~sharing(secret)water~ EV13 ~ November 2008

"Faith" (c) PHILIP Rubinov Jacobson

Dark Magick

In the still of the dark of the moon
after the revelrie has passed on
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed
breathing in ancient ash of woodsmoke
breathing out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path
take each others' hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper
thus casting an eternal spell.

~~ libramoon

Samhainic Gift Link

"Unbearable Moments" (c) Dennis Konstantin Gerigk

An ocean inside her
warm, rich fluid
flows around the unborn.
We come from the waters
float to birth
evolve to stand erect
two legs walk.
How many times we have done this
thousands, if not billions of years.
Blood to blood
water to water.

We are the Earth
that holds us
energy conducted by fluid.
By water we live.
It is the drying of our bodies
that makes us dead.

From ocean to womb
womb to Earth
Earth to water
replenished, made new
we are born, reborn.
Blood to blood
water to water.

image and text (c) Maureen Sexton

Crossing Over (c) PHILIP Rubinov Jacobson

Isis5 (c) Sierra Dawn Comer

(from book in progress, Our Deep Magic)

Of Course

The ocean this November scalds my feet moments after emergence until
my calves scream for mercy, so I run with waves echoing in the throats
of boys passionate to save a family of drowning mice among the rocks.
Boys who follow me into the foam, naked as Venus under my clothes
and playing a pipe to entice them while their Mother’s eyes shift from me
back to them and worry about the cold cold water, their own feet sane dry, and
wondering about my age, shocked that I might be a Mother to the boy holding my hand.
He’s not my son, of course, but if he was, of course I would still play this way,
running until my pants to the waist darken. I would still see the swollen
waves in the white mist appear as the Goddess’ bare thighs opening.
And her music would still draw me forward, toward the salty depths to the place where
forever I am a child of the universe and growing up means there’s no one to stop me
when the water shouts my name over and over and over until I answer.

moon lady (c)
Sierra Dawn Comer

(from Open Me)


branches that call me
sky as wet as my thighs
as deep as
my name.
Trees bathing their trunks whisper
Come now, we are waiting for your
touch, your healing ways.
And roots deep beneath the surface
moan with desire for me
for my foot’s soft graze
to wrap their long and curling love
around my waist—
hold me as lover
into eternity.
From deep trance
I emerge
find myself
knee deep
in cold
Walking my way
to shore
from the core
of my creation
I pour
ecstatic streams
of freedom
falling down my legs—
this water
of life.

"sea of life" Copyright © 2008 by Duncan Long. All rights reserved.

(from Open Me)

Open Me

the light shines
the dark forest beckons
enter me
as the twilight lingers
embraces the clouds
with softest touches of caresses.
Let poetry come, pour through me.
My tongue on your
My lips on your
Your labia silken glitters
reflecting the moon.
Cowrie shells and conch
a blood red
tide swells inside
the new born boy child
who once gave
milk from his breasts
and the infant girl child
giving her first blood
at birth.
Relics of the connection.
The umbilical joining
breathing, tasting
with our Mother,
all giving and giving
and even in the expelling
still giving
the first breath
the first
singular experience
the first cry for the love of connection
the illusion of disconnect resolved
in flesh upon flesh
so that every time we touch
we dissolve and merge
with skin, muscle
fat and bone, inhabit
the womb every time we touch
the safety, the comfort, the shared
becomes us.
Maya, we are One.
As the Gaian Mind
embraces each finger
each tiny toe.
On our bellies, drinking
from Mother Earth
we erupt
we spasm
we settle
we cry
we rage
we engage
we grow
In the Gaian Mind
there is no separation.
We are always
giving forth
her milk.
Always bleeding
her blood.
Always drinking
through our navels
sweet honey
the presence
the source of our own hearts.
We are One.

(c) Kala Snowflower

"Aquaphobia" (c) Gabe Marquez

(c) adan delbosque
Lucid dreaming

Often revered by sages and shaman as a deeply spiritual visionary experience, the elusive lucid dream is not so uncommon in this new age of light.

As we enter into the millennium, we find ourselves at the doorstep of a golden age of awareness, with our soul already having completed much of the internal work necessary to transcend the earth’s heavy dimension. We are now knocking upon the door of communion with worlds beyond.

Awareness in a lucid dream, much greater than even an unusually vivid dream, rivals or exceeds the consciousness found in the daily awake state, and offers the dreamer a new dimension of experience. Inspirations for artistic creations, additional life choices, or a meeting with a deceased loved one, are a few of the many gifts we may find within the dream world.

