hOLy CHaoS ~ Emerging Visions #17 ~ April 1, 2010

"Universe" (c) Robert Donaghey
"Aquaphobia 15" (c) Gabe Marquez

"Orch2" (c) Robert Donaghey

The Stag.

'I approve of my son's actions'
says the mother of the eighteen year old suicide bomber
who, working as a waiter for six months in the small Israeli restaurant,
took the lives of nine people, including his own
and injured scores of others.

'I cannot forgive the murderer of my daughter,'
says the woman vicar whose only child was killed
in a London Underground bomb-blast,
no longer preaching in church but working with
disabled children,
unable to reconcile her calling with her pain and rage.

'When I get out of here I will fuck your mothers!'
screams the illegal Algerian immigrant to the police officers
restraining him as he struggles to resist a strip search
after being arrested for shoplifting on Oxford street.

'Naturally,' says the Prime Minister
'there will be a full public enquiry into the matter,
although I'm sure,' he smiles winningly at the camera,
'my esteemed colleaque, in whom I have every confidence,
will be fully exonerated...'

'Come along darling,' pleads the exasperated young mother to her son
'You tied both your shoe-laces yesterday, didn't you?
If you don't hurry up we'll be late for school again
- the bus is due in five minutes!'

Blown on crisp spring winds redolent with salt
and fresh green grass
a thousand spores are blown inland towards the pensive mountains
each one laden with a myriad dreams (although they are no burden).
On a rocky promontory overlooking the valley
a proud young stag momentarily surveys the slow winding progress
of a bright red bus along the road beside the river
before catching the scent of his mate
and vanishing into the greenery to find her...

Copyright Willowdown

"Rain" (c) Robert Donaghey
Midsummer’s Eve

When half the world was wildwood
As wolves howled in Wolvescote dale
And naked virgins prayed to Orion.
The village shaman sat in awed silence
Watching Swifts and Swallows hushed
Lost in deep chasms of thought
Lonely, intuitive and afraid.

He saw how times could merge
Like seas slipping into oceans
How distant worlds of ice and fire
Would tumble from the sky
And torches would melt in the moonlight.

He saw men scramble into holes
For lead like fossilized mothers milk
A last, loveless bear, stumble into oblivion
And wolves disappear into maps.

He saw Oceans grey and lifeless
As listless as mercury
Lapping on still and barren shores
Beyond the desperate still bulk
Of the final stranded whale.

He had visions of interminable war
A child of eighteen summers slain
In a field of blood red poppies
A farmer passing with his plough
Eyes fixed on the furrowed trench ahead.

And he saw mankind plunge into darkness
Vision blurred by conscious thought
Dreams buried, strangled at birth
And the moon-muse turned to dust.

John Stocks

"Apocalyptic Mary" (c) Clancy Cavnar
Rose Petals in a Dark Room

By Michael Lee Johnson

I walk in a mastery of the night and light
my money changers walk behind me
they are fools like clowns in a shadow of sin,
they’re busy as bees as drunken lovers,
Sodom and Gomorrah before the salt pillar falls.

In a shadow of red rose petals
drunken lovers walk changing Greek and Roman
currency to Jewish or Tyrian money-
they are fools, all fools, at what they do.

Everyone’s life is a conflict.

They are my lovers and my sinners
I can’t sleep at night without them
by my bed or the sea of Galilee.
Fish in cloth nets are my friends and my converts.
I pray in my garden alone; while all the rest
who love beside me sleep behind their innocence.
The rose is a tender thorn compared to my arrest
and soon crucifixion.

It is here the morning and the night come together,
where the sea and the land part;
where the building crumbles
and I trust not myself to them.

I am but a poet of the ministry,
rose petals in a dark room fall.
Everyone’s life is a conflict.
But mine is mastery of light and night
and I walk behind the footsteps of no one.

Michael Lee Johnson

(c) Little Lightening Bolt

In Sunday School I learn that when I die
I'll live forever if I believe that
Jesus is the Son of God and died for
my sins. I want to raise my hand and ask
What happens if I don't believe but I'm
afraid, or maybe too smart, or fear
and brains are the same thing. And what about
people who never heard of Jesus? Do
they go to Hell? And if I don't find them
and give them the Good News do I go to
Hell, too? I don't understand religion
but I'm only 9. I don't want to die
at all, to tell the truth. Heaven sounds keen

but it's not comic books and baseball games
and Batman twice a week on TV--
and in color--or slot-car racing sets or
the Hardy Boys or Johnny Unitas
or the Beatles or high-rise handlebars
on a bicycle or my dog when he
learns a new trick or Saturday morning
cartoons or no school because of snow or
visiting cousins in Alabama or
having them visit us here in Georgia
or chocolate cake with chocolate ice cream
or passing a test when I thought I'd flunked
or laughing so hard in the lunchroom that
milk comes out of my nose or the last day
of school first day of vacation.
If it's better than any of these then

Heaven sounds wonderful and sign me up.
If it's better than all these together
then it's probably too good for the likes
of me. And I don't want to love Jesus
just to get better than what I have now.
That's just like crucifying Him again
and once was plenty. I'll pray about it

tonight before I go to sleep, if I
don't forget, like I did last night, and
just say the Lord's Prayer and God-bless-this
and God-bless-that and suddenly it's day
again, an answer to a prayer I
didn't even finish, let alone start.
Sometimes I believe and sometimes I don't
and you can't get much more faithful than that.

--Gale Acuff

[by S. David] [art by Bayou Faiza]

The colors of life
The colors of memory
Not as if
It never was
The colors change
She looks back
What was warm
What was bright
Now blue
And life
They walked
So long
Treading, no,
Dancing on
The Spiral Path
Yellow bright
Red fire
And now
Alone in
Her thoughts
The colors

"Part of Everything" (c) C. Cambria

The Enemy

Hiding from bombardments.
Thick, black water;
no thirst is worth this

Running through rubble,
recently devolved
homes, commerce, community.
Extended families,
aunts and cousins,
good neighbors,
valued friends,
devolved to shattered corpses.

