her.
As if they weren’t the key to it all.
But this is changing.
Her genius no longer content
With sniffing mothballs
Must now emerge.
To get from here to there
There is a bridge
Shining, silver and golden
Bejeweled, a snake stretching itself
Across the crevice into her tomorrow.
The full moon calls her to cross now.
The time is now.
Once on the other side
there is no turning back.
(c) Kala Snowflower
Life comes in shining brighter than the alien who came once
To my bedroom, a cosmic cerulean cyclone cornering me under the covers.
I asked it not to come back. I didn’t want to see.
I realize now how it was showing me my future.
Only now felt in vibrations I am on riding high and certain
I would be called something clinical if I told the wrong someone.
So I talk instead to the moon, the trees, the water flowing under the bridge,
The moth, the cat stopping in the road to watch me, the crow,
Mint and nettle, red clover, the moss covered rocks and the witches.
And they tell me,
You think you see everything without looking? Open your eyes
Look as a child would! See my branches reaching out in all directions,
My leaves spring bright excited to come alive, lambs quarters by the
Side of the road, coltsfoot leaves widening, dandelion giants flopping over,
Buttercups tiny suns beaming, delicate chicory wearing pale blue, heart shaped
Violet flirting with golden rod proud stalks, plantain for salads and bug bites.
And so much more life comes in shining brighter now that I see with alien eyes.
The dragonfly wings busk imperceptible music right in the middle of the street.
White moth flutters under the bridge off to high tea with the troll.
Rabbit in stillness, watching, waits for me to look away to bounce into some portal.
Dog who I once feared senses white wolf walking beside me and stops barking.
Faeries floating inches from my face wear white scalloped wedding finery.
And they tell me,
Life comes in
(c) Kala Snowflower
"Birthday Painting" (c) Ronny Haklay
Robert David Michael (Cerello) c. 2007
Last night I woke, or seemed to wake, at three;
I spied a ghostly presence hov'ring near...
Stark white her skin was, gown dark red in hue;
I knew her well--"La Belle Dame Sans Merci".
I waited, knowing she'd speak. But--How? Why?
I cannot tell...At length, I caught a sigh;
Save for this breath, no sound was, and no
"If YOU for me have come," I said, "to die
It's scarce a cause for mourning-not for me..."
The Lady sighed again. "Your plight is known."
She whispered, "But--not now...Go on, alone--
War on! Do what is needed." "But I am unfree?"
I waited. Nodding her cowled head, she turned.
I breathed the words twice--but she'd melted
Sleepless I lay, until Dawn's gold eye
"To Wake the Dead" (c) Duncan Long