Many of the gifts needed for experiencing lucidity and out of body travel often come quite naturally to spiritual seekers, but refining these gifts remains the responsibility of the dreamer. Finding one’s centermost core, touching the delicate center of trust and oneness within the soul brings many rewards—gifts of remembrance of nighttime travels that are too often forgotten by the conscious mind.

What might we do to facilitate lucidity?

Moments of solitude, contemplation and introspection can bring great healing to a soul, and it is through healing that this natural ability of visionary dreaming returns. Lucidity is often lost at a young age, taken from the child that must endure life in harsh surroundings, punished by the world for its uniqueness. Lucidity is a gift that returns—with the acceptance of one's individuality.

Techniques of journaling, dream analysis, vision questing, bodywork, drumming, fasting and many other forms of expression bring about the natural alignment of the etheric bodies, alignments of awareness that allow the memory of our nighttime activities to seep into the conscious mind—as having a lucid dream is not an activity that you must achieve. We don’t have to worry about creating the experiences; it is merely about remembering them.

The intensity of the challenges in our lives often deplete spiritual light from our essence, leaving our souls thirsty for truth and longing for the forgotten memories of the other worlds. But by choosing a path of seeking, we may find that the necessary tools for healing always exist with any challenge. And of the many modalities for restoring hope to a soul, journaling can be one of the most powerful.

The energy created by writing about oneself is that of digging beneath the surface, exposing wounds that allow a seeker to more clearly see internal injury and suffering. And it is this vision that ultimately perpetuates healing, allowing light to naturally, unconsciously and automatically replace what was once darkness—as opposed to a conscious effort of trying to pull light into the body. This indirect method allows one to raise their vibration while grounding deeply in the earth in a very balanced way—with a person retaining more control over their choices.

When I first began to journal, at the insistence of my Shaman teacher, I spent the allotted time with my notepad recounting the events of the day. But as I progressed and the years passed by, I found a more direct approach for my efforts. Rather than spending my energy physically writing, I found more expression contemplating the day’s events, while allowing my pen to focus more upon writing about my frustrations. In this way, I began to reach deeper into my core fears, resulting in more time to contemplate the self-imposed limitations in my life.

Of course this can be frightening initially, until one realizes that fear exposed to light soon dies. And it is perhaps not something that is moved toward swiftly. At first, I spent only a few moments a week journaling, but as I grew in confidence and the ability to actually expose and release unconscious fear, I soon found great enjoyment in these moments of solitude—the resulting freedom so liberating that journaling became one of the most important activities in my life. I found that in exposing my fear and suffering, I was opening a door for its release from my body. Although it took many months before I consciously found this to be healing, over ten years later, I still find it an essential part of my life.

As our consciousness lifts and we begin to take our destined places in the world, mystical expressions begin to weave their magic through us and into the environments in which we live. As if being rewarded for our perseverance, our memory continues to open, eventually enabling us to receive more conscious support from dimensions beyond. What types of experiences might we expect?

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 watching a faerie hover just above a daffodil! Her cute and petite figure, barely five inches in height, was held tightly in a small 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 that I was experiencing an amazing event and a slight tension wracked their bodies, pulling my own spiritual vibration downward. Turning back to the faerie still hovering in my garden, she now appeared semi-transparent, but still remained within my perception.

Leaving me slightly disappointed that she had almost disappeared from my vision, her own excitement was not hindered, 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 at the excitement of being seen and acknowledged by a human.

This experience profoundly influenced my life. Even the air had consciousness in that moment and it enabled me to perceive a dimension and truths that most often stay far beyond my awareness. Earth spirits often remain with us, yet it is our ability in a moment to transcend the earthly physical experience that allows this great magic to be revealed. I perceived her, because I could first feel her presence, and I could feel her presence, because of the wholeness returning to me—a gift of my seeking.

As we heal and find a deeper trust in ourselves, and oneness with our surroundings, we allow our memories to the surface—often along with many forgotten dreams and desires. It is the acceptance of our inner sense of direction that brings us closer to our innate powers, as we allow intuition to become master over our lives. It is then that our wisdom may more fully return, bringing with it the knowledge of our most passionate longings.

Learning to bask in moments of solitude is one of the most powerful tools in reclaiming this lost power of our nighttime travels; and remembrance...is only a dream away.

John Stone

"moon" (c) Sierra Dawn Comer

"Nuke Sleepwalker" (c) Dennis Konstantin Gerigk

Poseidon's Realm: a Vision
Robert David Michael

Poseidon's Realm...through waters warm and green,
Down depths where sunlight pales and waxes cold,
The seeker takes his course...Where dolphins
Where seahorse legions bob, and where is seen
The whale, the squid, the manta--those of old
Whose legends frighted seamen--there the trace
Leads on and on, for him who'd be amaz'd...