Wailing at a divisive wall in the name of
humanity, freedom,
chaotic prophecies whispering,
imprinting reign of Hell upon
modern Earth.
Policy statements fly
in protective formation
"We can not give in to
the enemy."

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

"Massive War Against Sad Ripu" (c) Marthana Yusa

(c) C. Cambria



A black-legged tick climbed up a long stalk of grass
in the Santa Cruz mountains, as my father and I walked
through Almaden Quicksilver Park last October.
Moved two legs at a time, lost its grip, fell,
climbed, lost its grip, like a man alternately accepting
and refusing the same gift. The Quicksilver mines
were opened a year before James Marshall discovered
pieces of gold in the tailrace of a lumber mill.
The mines were already known to the Ohlone
for their cinnabar, which they used as adornment.
Mercury, that dangerous changeling. The pneuma of
the alchemists. And what Taoists call yin.

It is also used to extract gold from ore, which made it


Listened to a Buddhist monk
with a Brooklyn accent on the car radio
on the drive over the hill talk about
the ten paramitas--generosity, the giving of one's
self. Passed a cemetery with gravestones
knocked down, ivy growing through
the white-picket fences. And continued
down a ridge, along a narrow
passageway through black oak,

passed an "Out-of Bounds" sign
which both of us pretended not to see--the joy
of permissible chaos. Thought of
detritus pathways, "delayed and complex
ways to pass food through webs," "feed
the many things that feed
an owl." The entire world
was covered in water. All except
a single mountain, Mount Diablo
in the north. Coyote, Eagle
and Hummingbird were all up there,
hunkered down. When the water
reached their toes, eagle picked them up,
flew them to Sierra de Gabilan, near Fremont.
Coyote was sent
to check if the world was dry.
And it was. He was given a wife;
and she learned how to bear
children. Humans are the descendants of Coyote.

copyright Scott C. Riley

(c) Little Lightening Bolt

I do not know the real chaos, the original chaos, the chaos after the destruction. Chaos appears to be in my mind when I do not, have not recognised the hidden order. The hidden harmony and rhythm and breath. there is one spirit that goes through the growth of all living. and Love, Love, Love ... that brings chaos in the ordered, the established, the well known, the comfortable ... But then? WHAT?????????
"Violette" (c) Alkistis Wechsler

In a Moment

Who am I to become
when my stories are obliterated?
When I awaken
naked and unarmed
upon a shadowed
rocky trail?
It's not that I want swaddling cotton fantasies.
I want the armor
consistent with my role,
both the lessons in the real and
the comforting warm arms of happy home.

It's more than I can bear.
I crack wide open.
The scenery means nothing,
I hide inside my wound.
There's nothing left to bind the bleeding.
I am open to the world
while intently blind.
I sit upon a hillside counting
waiting for the lightening to strike.

(c) Feb. 5, 2006 Laurie Corzett

(c) Sofia Bogdanovich
In Her Bloodstream: The Song Unbroken

Eater of Souls,
Pale Huntress
of the World’s
warm Heartwaters…
They come!
Changeless, yet ever moving,
relentlessly forward,
Singing of Ancient Wisdom,
and the endless
Circle of Life and Death…

“Beware my sharply inquisitive bite,
for a single drop of your distress
might draw a ravenous horde
to feast upon your children
without respite!
they’re never so sweet
as Selkie meat!

The nose never lies,
though our senses
may deceive us.
Yet we were never born
just to doubt
our given purpose.
Season your sacred hunger
with the spice of keen senses well honed;
the Patience and Awareness
of a true hunter wisely throned…
and we will guard you,
body mind and soul,
through every journey you take,
all you create
or unmake.
Mind well the words
you unleash upon the World,
lest you leave torn souls
bleeding in your wake.

We reveal wisdom
hidden within your darkest corners
by hardened indecision and rigid fear.
Know the light and dark of Self
that you may best progress,
and spiritually steer,
rather than merely
tenaciously survive.
Thus is forgiveness realized,
and innocence revived!

Listen to the voices of the Ancestors,
Singing down through the years…
their gathered wisdom
waiting only for a listening ear.
Heed too the guiding voice Within!
Read clearly the flow of Life around you
and navigate the World;
knowing best when to speak,
when to move in silence,
and when to unleash your righteous wrath.
None may sway the diligent
from their chosen path!”

Who sings now?

(c) Quinn Blackburn

"Reaching" (c) Sofia Bogdanovich
"A New Beginning" (c) Marthana Yusa

Crossing the filigree bridge of fire and ice that separates Valhalla from earth, I see the slow gyre of the seasons worming its sinuous thread across the thin chasm of the waking world: hours, days, weeks, years reflected on the luminous shells of the inner planets, the electrical aurora of coloured pictures depicting all the hopes, dreams and aspirations of women and men
flickering in pastel hues, shimmering particles of dust and ice brought to life by cosmic fire,
the shared and individual memories of the great and the insignificant, their passions and fears, their tedious hours, the unfolding, budding and fruiting of plants, animals and men, the joy and terror of an infant's birth, the opening of a flower to catch spring rain, a five year old's fear of flickering shadows across his window at night, the shared laughter of lovers, the brief, hallucinatory span of an insect's life, the intense intoxicating thrill of the predator's kill,
the torment and ecstacy of suicides and saints, each image straining to present itself - some with greater force or clarity than others - some seeking to merge with other images, some to expand brightly, some to shrink away, each straining to tell some story, straining to survive, straining for release, straining, straining to briefly preserve or surrender their existence
to the cold, encroaching entropy of dark and empty space...

