20091016
Peaceful Co-Creating Emerging Visions #16 October 2009
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"Cosmic Lace" (c) Jan Hersh
"Artist's Purpose" (c) Joshua Israel Nisley 2009 
"On the Seventh Day" © LAGANA 2005
On the 7th Day
(c) S. David
And God created
Woman
Yeah it depends
Oh which version
In Genesis
You accept
The ’rib’ story
Or at the ‘same time’
But in either case
On the 7th day
God rested
Now look a here
Let’s take
Creation
For the moment
As a fact
But now consider
For God or Goddess
Creation’s a big deal
And womankind
A bigger one
More complicated
Than man
And looking at life
The way we see it
It’s quite likely
That a Goddess
Did it
And she rested
And star bathed
On the 7th day
"The Hand" (c) Symeon Nostrakis 
Barrio satsang/the Fix
Buddha parked his pink Cadillac convertible
with painted yellow flames coming from under
the hood. Ananda leaned on the car.
"I need a fix," said Ananda.
Buddha reclined deeper in the driver seat,
and closing his eyes, fluttered his long
eyelashes as if in a trance. His slender
brown hand adorned with five gold rings levitated,
gyrated, and two small envelopes appeared
between his fingers. One, pink; the other, black.
Ananda saw the two dragons tattooed on his forearm.
They faced each other shooting flames that intertwined
to form a yin-yang sign.
"Which kind of fix would you like, the dreamy, or the
awakening kind?"
"Give me the black envelope. I want to stay awake, just
like you."
Buddha opened the black envelope and read from
the sheer piece of paper it held. "This, just as it
seems..." He waved his hand in an encompassing
gesture, "is all there is. It has no purpose, nor
explanation. It can neither be attained, nor forsaken.
Let it be, and it follows you like a puppy; try to own
it and it flees beyond your reach."
Pete Sierra
Buddha parked his pink Cadillac convertible
with painted yellow flames coming from under
the hood. Ananda leaned on the car.
"I need a fix," said Ananda.
Buddha reclined deeper in the driver seat,
and closing his eyes, fluttered his long
eyelashes as if in a trance. His slender
brown hand adorned with five gold rings levitated,
gyrated, and two small envelopes appeared
between his fingers. One, pink; the other, black.
Ananda saw the two dragons tattooed on his forearm.
They faced each other shooting flames that intertwined
to form a yin-yang sign.
"Which kind of fix would you like, the dreamy, or the
awakening kind?"
"Give me the black envelope. I want to stay awake, just
like you."
Buddha opened the black envelope and read from
the sheer piece of paper it held. "This, just as it
seems..." He waved his hand in an encompassing
gesture, "is all there is. It has no purpose, nor
explanation. It can neither be attained, nor forsaken.
Let it be, and it follows you like a puppy; try to own
it and it flees beyond your reach."
Pete Sierra
(c) Daniel Holeman
"Illuminated Resonation" (c) Mo Murphy
one of supple co-existence
the self as an individual
is born with genetic traits
along with inheriting
a family culture with tradition
thereafter the individual
is subjected to influence
experiencing a socially
embedded programming
societal interactions
emerge a co-creative process
rules, ethics, etiquette
and so forth bestow guidance
a pattern of behavioral psyche
for the individual to follow
and yet guidance
from society’s co-creative process
restricts, limiting the full motion
regarding the individual
where the activities of nationhood
often outweigh, given primacy
over the individual acts of self-hood
arguably as far as society
a very sensible perspective
one that has to be concerned
for the welfare of society as a whole
civility being sustained overall
is pertinent to societal stability
but yet guidance
from society’s co-creative process
as to the outlook of the individual
needs to remain flexible
seemingly it’s wise
not to let the novelty of individuality
it’s creative variability
to become buried in the mix
societal inflexibility
as to individuality brings rigidity
disturbing overall
the social assemblage of relations
adaptability to fluctuating conditions
will begin to become inhibited
individuality begets spontaneity
which in turn obliges changing needs
variety in individual notion and ideal
keeps society vibrant and durable
the promotion of individuality
is important to society as a whole
collectivity and individuality
each perform roles