There, coral grove and stout reef fade; but,
Thick schools of tiny silver bodies swarm,
Mass'd millions, each a single spark Life births;
There lie Its outskirts...Mountain peaks and
Lofty as Earth's most mighty show their forms;
League-broad, the canyons and the smooth-brow'd
Clothe these in two words"kingdom drown'd", in

There palaces arise--magenta, green,
Topaz and amethystine-studded walls;
Lapis and ruby show, gold-leaf abounds;
Colonnades wreath'd in seafoam, thick-grown
Broad esplanades; statues both fair and tall;
Roads, ramps, companionways, portals: a Land
Where ocean currents sweep each hall at hand!

Here dwell the seafolk, merman and Nereid,
Bedizen'd with shells, naked, long hair
The folk of Okeanus' realm sport, toil,
As scales on skins gleam luminosities--
Creatures of cool'd fire...Tails flick--and
they're sped
Swifter than thought to ledge or coign or throne...
This is their element, their age-old home...

Trident gripp'd firm, his curl-bless'd beard
Poseidon presides, glares from a high-set throne,
His strong limbs tunick'd, rob'd in greens and
And there beside him--Thetis, clad all gold,
With alabaster skin, and lips of rose...
While 'round their royal chamber silver bubbles
Upfloating globes, rainbow-struck, pink-adorn'd...

"The Drowned Cathedral" (c) Brigid Marlin

"The Healing" Copyright © 2008 by Duncan Long. All rights reserved.

Behind the mists

You can see so much behind the mists,
But they make it hard to clearly see;
And time's just not the same.
It slips on past
the boat you ride within
As you float in the sea
set adrift to find your way
back from the land of the dead,
And you part the mists to return to the land
Of the living, breathing, seeing fire.

May it consume you, may it consume me,
may it consume us all,
because at least in the ash,
we are all equal
and no one can rise above the other.
But together, we can rise again
as living, breathing, seeing fire,
Set ablaze with a passion
for each other and all we are
And may we learn for once, for all
to part the mists and truly see.

You can learn so much behind the mists
But they make it easy to forget
And things are lost within the sea
You may want to find again
As you cross a spot again you know
and the landmarks look the same
Know you're not lost - you're only on your way
to better knowing self and your sacred place
in the living, breathing, seeing fire.

May it consume you, may it consume me,
may it consume us all,
because at least in the ash,
we are all equal
and no one can rise above the other
But together, we can rise again
as living, breathing, seeing fire
Set ablaze with a passion
for each other and all we are
And may we learn for once, for all
to part the mists and truly see.

You can fear so much behind the mists
but they only mask the truth.
And you can't hide forever
from the truths you don't want to see
As you learn what it means to BE in the Sea.
There are no mists now
to keep you from your heart
and Wielding the loving, living, breathing, seeing fire.

May it consume you, may it consume me,
may it consume us all,
because at least in the ash,
we are all equal
and no one can rise above the other
But together, we can rise again
as living, breathing, seeing fire
Set ablaze with a passion
for each other and all we are
And may we learn for once, for all
to part the mists and truly see.

Divinity Rose

'Neptune Ascends' (2008)
Jude Cowell
Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative 2.5


I am a Dreamer, have always been a Dreamer, guided by the power of dreaming. My people are Dreamers, have always been Dreamers, guided by the powers of dreaming. It is now time to come together as Dreamers.

Who are the Dreamers ? In the modern world Dreamers are as a dying breed, an endangered species. We struggle to manifest our presence in a society gone mad from having too much of a good thing. This madness has corrupted the quality of the inner life with hyper-materialist values, overly-literalist thinking and consumerist delusions of entitlement. Viral drains to the dreaming power. More symptoms of power loss include diminishing dream recall, the slow death of imagination and the increasing loss of our capacity for direct experience.

All this power loss is supported by the formidable external forces of mass media advertising, the ubiquitous internet and the Hollywood dream machine (mainstream film, TV and music industries). While we weren’t looking, these massive commercial entities effectively performed Imagination Lobotomy on the collective psyche. When the individual imagination to dream one’s own dreams is ursurped and replaced by external ideals, images and cues, individual imagination sells out (opts for external media content) and belongs to the external sources originating its content. When we have lost the dreaming power to generate our own psychic content, our Imagination dies a slow death. And from where I am standing, imagination death precedes the death of soul.

Perhaps the most dramatic sources of power loss come to those who have fallen prey to the Victim Syndrome of self-pity and the emotionally exhausting Courtship Compulsion, both of which ravage and weaken the energetic body, the chief conduit for the power of dreaming in the human being. It is not enough to have big dreams if we continue hemorrhaging the power to engage and realize them.