(a squall of rumbunctious neutrinos, giggling and chattering like hyperactive schoolchildren, penetrates my visionary 'eyes', briefly opening white portals/petals to Infinity before the nictating membrane of 'ordinary sight' lowers over them to protect my retina and mind)

I see: an old woman lying in a hospital bed, kept alive by tubes and machinery, dreaming of a red-haired boy who kissed her under a willow tree when she was only fifteen and wearing a sky-blue dress with pretty yellow flowers...
I see: a bird fly into an aeroplane's wing, a comet collide with a blue and green jewel, destroying four thousand years of tentative civilisation; I see butterflies mating in a pool of molten gold, I see a young man lovingly fasten the clasp of a silver chain about a young girl's neck, the brilliant blue gleam of an amethyst at her throat.
I see acts of generosity and acts of terrorism, I see great beauty and I see blind error; I see chance and disorder emasculate reason... I see fury and stupidity wrestling in the brain of man
I see greed and hatred devouring the hearts of beautiful women, I see God and the Devil ritualistically exchange masks like brightly painted wooden figures in some demented clockmaker's baroque masterpiece where a mechanical moon chases a mechanical sun, where the Angel of the Day of Judgement chimes every midnight and mechanical sheep bleat at noon as hour follows hour in mechanical rote and a great iron pendulum divides all space...

Passing the asteroids passing Jupiter, Ganymede, Io, the flickering images blur, the faces, the passions, the dramas lose their individuality as the Archetypes emerge, numinous portraits morphologically generated and sustained through aeons of human and pre-human evolution - the faces and attributes of the Gods: the Wizard, the Dark Brother, the Priestess, the Hierophant, the Wheel, the Slain God. But nothing is fixed - fluidity is still the rule, the images blur and run into each other. Occasionally a Gautama, a Blake, a Dylan, a Mother Teresa, a Hitler, a nameless orphan girl, an intelligent chimpanzee washing sweet potatoes in the sea, adds some new colourful nuance, some new taste or flavour that is taken up by the rest, a new twist of the spiral that is amplified briefly, augmenting and subtly changing the whole before it too is absorbed into the greater flow.

Passing the entwined rings of Saturn I see the races merge, the distinctions between male and female blur, I see the faces of friends and strangers as one, I see new races, new friends, new strangers; I see angels and devils, some of them remarkably resembling the invisible playmates of children's fantasies, some of them part biogenetically engineered neo-plasm and part nano-technologically enhanced metal and flesh, unfurling photo-sensitive wings to ride the sensitive stellar winds, delicate sentient butterflies impregnating and being impregnated by the exotic scents and aromas of new planets.

I see avatars and devils, demons and bodhisattvas. I see the face of the Beloved beckoning from the distant galaxies and nebulae. She wears the face of Jesus, of Krsna, of prophets, seers and sages throughout the ages. Ah! she wears the face of my own true Beloved as we wander hand in hand along a sunlit shore. I see Her signature written across all the stars, strands and webs of white fire emanating from and linking celestial orb to celestial orb until all space is one blazing white field of light (but still it bears a human face!) I turn to kiss her but already She is gone. There is pain and the pang of separation but then that too is gone for I too am also absorbed and there is only YOU meditating in self-awareness. There is only bliss and consciousness penetrating and permeating an ocean and a thousand million droplets of Ocean made up of Itself

Ocean of Love
Ocean of Love
Ocean of Love

Whitchurch, Hampshire and Paco, Manila 95/97

Copyright Willowdown

(c) Little Lightening Bolt

A Sojourn to Far Places

Full Fathom Five thy Father lies
(Ariels's song from
The Tempest)
William Shakespeare

Full fathom five thy Father lies,
Of his bones are Corrall made:
Those are pearles that were his eies,
Nothing of him that doth fade,
But doth suffer a Sea-change
Into something rich & strange

Raven's Day At the Shore

Looking out to sea
electric blue dolphins vaulting
in her hair

Oceanic eyes
cresting over me
Engulfing my every thought

One with the coming tide

"Ovum" (c) Moe Holmes

Dramatis Personae

the Pretender
Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician
Leviathans at large
The Furies ~ psycho screamers of the early twenty first century
Constance ~ Constant Nagging
Sabote ~ Self Image Saboteur
Anxi ~ Fear
Horrence ~ Loathing

The Invitation

Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician
Decides to attend the Cocktail Party for the Furies

He fingers
The ivory inlayed invitation
Properly appointed in silver trim
And sealed with the most exotic sealing wax
It must have materialized in the earthen tureen
in the surge of the Night
Now no one knows just exactly how such invitations are wont to appear
unexpected and unheralded
But everyone knows
That only those invited
May attend the Cocktail Party for the Furies

Manjag never attends such parties
Often finding himself instead
In distant and curious places
walking beneath the cathedrals of scarlet and amber in the woods
or sailing the unseen currents in the skies
But he has heard the tales
We’ve all heard the tales . . .
And it can only be guessed why he decided to go

But what to wear . . .
What to say
What to carry in the pockets
or leave in the Chest of Many Wonders
Whether to go hungry or satisfied
Should one conform to the customs
Or try new ways . . .

We’ve all heard the tales . . .

Few have ever survived such parties
And those who have
Are never quite returned the same
And you just have to wonder why
Only those invited
May attend the Cocktail Party for the Furies
Manjag the Metamystic Metaphysician

But First
an Introduction

(c) Sofia Bogdanovich

Current speculation has it that Manjag Entaphulus was born in far Caleiberiera
Or The Eastern Land of Xundenda in the year of the Gloam
There is even some conjecture that he might have roots in the Land of Blue Ginger
All of this is hearsay and idle speculation of course
because there are no records

The records do show that he achieved high marks in Metaphysics
in the ivy encrusted halls of Herseck DeKammers
And while he was not first in his class
He was graduated with honors in the study of Metamysticism
from Tuzeca
The title of his Thesis:
“It's Not So Much About Learning the Truth;
It's About Proving Yourself Right”

A Tome that caused a bit of a stir
It is a matter of record the faculty were divided in their evaluation
Some claiming it was an inspired work of biting sarcasm
Others cited the documented facts as irrefutable proof
Unable to resolve the issue of the document’s intent
They decided to award him an advanced degree and rid the campus of him

It is generally said by those who knew him
that Manjag had the unnerving habit of
Transmuting Reality into Metaphor
and Metaphor into Reality
He was known to twist Light out of Darkness
Conjure songs out of memories
songs filled words dark and true
In addition the Magician had a small talent
for making up the most marvelous lies
And his lies
like all really good lies
Had at their nucleus a kernel of profound Truth
In some ways his lies were more akin to the underlying Truth of the Universe
than most of the facts of everyday life