beneficial to social existence
our rationale as to the priority
given to either
may depend on perception
and yet time and circumstance
can dictate which gets more emphasis
relying more on one over the other
tends to force eventual adjustment
seemingly the interplay between
collectivity and individuality
within human society
is one of supple co-existence
~Keith Alan Hamilton~
"spiral tree" (c) Sofia Bogdanovic 2009
one of supple co-existence
the self as an individual
is born with genetic traits
along with inheriting
a family culture with tradition
thereafter the individual
is subjected to influence
experiencing a socially
embedded programming
societal interactions
emerge a co-creative process
rules, ethics, etiquette
and so forth bestow guidance
a pattern of behavioral psyche
for the individual to follow
and yet guidance
from society’s co-creative process
restricts, limiting the full motion
regarding the individual
where the activities of nationhood
often outweigh, given primacy
over the individual acts of self-hood
arguably as far as society
a very sensible perspective
one that has to be concerned
for the welfare of society as a whole
civility being sustained overall
is pertinent to societal stability
but yet guidance
from society’s co-creative process
as to the outlook of the individual
needs to remain flexible
seemingly it’s wise
not to let the novelty of individuality
it’s creative variability
to become buried in the mix
societal inflexibility
as to individuality brings rigidity
disturbing overall
the social assemblage of relations
adaptability to fluctuating conditions
will begin to become inhibited
individuality begets spontaneity
which in turn obliges changing needs
variety in individual notion and ideal
keeps society vibrant and durable
the promotion of individuality
is important to society as a whole
collectivity and individuality
each perform roles
beneficial to social existence
our rationale as to the priority
given to either
may depend on perception
and yet time and circumstance
can dictate which gets more emphasis
relying more on one over the other
tends to force eventual adjustment
seemingly the interplay between
collectivity and individuality
within human society
is one of supple co-existence
~Keith Alan Hamilton~
"spiral tree" (c) Sofia Bogdanovic 2009"Summer Turns to Autumn" Jude Cowell
Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative 2.5
Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative 2.5
Movement Toward Ineffable
I thought I had so much to write
about my love my feelings
like glass, colored crafted place
shattered
by the sun
I in all my work and grace
must lay down vision
to become
something greater than my sum
a field
alive and soft and growing
what the craft and work was sowing
Hannah Chalut
I thought I had so much to write
about my love my feelings
like glass, colored crafted place
shattered
by the sun
I in all my work and grace
must lay down vision
to become
something greater than my sum
a field
alive and soft and growing
what the craft and work was sowing
Hannah Chalut
(c) Ciaran Shaman
"heron medicine" (c) little lightening bolt mccoy
PASSAGE
by Bent Lorentzen, (c) 2009
White hair cascading over his bare shoulders, he looked up to the Sun and bowed his head. He inched forward to a majestic oak and wrapped his arms as best as he could around its gnarly girth. Gulping, he uttered in an old tongue the emotion that his heart was feeling with the sheer, unrelenting calmness of a brother who had endured far more autumns than he could imagine. Tears welled up in his ancient eyes as he backed off.
His wife, and their little girl, seemed to wave at him, from the misty morning beyond.
Fighting the tears, he remembered his teachers and their lineage. So he inhaled deeply, kneeled down, and with large callused hands, scooped up a handful of fertile black dirt. Slowly, the briefest of smiles flittering across his face, he raised the gritty content high. With soft sounds, he gently let the breeze take what he had. Much of the earth clumped down over his moist face and bare chest. Then he bowed and kissed the earth which he tenderly regarded as his true mother.
Behind his eyes, it seemed his beautiful wife and their ten-year old daughter, in their traditional dress, smiled gently at him, to then bow down and kiss the earth also, before the mist enveloped them in a brilliant light.