Perhaps the two greatest drains of the dreaming power -- our power to dream -- are: 1) The Victim Syndrome and 2) The Courtship Compulsion. Society and the culture at large remains socially, economically and politically invested in perpetuating these two power drains. If and when any individual become snagged and fixated on either or both, the culture at large fully supports its continuation.

Why many of us fail to realize our dreams sometimes amounts to the rationalizations we use as excuses, exuses that are fully supported by the culture at large. How often have we depended on the phrase "most people do it or most people don't do it" to justify power loss and futility, mediocrity and failure?? Here in the USA, the last great dream the culture at large supported was something called The American Dream. How many of us have succumbed to its collapsing vortex of home foreclosures, joblessness and divorce ? Any dream offered by the culture at large acts as a drain to the dreaming power of any individual with enough will, imagination and heart to make their own dreams come true.

The Victim Syndrome corrodes and destroys the will of the individual. This power drain is fueled by self-pity and an immature refusal to accept one's personal shortcomings, inadequacies and flaws, while complaining and whining about feeling "not enough". Poor Baby! The power of dreaming abhors self-denial; there's no receptivity or space for that power to make a home. The power of dreaming demands that we accept and embrace the spectrum of our humanity; our strengths and weaknesses, our flaws and talents, our ineptitudes and skills, our competence and our inadequacies.

Self-empowerment expands with Self-acceptance. When afflicted with the Victim Syndrome, we soon become as emotional vampyres feeding off the sympathy of others while continuing the Pity Party in private. The Victim Syndrome acts as a disempowering cycle of debilitating self-indulgence that atrophies the decision-making muscle, resulting in the immobilizing inertia of agonizing indecision.

The Courtship Compulsion weakens the heart and wastes the imagination. This complicated power drain can happen with any increasing emotional investment in an idealized image of the "dream lover", any obsessive preoccupation and search for "The One" or the "soulmate", and any psychic projection of charged emotion onto any external person that matches said "dream lover" picture. All these stages require tremendous energy, belief and blind faith to maintain itself and all occur, for the most part, unconsciously.

The culture at large feeds and controls the Courtship Compulsion in many ways, from mass media promotions of The Beauty Myth that masks widespread oppression of the women and the men who fall for it, to the manufactured promises that marriage brings eternal happiness. The Courtship Compulsion masks a sophisticated sadomasochistic ritual of self-torment where love is always truly wanted but never truly found.

The spiritual root of the Courtship Compulsion dwells in the authentic yearning produced by any significant loss of verticality; the greater the loss of vertical contact, the greater the yearning. If we can restore personal communion with our vertical sources, what some might call "God" or divinity, this courtship compulsion transforms and is replaced by the experience of oneself as love. Love as true nature.

Realizing our true nature we can engage fully in romantic and longterm relations with others, not as any desperate search for love but, as an act of love itself in the sharing and offering of the self. The imagination, once previously projected and wasted on bleak and unattainable and self-tormenting fantasies, is now free to dream itself more fully from a fertile source of love. When nourished by such a foundation, Imagination flourishes and makes a home for the soul. The life of Imagination precedes the life of the soul.

©2008 Antero Alli

"Cosmologie" acrylic on canvas

copyright 2003 Vincent G. Madrid

"Heartless2" (c) Gabe Marquez

The nap between the Worlds
copyright Vanessa Kittle

In the afternoon I lie here trying
to recapture a moment which never
occurred – an afternoon by the ocean
with an open window – breeze and sun
flowing over the bed through thin
white drapes. Outside there are
smiling busy people eating sandwiches
on boats, swimming, picking berries,
dripping juices on their fingers.

I am falling asleep, thinking of the cedar
closet in my grandparents old
house. It had the smell of trees
in the distance and long fur coats.

I never touched the back wall.

Day after day I lie here waiting
for the weather to change
for a northern wind
for a sign outside or inside
for gravity
for anything with sufficient weight
to bring motion to inert bodies.

Today there are clouds.
The light fades in this temple.
But beyond the clouds, there is
a wilder sky swarming with red
and golden eagle feathers.
The trees make a tunnel
over the path.
And there will be leaves crunching
under my feet.

One day I will remember
the secret word or find the lost key.

"Saturday" (c) Brigid Marlin

INTO LIGHT (c) PHILIP Rubinov Jacobson


I stand on the edge of the abyss
and know,
In the way that women know,
The womb from which I sprang,
Aphrodite rising from the sea
Again, a fractal offspring.