To the best of the records
He never tried to pass any of his lies off as truth
But with a man such as this
one can never be absolutely certain

The Magician meets The Pretender

The Cocktail Party of the Furies

Constance met him at the door
reminding him to remove his sandals
She took his cloak and asked for his staff
The Magician used sleight of hand to sequester the staff in a hidden pocket
Said he’d be naked without it
Constance smiled
the leaves in her hair undulating in the breeze

Sabote turned to regard the new arrival
and immediately slipped on her “Oh, its only you . . .” face
The Magician pulled a rabbit out of her ear
everyone laughed

Anxi reprimanded her sister
reminding her that they were civilized and as such
Were required by code and custom to welcome all invited guests
The tentacles that covered her torso enfolded the Magician
He extracted himself by offering her
a tiny ornate box of candy he had pulled out of the air

Horrence clapped and made the most annoying noises
She tried to grab him by the nape but succeeded in only grasping his shoulder
Dangling him from her pincer she held him up for all to see
The Magician waved to them

"Separation Anxiety" (c) C. Cambria

Masks within Masks

Alpha Contact

The Cocktail Parties of the Furies always have
the most interesting music
And the décor . . .

The invited guests sashay through fantastic landscapes
Awash in the brilliant colors of Midnight
The low dull thudding of the Infrareds
the shark toothed ultra violets
They eat the most peculiar things
and are encouraged to wear very strange hats
"Alice" (c) Brian King

The Magician is holding an azure drink
filled with twinkling stars
Off to his right
The Pretender glides through shadow and shade
Her gown
a whisp of gossamer
a hint of feather and down
She seldom turns to look face on
But has seen everything in the room
She seldom stops to talk at length
but had spoken to each and every person there

If you’re lucky you might catch
The grace of a hand involved in a perfect gesture
the hint of a smile
The lilt of her voice

She flows through the room like water
And congeals where the Magician converses with a werewolf
The Magician is visibly unsettled by the beautiful woman
suddenly standing before him

The Sojourn


They left in clear sight but no one saw them leave
They walked across the fields
Walked across flower dappled meadows
and oceans of golden wheat

And when they had walked a day and a half
They came to the coast

As her foot hit the sand of the beach
The Pretender turned and regarded the Magician
His eyes had taken the hue of the Sea
and his beard had become the grey of winter skies

“Which way?”
“My ship has a mind of its own and there is really no way to know.”
“Oh what a lazy captain, that you let your ship steer itself.”
“It is not a style I would suggest for everyone
but it has worked well for me.”
“How shall we call this ship?”
“It comes when it comes, perhaps patience is . . . “
“Where’s the boat?”

And sure enough
Just cresting the horizon
A tiny cyan ship coursed toward them against the tide

“Does it have a name?”
“It is called the Heart.”

The ship was such that it was sometimes difficult to make out at a distance
It could easily be mistaken for a graceful sea bird
It’s billowing sails could be clouds . . .

It moved onto the beach and sailed the sand to their feet
The Magician offered his hand and the Pretender
boarded the Heart of the Magician

Dropping the 1st mask

The Pretender decided that she would Like the Magician
in as much as she often made such decisions
on the spur of the moment
And as was her custom
She took off her first mask saying:
I will become you
I will become your creation
I will change my self into something else
so that you will never ever want for anything else
I will be everything you need so that you will never leave me

The Pretender opened her hand
opened everything but her eyes
"Angel2" (c) Brian King

Let me buy you with my sex
Let me open my body
but not my heart
You may not touch me there
ever there . . .
I will show you everything
but my soul

Dropping the 2nd mask


The Pretender lay her hand beside his head
And he fell backward into the grave she had dug the night before

Singing a dirge of mournful amusement she buried him
And with no small satisfaction she noted his blank stare
As the dirt filled his mouth

But even as she walked away
brushing the dirt from her hands
The Magician became dirt
became Earth
And as she watched flowers burgeoned from his grave
speaking his blood
Oak trees around the grave lifted his arms and eyes
And the Silent Green Engine lifted every part of him from his sequester

So before too long
he was once again standing before her

The Pretender focused the Sun on him
And he began to crisp and fry about the edges

He sprouted tiny tongues of flame at every point
Yet he did not flee but accepted the Cloak of Fire without comment

She screamed at his silence
Cursing and reviling him
taunting him
offering him a cup of water

At the moment the Flame became unbearable
And she knew with absolute certainty that he would cry out
He began to dance
dance within the flame
And the Wind was the music

His flesh peeled away to become the Dance
His clothes
his devices
his bones
Became the Dance of Flame
Until there was nothing left but the Dance

When the Dance was spent
as all dances must be spent
When the last of the flames had danced away
The ashes stirred and scattered
scattered and coalesced
coalesced and gathered into a gray man

So before too long
he was once again standing before her

Shrieking the Banshee Song above the World
She called down the Winds that twist
the winds that whirl

The cone of Destruction writhed like a headless snake seeking him
The funnel of the Whirlwind sought him
And when at last the Maelstrom found him
he did not flee

Pieces of him were ripped from his flesh
Until nothing remained but a dervish of tiny bits
And yet within the Chaos
within the frothing turbulence
His pattern continuously reemerged
Because while the Magician was not indestructible
He was not in fact solid
The Magician was a pattern that continuously reinvented itself

So before too long
he was once again standing before her

All the flesh had left the face of the Pretender
Revealing the skull beneath the skin
All pretense had left her and fine cracks had began to appear in her countenance
But with the last of her energies she summoned the Deep Waters
So that the full extent of the Seas crashed down on him
And the whole of the World was drowned in her tears

Yet there appeared in the Skies above the Waters
A rainbow half in
and half out of the Water
And perched there was the Magician
Regarding her

Reaching out a hand to her
A hand made of Fire and Water
a hand made of Earth and Air
A hand offering to help pull her from the waters of her own summoning

And the Magician smiled . . .