Letting out an old breath, he raised himself up to his proud height and walked down to the tiny lake, worming his way through the thick, thorny underbrush. He entered the water and stopped when he was shoulder deep, then he submerged into the cool liquid and began swimming beneath the surface. His body felt the vibrancy of the supporting freshness until he encountered the muddy bottom rising up to greet him. This was like his birth-memory
He surfaced... and walked to the shore on the other side. There he met a woman looking at him. Next to her stood another, and another. There were many people there, all looking on, all having been frozen into shock by this dripping, bare-chested bronze man with long hair suddenly before them. Some shook their heads, others whispered ridicule. Some were even afraid. Most, though, forgot for a while the nauseating stink the air held.
He looked at them and briefly smiled as he strongly walked through the confusion and out to Central Park West, where he took some keys out of a wet pocket to unlock a Mercedes. Soon the shiny green auto was lost in the chaos of Midtown.
The missing Twin Towers on the southern horizon brought the bitterness instantly back. But then he heard, as if from behind his ears, his daughter's soft voice as she had asked, "Daddy, I forgot my book-bag in the car. I gotta take those pictures for show-and-tell..."
It had been a hectic morning, with his daughter gurgling away about getting a free day to take pictures from on top of the world. He remembered how close he had come to not leaving the office way up on the North Tower. His wife had even begun suggesting how she could take the elevator down to the garage after the 10 O'clock board meeting, to get the book bag with the camera.
“I'll run down and get it, sweetie.”
At just after a quarter to nine in the morning, a horrific whoomphing noise struck him square in the chest.
He gulped over the memory, and the tears began to flow again. Pulling over, he let his head fall to the steering wheel and his clenched fists. Finding it hard to breathe, he fumbled with an unfamiliar button in the car, and heard a window whisk down. This was his wife's car. His own SUV was now among so many people's ashes.
About to scream, a white light briefly exploded soundless within the car, and he felt his wife's gentle breath touch the nape of his neck. In the old language that they shared intimately or on the reservation at a ceremonial, he heard: "Please, no more tears, my love. I am home. Home again! And our daughter? She has a special blessing for you, until you too are home again..." Her voice and presence trailed off as he heard the ancient sounds of his ancestors. Opening his eyes, a large white feather not there before graced the passenger seat. He looked around in the car and then saw the dream catcher hanging from the mirror, and almost burst into tears again. His mind filled with the image of his wife always tenderly touching it prior to turning the ignition key.
He brought the feather to his face, trying to understand... and a chill went up his spine. A drop of blood from the quill had fallen, and his daughter's scent permeated the feather. He knew what to do.
After weaving the feather into his wife's dream catcher, he turned the car towards the GWB, and behind his nose could already smell the piny woods in the ancient foothills of North Carolina.
He flew south to his daughter... and home.
by Bent Lorentzen, (c) 2009
White hair cascading over his bare shoulders, he looked up to the Sun and bowed his head. He inched forward to a majestic oak and wrapped his arms as best as he could around its gnarly girth. Gulping, he uttered in an old tongue the emotion that his heart was feeling with the sheer, unrelenting calmness of a brother who had endured far more autumns than he could imagine. Tears welled up in his ancient eyes as he backed off.
His wife, and their little girl, seemed to wave at him, from the misty morning beyond.
Fighting the tears, he remembered his teachers and their lineage. So he inhaled deeply, kneeled down, and with large callused hands, scooped up a handful of fertile black dirt. Slowly, the briefest of smiles flittering across his face, he raised the gritty content high. With soft sounds, he gently let the breeze take what he had. Much of the earth clumped down over his moist face and bare chest. Then he bowed and kissed the earth which he tenderly regarded as his true mother.
Behind his eyes, it seemed his beautiful wife and their ten-year old daughter, in their traditional dress, smiled gently at him, to then bow down and kiss the earth also, before the mist enveloped them in a brilliant light.
Letting out an old breath, he raised himself up to his proud height and walked down to the tiny lake, worming his way through the thick, thorny underbrush. He entered the water and stopped when he was shoulder deep, then he submerged into the cool liquid and began swimming beneath the surface. His body felt the vibrancy of the supporting freshness until he encountered the muddy bottom rising up to greet him. This was like his birth-memory
He surfaced... and walked to the shore on the other side. There he met a woman looking at him. Next to her stood another, and another. There were many people there, all looking on, all having been frozen into shock by this dripping, bare-chested bronze man with long hair suddenly before them. Some shook their heads, others whispered ridicule. Some were even afraid. Most, though, forgot for a while the nauseating stink the air held.