Ah, but the forming...
No gentle sculpting of feminine attributes,
No passive gestation,
No nine-month grace period
To emerge
Microcosm of the Maelstrom.

(c) Sarah McFarland

(c) Claudio Parentela

The Storm.

Upon the quiet shore memories arise unbidden
of hollow betrayals, ancient treason.
The moon recedes behing dark clouds
and the mood of the ocean changes
- gone the gentle flowers of foam
cast upon the silvered sand;
the skeletons of the drowned and murdered
pitch their bones upon the land,
clawing at the phantoms of their ragged minds
restless still despite long scores of years
beneath the wind-tilled sea,
eager to throttle warm living throats
with bony fleshless hands
and smother sweethearts lips
with kisses from the deep.
Ah, what terrible tales the angry waves must tell,
bitter recriminations against those that still have blood,
hungers and thirsts that cannot be satisfied save by
senseless pounding violence
restless energy that must hurl itself against rock
and cliff-face,
dashing little fish and crabs to death
clutching with vengeful fingers at anything that lives or grows
upon the mortal shore,
a delicate flower on a stone shelf, a plastic bottle,
a childs lost toy,
anything that speaks of life beyond the dull unspeakable
emptiness that governs the souls of the dead
howling in their watery chains
and in the chains of earth and air,
the ghosts of the damned that cannot move on
yet cannot relinquish desire.

After the storm is over and a pale yellow dawn
rises over the now placid ocean
I walk again along the same quiet shore
and inbetween the kelp and ragged flotsam cast up high
between rotting sea-green groynes
are strewn great swathes of tiny fragile shells
- pale pink, powder blue, pale yellow and violet,
like the brittle petals of freeze-dried flowers:
an offering of peace from the depths of the sea,
may all her dead find forgiveness.

copyright Willowdown

"Dream Ship" Copyright © 2008 by Duncan Long. All rights reserved.

"Artemis in the Spring"

Without title

The Element of Fire is predominant in me;

I am in the Element of Fire; I am all Fire in my paintings.
Leaves will turn into wild flames. Rocks will be glowing charcoal. Trees will grow as sacred fire up in the sky. The fauvist combination of colours is home to my artistic soul.
The Element of Water, you will not see it in its Falling Movement in my paintings.
Water is the mirror of the soul;

Water is there, in my paintings, to mirror the rising and setting sun.
Flowers are little focuses of red and yellow and purple fire.

Shadows and dark foliage are only serving
to the glory and exuberance of the Sacred Fire in its appearance in the Universe.
This Universe made of high temples and humble fishermen houses;

of Garden-Fairies and Lunar Deities;
Of western Gardens, inspired by Nordic Menses, and of southern waves and hot reflections.
Welcome to my little personal World; walk into my 2 dimensional paintings and wake up into the
Infinite suspension between Heaven and Sea. Grow into the divinity of Light.

London 2 Oct 2008
image and text copyright Alkistis Wechsler

After this the angel of the Lord took me up above the clouds and showed me a beautiful lady who stood dazzling as bright as the sun.
And looking down over the earth, I must have seen about a million nomads gathered in the desert watching and praying for a sign in heaven to appear.
Now the beautiful lady went down upon a cloud and stood before the multitudes in the image of the Sungoddess which they had erected in her honor. And they knew it not, but it was made known unto me. And when they saw that the statue had come to life and was shining like the sun, they clutched their beads and dropped to their knees in ecstasy.
And the beautiful lady wept as she talked to the sun worshippers about her many sorrows. But the sun worshippers were weary from their journey across the desert, and were many days without food or water. And when they saw the crimson tear drops trickling down her cheeks and the swords piercing her bleeding heart like a pin cushion, they were struck with grief and hid their heads in the sand.
And the beautiful lady was moved with compassion and sent forth a stream of water to come bubbling up through the rocks.
And I saw those who were sick, lame and blind being led away to be healed.
And she cleansed them all with her miraculous waters and cured them of their diseases.
And from this day on many people turned back to God and were converted.
And bowing in adoration before the image of the Great Sungoddess, they began throwing wild roses at her feet.
And the beautiful lady was very pleased with the sun worshippers and smiled down upon them like a desert flower.
And when she spread her wings, the sun suddenly started whirling above their heads. And its brilliant rays of light caught the hem of her robe and mantle, turning them from blue to silver, from white to transparent and back again.
And her crown of stars sparkled like diamonds in the shimmering light as it twirled around her head like a banded halo.
Then, as the sun worshippers all stood watching in a daze, behold, I saw the sun dance across the sky as it reeled up and down like a giant yo-yo.

David Harrington

detail from GATHERING OF THE MINERAL MUSES (c) PHILIP Rubinov Jacobson

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