"Dreamquest" (c) Robert Donaghey

Dropping the 3rd mask


The Pretender sinks

Its never like this in the stories
This hurts
I lie down
I am descended into the Darkness
Screaming into the Darkness

At the threshold of this Nightmare
I meet the Dragon big as the World
A thing of Darkness and Myth
A coiling of smoke and a river of razor
Thousands of razor teeth
A hunger that has eaten up all the World
Hunger that has eaten even itself
until only the mouth and the hunger remain

I am here above the abyss
I run but run as women run in dreams
It's coming up behind me and I turn
I raise my weapons
And am cut to bits
I am falling into the abyss as dissociated bits
The Dragon was fragmented
in the process of the struggle and bits of it also fall
intermingling with bits of me
"Iron Dragon" (c) Brian King

The bits are sad they have lost control
and can never be re-assembled
The bits are settling in total darkness
there are no longer boundaries between self and other
The bits of dragon are intermingling
with the bits of what used to be me
The roots of green things from the World of Light
are burrowing down into this dark place rich with the debris
of what used to be me
Root tips that touch the parts of what were formerly me
I can not nourish them
There are worms burrowing through the muck lining the bottom of the abyss
and when the worms eat the bits of me
They choke and die
The worms decompose and become muck and rot
The currents of the waters stir the muck
Stir with torrential songs
And where the songs touch the muck that used to be me
they die
I am death incarnate
and there is great peace in this

The intervention of Bessemer

Definition of Terms

There is a Universal Wisdom
Written in every element of the Universe
For the purpose of this discussion let us adopt the term Lorois
as a name for this Wisdom
With the understanding that this Wisdom has, is and will be called
by any number of other names

It is the Anthropic aspect of Lorois
That is an expression of the Laws of Ten Dimensional Space/Time
and Quantum Chromodynamics
For, the most incomprehensible attribute of the Universe
is that the Universe is comprehensible

Within the Law is the description of the processes
that creates opposites
Opposites that mutually annihilate when they touch
And within the same Law the Balance
that holds them so that they do not

It is only in the holding of this Balance
that this Universe continues
The protons in the nucleus of all atoms
long to escape one another because of electrostatic repulsion
Yet the Strong nuclear force holds them in place
And even when the electrons are in their zero energy state
They do not fall into the Protons
despite their electrostatic predisposition to do so

This Law of Balance dictates that
for every Angel that is created
a Demon must be dealt with
And both of these shall occur
In every Human
And while one might think that they would mutually annihilate
sometimes they don’t

For instance who has glimpsed an electron
or felt a proton
Who has seen these interactions decreed by the Law at play
And yet who has not seen the effects

The energies exchanged across these boundaries
Are of astronomical magnitude
and as long as the structure can channel them
in a balanced fashion
The Silent Green Engine that lifts inert matter into the
rich dances called Life

These energies can only be describes as chaotic
And yet they are the source of all Pattern
Within even the smallest of these interactions
there is a characteristic matter/energy fingerprint
Unique to every thing

Order Arises from Chaos

Silence . . .
Silence . . .
Silence . . .

Silence . . . In a silent place
In a dark place
Silence . . .

Silence . . .
Silence . . .
Silence . . .

Silence . . . In a distant place
and within the silence . . .
Something . . .

Something . . .
Something moves
Something breaks the Perfect Symmetry
Creating a place where something is
And another where something is not

Resonant chords crash and build within this place
somewhere beneath the Sea
Currents and kelp throb in sympathetic cadence
Interweaving with long silk rags of silt
And within the sound a self is born
a unique self
Stripped of all identity
empty of all the things we mistake for self
Devoid of all thought
Yet a unique and sustaining self

And it hungers for Being
Silt and seaweed snakes writhe within the mixture
twisting back on themselves
Knotting into arms
The world feels so smooth
and cool
and slick
Abiding within the Law
It quivers

Clear fluids congeal
calcifying into a lens
Now she sees

Dreams ossify
layer upon layer
“I want . . .
I want . . .
I want to breathe”

The Magician has not left the beach
except to hunt for food
He stands and watches as the tide rises and ebbs
He waits in fear and grief

In the shallows
She fights to clear her lungs
She fights for the surface

She bursts into the light
coughing and spitting

He drags her to the beach
His tears baptize her
She is reborn in his arms

"Burnt Offering" (c) Moe Holmes

Quixotic as ever

William C. Burns, Jr.

You have not lost your Innocence. It is simply buried in conditioning imposed upon you. Throw away the idea that there is no real magic in the world besides parlor tricks and a slip of the hand. Chuck those thoughts from your head of what adults and society told you about the ways of the world and how you should be. Drop all that you have learned from others and return to Innocence. The medicine card Faerie child is asking you to transform those thoughts you have been taught that they don’t really exist and return to Innocence. When did you stop singing, dancing, playing and using your imagination? Return to Innocence.... Cher Lyn

"Half Full" (c) C. Cambria

I looked at the pictures of you as a child, a student, a parent, having fun, I cried and heaved with no control for your mystery

Who were you? Who were you, really, who were you? I never knew, did you?

I cried for the unknown, I cried for what did not happen, I cried for what was not achieved, I cried for the mystery, I cried for your misery, I cried for you and for me, I cried for life, I cried for not knowing

I do not know why, the sadness of not knowing and not growing was greater than the grief from your death, I cried for the mystery, I cried because you had no life, I cried because you did not know, I cried because you will never know, I cried because it can't be fixed, I cried for the mystery and your misery for eternity

So I want to know before I go, I must know before I go, I want to know who I am, I want to know who you are, I want to know that child over there, I want to know that crowd, I want to know every soul in this cemetery, I want to know all this before I go

I want no mysteries in the pictures, I want to live a life, I want no mysteries in the pictures, I want to know, I want you to know, I want no mysteries in the pictures

Cage Innoye

Conspiracy of Pleasure
[by S. David] [art by Anna Ravliuc]

You’d have me
Hot blood
In me
Glowing skin
Deep seeing eyes
This is what
You’d have me
And the sound
Of your voice
A conspiracy
My memories
To return me
To life
So that
I would touch
Your body
To have you

(c) Sofia Bogdanovich

Ascending spiraled steps in hope of eventually reaching a solid surface, more a chore than a mission as we continue inexorably day by day. Or is that eternity by eternity? There's not much choice, as these stairs, though solid and seemingly endless, do not provide enough solidity, enough surface, for other sustained activity. There is not even room to climb by twos, thus enabling the solace of close companionship. Certainly there is no room to make love between, stair to stair, to find what respite or pleasure such loving might provide. Perhaps for some of the more daring an occasional rearguard rape may be accomplished, coming from behind as it were, never seeing the face of the victim, so that's alright. A temporary digression from the rote work, hand over hand, leg up and leg up, monotonous unfulfilling dance.