He looked at them and briefly smiled as he strongly walked through the confusion and out to Central Park West, where he took some keys out of a wet pocket to unlock a Mercedes. Soon the shiny green auto was lost in the chaos of Midtown.
The missing Twin Towers on the southern horizon brought the bitterness instantly back. But then he heard, as if from behind his ears, his daughter's soft voice as she had asked, "Daddy, I forgot my book-bag in the car. I gotta take those pictures for show-and-tell..."
It had been a hectic morning, with his daughter gurgling away about getting a free day to take pictures from on top of the world. He remembered how close he had come to not leaving the office way up on the North Tower. His wife had even begun suggesting how she could take the elevator down to the garage after the 10 O'clock board meeting, to get the book bag with the camera.
“I'll run down and get it, sweetie.”
At just after a quarter to nine in the morning, a horrific whoomphing noise struck him square in the chest.
He gulped over the memory, and the tears began to flow again. Pulling over, he let his head fall to the steering wheel and his clenched fists. Finding it hard to breathe, he fumbled with an unfamiliar button in the car, and heard a window whisk down. This was his wife's car. His own SUV was now among so many people's ashes.
About to scream, a white light briefly exploded soundless within the car, and he felt his wife's gentle breath touch the nape of his neck. In the old language that they shared intimately or on the reservation at a ceremonial, he heard: "Please, no more tears, my love. I am home. Home again! And our daughter? She has a special blessing for you, until you too are home again..." Her voice and presence trailed off as he heard the ancient sounds of his ancestors. Opening his eyes, a large white feather not there before graced the passenger seat. He looked around in the car and then saw the dream catcher hanging from the mirror, and almost burst into tears again. His mind filled with the image of his wife always tenderly touching it prior to turning the ignition key.
He brought the feather to his face, trying to understand... and a chill went up his spine. A drop of blood from the quill had fallen, and his daughter's scent permeated the feather. He knew what to do.
After weaving the feather into his wife's dream catcher, he turned the car towards the GWB, and behind his nose could already smell the piny woods in the ancient foothills of North Carolina.
He flew south to his daughter... and home.
(c) Bent Lorentzen
***
A young couple had lagged behind the dispersing crowd by the pond in Central Park. Looking intently at each other to begin with, they softly walked into the water and very tenderly splashed one another. For a few moments they were like baptized children, the sharp hurt of a terrorized city washed away.
When the large white bird emerged from the water, just like the near-naked grizzled man before, the couple simply stood, hand-in-hand, watching the swan-like, immense bird flutter its wings to shed water, to then take flight with several long and powerful wing-beats striking the pond's surface.
She flew south to her father... and home, loosing one wing feather that gently danced in the wind towards a parked car below.
***
Among the Cherokee, a swan-like bird that likely is the American egret represents the dawning of peace.
"one who knows" (c) little lightening bolt mccoy
This Life
Days dance by me, some quickly enough that they're gone before I notice their passing.
I realize I've let time slip away again, left important things undone and dreamed again for pieces too long.
The sunrise and sunset looked almost the same, paintings of things I used to paint, textures of life. Sunsets and sunrises make me smile, but they also make me cry. Beauty can do that, as it also mesmerizes. A lifetime of water colors, acrylics and oils, seen in the sky that day. In the middle was the storm.
Days dance by me, some quickly enough that they're gone before I notice their passing.
I realize I've let time slip away again, left important things undone and dreamed again for pieces too long.
The sunrise and sunset looked almost the same, paintings of things I used to paint, textures of life. Sunsets and sunrises make me smile, but they also make me cry. Beauty can do that, as it also mesmerizes. A lifetime of water colors, acrylics and oils, seen in the sky that day. In the middle was the storm.
"Brainstorm" © Clyde Grauke
Same day, different view, limping outside to feel the breeze, as the clouds gathered and wiped away the sun. Winds, gentle breezes comfort, elusively, but can also make one cry. Things almost forgotten, a different lifetime, a world of hurt.
The rain sprinkled down, enclosing mist. The storm broke, soaking, cleansing thoughts, heart, hurt and just for a few moments, I was free.
This hand is what I've been dealt, this life is what I own. Reality fades sometimes and allows me to dream again, in the varied textures of the splits between the old life that I had, the life I wanted and the life I ended up with. In those few moments, I know how lucky I am. All one has to do is look up.
Marilyn Nicholson - 2009, copyright
(c) Ciaran Shaman
(c) Ciaran Shaman
Night Watchman
The widening of petals with their leopard spots
look like the early night sky to me—
reds and oranges, coral at the horizon,
and a shaft of yellow light that we call the moon.
In Oresteian meter,
I lay awake, elbowed upon the roof,
dutifully marking the grand processionals
of all the stars at night.
Not wanting to be freed but favored,
I turned to watch below
the inverse of the universe.
A shabby tube of wood, the parchment varnished
until it broke into fragments in his hands:
here is the cannocchiale,
what they came to call a telescope in other histories.
Here are the toys to measure the universe—
rods rings balls and boxes,
calipers to hold against the moons of Jupiter
until they defy the human hand
with the pitch and pull of an axis.
The Medici Cosimo called heavens the sky
and filled minds with the ancients—
of Archimedes and Ptolemy—
and asked for a lifetime to prove that
yes, he held a key to the order of things.
It takes a mind to imagine the mountains of the moon
for these were not seen;
to dream abstractions
is to bind the threads of heaven to the earth.
I held in my hands illimitable power,
this stuff of the sun.
My fingers encircled the stars
and light passed through my skin to worlds below.
© Andrea Grenadier, April 2009
The widening of petals with their leopard spots
look like the early night sky to me—
reds and oranges, coral at the horizon,
and a shaft of yellow light that we call the moon.
In Oresteian meter,
I lay awake, elbowed upon the roof,
dutifully marking the grand processionals
of all the stars at night.
Not wanting to be freed but favored,
I turned to watch below
the inverse of the universe.
A shabby tube of wood, the parchment varnished
until it broke into fragments in his hands:
here is the cannocchiale,
what they came to call a telescope in other histories.
Here are the toys to measure the universe—
rods rings balls and boxes,
calipers to hold against the moons of Jupiter
until they defy the human hand
with the pitch and pull of an axis.
The Medici Cosimo called heavens the sky
and filled minds with the ancients—
of Archimedes and Ptolemy—
and asked for a lifetime to prove that
yes, he held a key to the order of things.
It takes a mind to imagine the mountains of the moon
for these were not seen;
to dream abstractions
is to bind the threads of heaven to the earth.
I held in my hands illimitable power,
this stuff of the sun.
My fingers encircled the stars
and light passed through my skin to worlds below.
"rainbow earth child" (c) Sofia Bogdanovic 2009
"on creation" (c) Adan Delbosque
"Phantistic" (c) Sandeep Chandran
STM
She was blinded by the light
Kinda funny really
"What's it like to transcend?"
She asked as she transcended
Making it look much easier than it is
She said "I don't want to leave me friend Mathew
If I go to the next level will he still be here. . ."
"Do you want him to remain here?"
"Well someone has to stand guard."
"Why?"
She asked, "Are the stars out tonight?"
"The stars are always there
Just hard to see sometimes."
"Have you always been a teenage diplomat?"
"There was that one incident with the merry-go-round
And the calliope . . ."
"How did you play the hand?"
"I threw the Duce of Thunder."
"Did you win the hand?"
"No . . . she threw the Three of Thorns."
She said, "I want to dance with the far distant suns
And I want you to teach me."
"Hon, everything I know is already inside you
And now its just a question of reading your own palm."
"But it can't be that simple."
"Its even simpler than you think
That's what makes it all so complicated."
"I hate when you say crap like that."
"There once was a young girl
That wanted to entertain the Sun named Ra
And she wore her best dress
And danced, oh God she could dance.