There has been word sent down from time to time, messages in popping soap bubbles. No one is quite sure what they say, written in unfamiliar code, dripping from the watery former bubbles. Some take faith that since we have no soap or water, the fact of such material proves the surface is not far ahead. How far can bubbles fall before popping to release their secrets? Others suspect this phenomenon to be some sort of rain, a creature of sky, not surface.

We have always been upon the stairs. No one remembers any other existence. If there were surface below, from which we started our climb, there are no stories to describe it.

Sometimes some one will let go in disgust, give up on climbing to take a chance on a less strenuous eternal fall. We never hear them hit a bottom, only senseless screaming tapering off into distance, silence.

There is a myth, I don't know how I heard it. Perhaps subliminal messages are written upon stairs along the way; or it might have come as lyrics from the times of spontaneous singing. The myth claims there is a method of mindplay that can allow us to metamorph into birdlike beings who can open vestigial wings and fly swiftly beyond the stairway to wonders of land, sea, continents, oceans, possibilities beyond imagining.

I have attached my mind, all my will, to that one thought. I can almost feel my wings stiffening, getting ready to fly. But to fly, I will have to release my grip by grip on the stair, leap into faith that flight is even possible, and more importantly, possible for me.

Or is flying just another way to define falling?

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

"Transformation of Buddha" (c) Sonia Melnikova

To Wake

To wake without the hands of tomorrow's clock,
the words of yesterday's narration, the whole heft
of the personal
Poof snockered away! Remains
of a morning shower, flecks of water where rain was.
Then growth. A hibiscus of infinite petals, stamen
and stems. Fragrant, extended seconds of presence.

Would that you were God, the conscious
creator in each apprehended linear segment . . . yes.
To do the minutia without worry in your own kitchen!
As Zen says: When you sweep,
sweep. Oh the mercy, the ghostly
alchemy of not thinking. All one undoing of everything
in the mind. So to do without is more, is

(c) Deborah DeNicola

"Tai Chi The Inner View" (c) Clyde Grauke
New year's

though our mortal selves
may be scarred by time, this world
we march through is ageless

As we stare transfixed
into the eyes
of the new year,
the band plays on and on,
music flowing easy like
cool water from a spring.
Glasses clink
above gentle murmurs
in the sweet night air,
as wisps of cigarette smoke
curl slowly upwards,
disappearing out of reach
like the year
just past
and all those years
kept mutely
at the back of minds.
Flashbulbs go off,
and for a fleeting instant
the night has its sun,
as our celebration is captured
soundlessly –
an image frozen on film,
a vain attempt
to halt
the quiet flow of time.
Fireworks explode above our heads,
the iridescent sparks
blotting out
the brilliance
of cold, silver stars.
And after we close our eyes
to the night,
the choreography of
dancing lights remains
behind our eyelids
as a fresh memory forms,
a remembrance
of time past and always passing
while we perform this delicate balancing act
upon the threshold
of now and then.

Morning, 100 words

In the morning, a low wind – a gentle murmuring, a quiet prayer offered up in the half-light. The heart stirs, carrying deep within its folds a blessing like a jewel too precious to be seen, too astounding in its beauty. A wistfulness even in the still and peaceful lane, a bittersweet acceptance like fingers upon an open palm, slowly uncurling, clinging on to nothing, joyful in the miracle of being. Yet a longing remains, willing the emergence of a new kind of dawn, a different splendour, a more intense glow. But for now: a warm breath; and a slow smile.

Dione Wang

"Heart Constellation" (c) Daniel Holeman

HoLy ChAOs Contributors

All of the work (and believe me, it is work) presented here is the property of the individual artists. All of their rights are reserved. So, no lifting without permission. Contact information can probably be found on the contributors' pages. If not, check with me to contact anyone whose work you wish to use: libramoon42@mindspring.com

for Submission Guidelines:  

Robert Donaghey


Gabe Marquez

The artwork of Gabe Marquez stems from a fascination for the other-wordly creatures and objects within his imagination. The architecture of these creatures is deeply rooted in symbology and color. External influences include astronomy, nature, sci-fi movies, design, architecture and literature.



Born 1953, Liverpool. Have worked as a librarian, peanut butter processor, dishwasher and dogsbody in too many hotels to mention. Also an artist - have contributed many black and white third world studies to numerous journals globally, often affiliated with Ananda Marga Yoga society for whom I've done voluntary work in S.E. Asia, including mural painting and work in various social projects. Also worked as a volunteer at a large orphanage in Thailand. Currently making and hand-painting jewelry/ craft boxes displaying fairies, dragons, Winnie the Pooh. Working off and on at a few appalling fantasy novels. Occasionally make dolls' houses, castles and rocking horses... A regular contributor to a number of poetry websites.

John Stocks

I am a UK based poet who has had work published in magazines worldwide and is widely anthologised. I have twice been nominated for the Pushcart prize; and the English National Poetry Library at The Royal Festival hall have recently asked for copy write for some of my work.

Recent poetry has appeared, or is scheduled to appear, in a wide variety of magazines in the United Kingdom including magazines featured in the ‘Ink-Writers Guild’ as being in the top ten most innovative and inspirational magazines in the UK. Magazines include: Candelabrum, The Coffee House magazine, the Dawntreader, Coffee House, Pennine Platform, Littoral, Other Poetry, Manifold. Poetry Monthly, Harlequin, Tadeeb International ( translated into Urdu), Taj Mahal review, Avacado, Involution and Interlude. I am also featured in The Cinnamon Press anthology, ‘Shape Shifting’

I am currently working on a first novel and also write short stories; winning the Carillon magazine, short story competition, and working with a senior detective from The Greater Manchester Police force on a crime novel. Thank you, in advance, for your time and consideration in reading my work.