But Ra is such a busy god
And when he left
She asked where he was going
But he didn't answer.
She took it kinda personal.
Then came the Night and she was so confused.
I will not speak the Darkness she walked in
It makes me cry.
Anyway she started to dance in the dark
And because she couldn't see herself
She exceeded herself in the dance.
Ra found her and she was glad."
"But she didn't dance the Sun back into the Sky."
"Can you be sure of that?"
She was blinded by the light
Kinda funny really
"What's it like to transcend?"
She asked as she transcended
Making it look much easier than it is
She said "I don't want to leave me friend Mathew
If I go to the next level will he still be here. . ."
"Do you want him to remain here?"
"Well someone has to stand guard."
"Why?"
She asked, "Are the stars out tonight?"
"The stars are always there
Just hard to see sometimes."
"Have you always been a teenage diplomat?"
"There was that one incident with the merry-go-round
And the calliope . . ."
"How did you play the hand?"
"I threw the Duce of Thunder."
"Did you win the hand?"
"No . . . she threw the Three of Thorns."
She said, "I want to dance with the far distant suns
And I want you to teach me."
"Hon, everything I know is already inside you
And now its just a question of reading your own palm."
"But it can't be that simple."
"Its even simpler than you think
That's what makes it all so complicated."
"I hate when you say crap like that."
"There once was a young girl
That wanted to entertain the Sun named Ra
And she wore her best dress
And danced, oh God she could dance.
But Ra is such a busy god
And when he left
She asked where he was going
But he didn't answer.
She took it kinda personal.
Then came the Night and she was so confused.
I will not speak the Darkness she walked in
It makes me cry.
Anyway she started to dance in the dark
And because she couldn't see herself
She exceeded herself in the dance.
Ra found her and she was glad."
"But she didn't dance the Sun back into the Sky."
"Can you be sure of that?"
copyright William C. Burns, Jr.
"eve the other adam" (c) Adan Delbosque
Silent Moments
She pauses and considers
Lifts a mug of green tea
Turns and asks
"What are you feeling
when you look out the window this morning?"
"I'm strangely fuzzy snug
warm with shades of Patchouli
and nicely tweaked with flavors of dogwood tang.
And you?"
She smiles
Her eyes go to the window . . .
Silence
She finds me
Under the huge Oak
Landmark of our youth and asks
"What are you seeing inside your head
watching the chance dancing leaves
in the spring sunlight?"
"I see lovely sinuous rainbow dragons
cavorting, winding and twining through the currents
above the World.
And you?"
She pauses
Considers
"Now that they're out
no one will ever get them back in the box."
She stares into the embers of the campfire
And I ask
"What are you doing
when you relinquish yourself
drifting with the currents?"
"Trying to remember . . . "
She is silent
copyright William C. Burns, Jr.
She pauses and considers
Lifts a mug of green tea
Turns and asks
"What are you feeling
when you look out the window this morning?"
"I'm strangely fuzzy snug
warm with shades of Patchouli
and nicely tweaked with flavors of dogwood tang.
And you?"
She smiles
Her eyes go to the window . . .
Silence
She finds me
Under the huge Oak
Landmark of our youth and asks
"What are you seeing inside your head
watching the chance dancing leaves
in the spring sunlight?"
"I see lovely sinuous rainbow dragons
cavorting, winding and twining through the currents
above the World.
And you?"
She pauses
Considers
"Now that they're out
no one will ever get them back in the box."
She stares into the embers of the campfire
And I ask
"What are you doing
when you relinquish yourself
drifting with the currents?"
"Trying to remember . . . "
She is silent
copyright William C. Burns, Jr.
"flower" (c) Sofia Bogdanovic 2009
peaceful moment
Like a warm day on the beach, all woozy from the sunshine
Feeling the tingle of sea breeze and that ocean scent of the wild
As the sun diminishes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve
Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet emotion
Seeping out of a sleepy reverie, washing so gently through pores and follicles
Like a sweet warm breath caressing
We give what we can; we take what we need
Marching, in orderly fashion
Or beatifically walking to a sacred beat.
The horizon shifts through daily duties and nightly prayers.
We take what we can. We give.
Without notice, without rational equation
We give each outward breath, and take in what is given.
Like a happy, inspiring song springing from memory to lip
Moving the fortunate mind into momentary ecstasy of dance
Moments meant to linger, to haunt as a loving ghostly guardian
Wrapped in that lovely ethereal glow of grace's perfection
Summoning iridescent spirits to play joyfully ubiquitous harmonies
Like the words we tell ourselves to bring us peace.
(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Like a warm day on the beach, all woozy from the sunshine
Feeling the tingle of sea breeze and that ocean scent of the wild
As the sun diminishes, cooling, refreshing, yet still a lazy summer eve
Oh that luscious feeling, that overflow of quiet emotion
Seeping out of a sleepy reverie, washing so gently through pores and follicles
Like a sweet warm breath caressing
We give what we can; we take what we need
Marching, in orderly fashion
Or beatifically walking to a sacred beat.
The horizon shifts through daily duties and nightly prayers.
We take what we can. We give.
Without notice, without rational equation
We give each outward breath, and take in what is given.
Like a happy, inspiring song springing from memory to lip
Moving the fortunate mind into momentary ecstasy of dance
Moments meant to linger, to haunt as a loving ghostly guardian
Wrapped in that lovely ethereal glow of grace's perfection
Summoning iridescent spirits to play joyfully ubiquitous harmonies
Like the words we tell ourselves to bring us peace.
(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon
"reflectomatrix" (c) Sofia Bogdanovic 2009
Prologue
Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery within
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve
believe, begin, begin, begin
Gardeners, planting flowers,
planting food,
planting souls in
nurturing soil
Healers
perceiving wounds
to be sewn
relieving loneliness
revealing pain
held in, denied
twisting ardent toil
Teachers
admiring their wards
finding with them
questions, keys and doors;
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from space and time
come complete
with choices
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze
Troops of effervescent players
Symphonies,
drums at dawn
Inspiration and instruction
carried forth through song and stage
vibrant murals painting onward age to age
Taking up the challenge of the tale
that twists, turns, meanders
providing kaleidoscopic opportunity
ever to begin again
(c) January 22, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Prologue
Sun and Moon embrace
as one
for brief eternity
all mystery within
Black and White
create gradation
radiate kinetic energy
We can achieve
believe, begin, begin, begin
Gardeners, planting flowers,
planting food,
planting souls in
nurturing soil
Healers
perceiving wounds
to be sewn
relieving loneliness
revealing pain
held in, denied
twisting ardent toil
Teachers
admiring their wards
finding with them
questions, keys and doors;
realizing history is only destiny
when explorations cease;
invitations from space and time
come complete
with choices
A choir of voices
from softest spark
to fervent blaze
Troops of effervescent players
Symphonies,
drums at dawn
Inspiration and instruction
carried forth through song and stage
vibrant murals painting onward age to age
Taking up the challenge of the tale
that twists, turns, meanders
providing kaleidoscopic opportunity
ever to begin again
(c) January 22, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
(c) Richard Livesay 
In Appreciation
I open my dreams to you
revealing to me my mind
I take a longer view
through your eyes;
with you I can be wise
Alone, within the mirror
visions arise askew
In my dreams of you
they become alright
Your world shines on mine
the grace of light
September 22, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
I open my dreams to you
revealing to me my mind
I take a longer view
through your eyes;
with you I can be wise
Alone, within the mirror
visions arise askew
In my dreams of you
they become alright
Your world shines on mine
the grace of light
September 22, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
"kuy the gate way drug..." (c) little lightening bolt mccoy
A Flash of Movement
She was notably physically expressive, flowing easily from one movement into the next.
"Gets it from her father's kin. We were much more fixed firmly on the ground. Not to say we didn't dance when it was warranted."
"I'll just have a cup of this lovely tea, thank you kindly. Don't need to be fretting now about what I might want later."
We watched the children play. It was almost akin to visiting another world, one much slower, more real. Little ones dancing, taking on animal forms, sharing what they understood.