Clancy Cavnar

My work is visionary, and reflects my interest in several esoteric spiritual paths.
I have experienced profound transformation in my studies of shamanism and plant teachers and the Santo Daime; and that is reflected in my work.
In my meditations I have encountered the eternal source of creativity; and I try to convey what I perceive of this and pay tribute to the spiritual world we cannot photograph or see with our physical eyes.
My style is representational, but psychedelic; influenced by the religious art of India, Mexico and South America.

I am currently studying for my doctorate in clinical psychology at John F. Kennedy University


Michael Lee Johnson

is a poet and freelance writer from Itasca, Illinois. His new poetry chapbook with pictures, titled From Which Place the Morning Rises, and his new photo version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom are available at: http://stores.lulu.com/promomanusa. The original version of The Lost American: from Exile to Freedom, can be found at: http://www.iuniverse.com/bookstore/book_detail.asp?isbn=0-595-46091-7. He also has 2 previous chapbooks available at: http://stores.lulu.com/poetryboy.

Michael has been published in over 22 countries. He is also editor/publisher of four poetry sites, all open for submission, which can be found at his Web site:
http://poetryman.mysite.com. All of his books are now available on Amazon.com: http://www.amazon.com/s/ref=nb_ss_b?url=search-alias%3Dstripbooks&field-keywords=michael+lee+johnson. Borders: http://www.borders.com.au/book/lost-american-from-exile-to-freedom/1566571/. Now on You-Tube: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Ih5WJrjqQ18. E-mail: promomanusa@gmail.com. Audio Mp3 poems available; open to interviews.

Follow Michael Lee Johnson On:


Twitter: http://twitter.com/poetrymanusa

MySpace.com: http://www.myspace.com/469391029

little lightening bolt mccoy

Marcus McCoy Lives in Olympia Wa. Marcus is an animist and has been teaching about animism for many years. His work is inspired by the visions he has seen through shamanic healing work; and hopes to show through his work a glimpse of spirit in the animist world.

Marcus has seen that there are transpersonal relational dynamics involved in nature that we can sense and participate in fully aware, Marcus's goal is to bring awareness of those aspects of the whole to those that have not yet awakened to the possibility that there is more to be seen and known; and to encourage those that have to continue on.

If you are interested in showing some of his work, or buying a print, or require him to co-create with you on some projects, please drop him an email at


A note on visionary art...
In general visionary art seems to focus on specific phenomena that is, in my opinion, only one spectrum of the visionary experience. It has become in some ways slightly trite: day glow alien landscapes, angelic guides and ecological elves. In my work I like to focus some on the shadow. In participating in shamanic healing work we often come across in our visionary experiences that which some perceive as dark, difficult material, wrathful energies and beings, disturbing symbolism and metaphor. Remembering that it is the light that casts shadows, and as always attempting to, as the Nepalese shamans do, keep my back to the shamanic fire, the light is consistently protecting my back while projecting my shadow ahead of me. I do this so that I can consistently work with the shadow material to benefit others. At times this work is successful to such a degree that I become transparent and the light of this fire shines through to the point where there is no shadow at all. This is often quite temporary... My hope is to inspire a commitment to this healing work in others, so that the light at their back can at times, when it is needed most, shine through them as well.
Bless and be blessed
Marcus McCoy
AKA Little Lightening Bolt


Gale Acuff

I have had poetry published in Ascent, Ohio Journal, Florida Review, Poem, Maryland Poetry Review, Adirondack Review, Danse Macabre, Worcester Review, South Dakota Review, Santa Barbara Review, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

I have taught university English in the US, China, and the Palestinian West Bank.

Bayou Faiza

I studied art fine arts of Algiers (1982-1988). After ten years of teaching art in high school, I had to stop and devote myself entirely to painting. I participated in several group exhibitions; but my biggest wish is to be known and exhibit around the world.

My artistic approach takes the form of a quest intuitive to me, every day deepening of the mystical aspiration that drives me since my childhood.

I always worked on the topics that impassioned me. The poetic quality of life is given by the emotions, by what we live in emotion, enjoyment setting in motion a feeling, an emotion that I have inside me and I need to express otherwise than by words, a form of language. This is going from inside to outside. My eye picks up and runs my hand.

Faced with my paintings, I experiment constantly with new techniques, drawing from deep within myself. My imaginary world always brings me back to the warm colors of my sometimes violent experiences.

Everything that I create represents me; and what I reveal in my work is my inner world...

I really consider painting as an adventure, I always want to discover and not to any master.
In art as in life, I am willing to be surprised, to be moved elsewhere because it is an open door to the unknown


Steve David

I've been writing poetry, this time around, since 1996 and responding to, or confluencing with art since 2003.
A work of art will knock at the door of my perception, announce, "Here I am" and proceed to tell me, "I want you to tell a story."
It may ask me to tell what I see or to use my imagination; sometimes it tells me to fantasize; other times it asks that I recall memories. Once in a while it demands I tell others what it directly tells me. I never know what it wanted until the piece is written, and I read the words I've put on paper.

Brief bio:

I'm of Canadian-American descent, a Brooklynite, currently living with 2 dogs, surrounded by books and music, single but looking. Eccentric, of course. I've taught on the college level for years, on the jr. high school level for many more. I spent a number of years as a truck driver; and have been a cartographer for a few others.