Older folks seem to have their own ways, very important, done just so. Physically attuned to the Earth, swooping big motions, trenchant idioms, the young experiment.
Bodies -- first order of business -- our means of sharing, learning, taking on the world. Simplicity, neuron streams relax, slowly integrating responses, building flexible modular collaboration.
She is my avatar, my sacred touchstone. She moves as one, as all, as wholly defined in harmony and synchrony with that becoming that she is.
September 27, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
Wind Song
Caught through cobwebbed memory
Falling into the calm within the storm
in enchantment
join the merriment of dancers
gliding movement
choreography, poetry,
mindful motion
poignant wisps of song
wyrding sympathies
a chance to beatifically play
where love is a whisper
from which breath expands
each to each
for a brief season
In the wind
stories, blowing, whirling
whisp purring gentle, insistent, strong
going, going wide, long, dipping below
a galaxy of whirlwind lights
blink bright, dark, invisible for a slow
millennium or so
only seen deep in night worlds
obstructed by veil, by shadow, by
"No, that can't be real."
Until a softly swaying memory
caught still in some fantastic siroco
casting about for local color
finds outlet in one needing succor
The field dances
hungrily with wind, with wild
In the eye of eternity, wise
as any child, as any wizard
myth could conceive
This One, This Master of
enchantments (believe, my kin,
believe) takes fluid stand
Takes true command
raises eyes, mind, arms
to conduct transcendent music
Sky and ground converge
lightly, in grace and supplication
make merry conversation,
soothing wild beasts from
fiery space with gentle charm
The few picked to observe, perhaps
learn to carry on these tales,
loose all sobriety,
enthralled by mighty magic
worked into a new reality
Riding high on dragon scales
spirits entranced
(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon October 5, 2009
She was notably physically expressive, flowing easily from one movement into the next.
"Gets it from her father's kin. We were much more fixed firmly on the ground. Not to say we didn't dance when it was warranted."
"I'll just have a cup of this lovely tea, thank you kindly. Don't need to be fretting now about what I might want later."
We watched the children play. It was almost akin to visiting another world, one much slower, more real. Little ones dancing, taking on animal forms, sharing what they understood.
Older folks seem to have their own ways, very important, done just so. Physically attuned to the Earth, swooping big motions, trenchant idioms, the young experiment.
Bodies -- first order of business -- our means of sharing, learning, taking on the world. Simplicity, neuron streams relax, slowly integrating responses, building flexible modular collaboration.
She is my avatar, my sacred touchstone. She moves as one, as all, as wholly defined in harmony and synchrony with that becoming that she is.
September 27, 2009 Laurie Corzett/libramoon
(c) Ciaran Shaman
Wind Song
Caught through cobwebbed memory
Falling into the calm within the storm
in enchantment
join the merriment of dancers
gliding movement
choreography, poetry,
mindful motion
poignant wisps of song
wyrding sympathies
a chance to beatifically play
where love is a whisper
from which breath expands
each to each
for a brief season
In the wind
stories, blowing, whirling
whisp purring gentle, insistent, strong
going, going wide, long, dipping below
a galaxy of whirlwind lights
blink bright, dark, invisible for a slow
millennium or so
only seen deep in night worlds
obstructed by veil, by shadow, by
"No, that can't be real."
Until a softly swaying memory
caught still in some fantastic siroco
casting about for local color
finds outlet in one needing succor
The field dances
hungrily with wind, with wild
In the eye of eternity, wise
as any child, as any wizard
myth could conceive
This One, This Master of
enchantments (believe, my kin,
believe) takes fluid stand
Takes true command
raises eyes, mind, arms
to conduct transcendent music
Sky and ground converge
lightly, in grace and supplication
make merry conversation,
soothing wild beasts from
fiery space with gentle charm
The few picked to observe, perhaps
learn to carry on these tales,
loose all sobriety,
enthralled by mighty magic
worked into a new reality
Riding high on dragon scales
spirits entranced
(c) Laurie Corzett/libramoon October 5, 2009
"Merlin"(c)Symeon Nostrakis
"New Horizons" (c) Symeon Nostrakis 
// 22:29 