Other examples of my works may be seen at my blog,
www.theskaldicsoul.blogspot.com or at my website, www.theskaldicsoul.com
I can be contacted at sdavid@theskaldicsoul.com

Cristine Cambria

You can see more images on

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine ; Seers and Seekers Yahoo Group; The Healing Dance Network Yahoo Group;Visionary Arts and Minds http://visionartmind.ning.com; anthologies of her writings; an experimental metafiction, working title: Something Sacred http://caelastory.blogspot.com/; a (envisioned as) graphic novel (anyone want to do the graphics?), Acts of Desolation: http://www.gather.com/aod; as well as her Utopian Flash Fiction Project -- series of flash fiction pieces around a federation of diverse villages each working out their methods of community life -- little dramatic impacts illustrating creative solutions to social problems: http://tribes.tribe.net/uff.

check out my book: Words from the Sky: http://www.lulu.com/libramoon; then, there's lunar ramblings: http://lunaramble.blogspot.com
email: libramoon42@mindspring.com

Marthana Yusa

My full name : Made Marthana Yusa
Nationality : Indonesian
Residence : Bali, island of GOD
Current occupation :colorist on Tales Vanima Forest comic at

Online portfolio :www.angelmarthy.deviantart.com

"Massive War Against Sad Ripu" is about how chaos is the war against ourselves, conscience, the bad and negative consciences. It consists of the "holy" message of how great our spiritual life would be if we could control ourselves.


A New Beginning - There is always chaos in every new beginning before an end. Vulcanoes erupt wild, then create chaos before a new beautiful pond or lake is created. Toba Lake in North Sumatra-Indonesia fits the task. A mythical Phoenix must burn himself to be reborn into a new shape, a new form, a new body and a new spirit.

Scott C. Riley

I am a teacher and writer in the Oakland/Bay Area.

Alkistis Wechsler


Sofia Bogdanovich

websites: http://www.studiospaceandtime.com/

Quinn Blackburn

Yes, my first name really is Quinn... but I will also answer to Mom or Entwife. I enjoy Beauty wherever I find it, Nature, Music, and Art in all their forms. I consider these to be True and Sacred things. These are things that feed us in non-physical ways that are just as vital to our well being as food.

My day job pays my bills and has very little to do with my artistic side, although I suppose it is "character building". I guess I would say I see myself as a writer before any other crafting, but I do love to hand embroider, sew, draw, paint, sculpt with clay or paper mache, and take pictures with our digital… as well as several other odd craftings when the mood strikes me.

I have three wonderful children who are blossoming into the most amazing adults I know. Alan, my husband, and I have been together over two decades. We drive each other nuts, but it’s a good nuts… with chocolate coating. :) I look to All My Relations for advice, wisdom, and inspiration. I’m a Gemini with Pisces rising…everything else is subject to change without notice.

William C. Burns, Jr.

Bill is a level 11 metamystic metaphysician. Previously a guardian class dragon, he has been reconfigured as a hunter class explorer and has been equipped to chart the climes and skylines of the Outer Zones.
Bill is currently looking for a muse to whom he would offer all manner of written adoration.

Quixotic as ever

may you learn from every conflict
and may all your transitions be upward . . .

Moe Holmes

Brian King


Cher Lyn

It seems that the further away we stray from our natural relationship with the Earth and God, the emptier we feel. In this emptiness we strive to fill the void with “material things,” which in the end only find ourselves feeling more separateness... When electronics and entertainment distract with the illusion that they make life more interesting, it’s a warning that you have given your power away, straying from what otherwise could be a rich, healthy and meaningful life. Nature is powerful beyond our imagination as is human. Human and nature coming together working co-creatively is far beyond our wildest dreams.

Mystical Magical Blessings, Cher Lyn

Creation: Medicine Card

Cage Inoye

Anna Ravliuc Blum

Sonia Melnikova-Raich

was born and trained as an architect and artist in Moscow, Russia, and has been living in San Francisco since 1987. Later in life she discovered photography; but her training as an architect and painter remains present in her work. She likes to explore the abstract in the material world; and strives to emphasize geometry and texture of the plane and deemphasize three-dimensionality of the form to bring the viewer’s attention to the physical surface of the photograph, its tangible qualities, pictorial aspects and composition. As to her objects, she looks for grace, poetry and mystique in the most common of things around. In that respect she feels strong affinity with the Japanese philosophy and aesthetics of wabi-sabi, with its focus on the transient nature of things and reverence of the beauty and dignity in old things. Sonia exhibits in the Bay Area and is a finalist of many prestigious art and photography juried exhibits. Her works can be also seen at


Transformation of Buddha Triptych
Traditional Buddhism teaches that in his previous lives Buddha was called Bodhisattva – "the compassionate one", who was on his way to become the Buddha. “Transformation of Buddha” triptych by Sonia Melnikova-Raich is a visual commentary to the Thervada Buddhist school belief in transformation of Buddha to Bodhisattva, from teacher to angel, which suggests that as humans we prefer affection over wisdom; more than knowledge, we need love. At the same time it is an example of the transformation of the artist’s own technique from representational photography to photo-based abstract art.

Deborah Nicola

Her spiritual memoir, The Future That Brought Her Here, was recently released from Nicholas Hays/Ibis Press. A second full collection of poetry, Original Human, is forthcoming in 2010 from WordTech Press. Deborah edited the anthology Orpheus & Company; Contemporary Poems on Greek Mythology, from The University Press of New England. Previous books include Where Divinity Begins from Alice James Books and three award winning chapbooks, most recently Inside Light from Finishing Line Press. Among other awards, Deborah has received an NEA Fellowship. She won The Packingtown Review’s Analytical Essay Award, and the Santa Barbara Poetry Contest in 2008 and is included in The Best of The Net 2008 Anthology. Her poetry is published widely in journals and online.

Clyde Grauke

Clyde is a writer, artist, and photographer who has been seriously involved in spiritual self-improvement and metaphysics since 1963. His art and photography have been published in Ascent Aspirations, Cella’s Round Trip, Cezanne’s Carrot, Eclecticism, Fickle Muses, and Sacramento Poetry, Art, and Music.

His literary works have been published in Hoi Polloi, Sacramento Poetry, Art, and Music, Bitterroot International Poetry Journal, and American Review Lifestyle Journal.

He and his wife are retired and live in Texas.

Links to his galleries and updates regarding his art can be found at:

and links and updates regarding his literary works can be found at: http://arroyos-seco.blogspot.com

Dione Wang

I grew up in Singapore and love walking in its city streets. I like poetry, dance and beautiful stationery. I make time to run, write, and fall in love. My email address is wang.dione@gmail.com and I have a facebook page at http://www.facebook.com/dione.wang.

Daniel B. Holeman

I am about Truth, Beauty, and Inspiration.



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