Starry Desires * Emerging Visions #18 * Nagasaki Day 2010

(c) Julia Still "One of a Kind"


While the world sleeps
We could illuminate the ouroboros of dreams
Rampage through Wonderland, Neverland,
stampedes of roaring dragons,
princesses plucked from flowery fields,
angels dancing, dizzy as daemons, dervish
drunk on coloured rain
atop bright
copper pins

Surreal circuitry of pineal circus
Cast in glorious clowns sparkling
like sequined candy
Proud bears cycle in mid-air,
Amazing feats of flying day-glo trapeze chimpanzees
Wafting popcorn, white sugar scents of delight,
Pansies pop out of top hats, expand
into darkest space

We could create
twinkling, luminous
sacred place
an anchor for unearthly adventure
a tableau of marvel in grace
if you would

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

(c) John Vega

Tidal Meetings

The first to go are always ego and mask. And they fall away as you trip over the spongy bed border, as you trip back over and sink into those deeper, slide rules of the marsh.

The palmetto scrub brush
and the live oak running cover.
The milk light then that
washes away your disdain
until nothing keeps the same again.

Then the tidewater urge that sets you running behind the barrier island's finger, and where you go bending down beneath the coquina pastel of late sunlight, looking for what is unsecured, an underwater region, the submerged dark garden.

Fish-gill breathing,
seahorse cutting the surface.
And the fantail mullet
veering your way in reach
and in quick alchemy.

It's then you tack a breeze, relearning how to ride to a river girl's design. The kestrels, crowned cardinals, the hover of kingfishers, wood ibises flying in larger concentric circles, or the osprey who evenly wings it down the river. All of whom soar inside the jawline of the jetty where the porpoises come through, threading through, and where the manatee comes up to spy around, being suggestive enough of an original, water divinity.

It's what a slender waisted
river girl is meant for,
these smaller moments flying,
or swimming inside protected waters.
And not for trappers of dreams
like swallows building into banks,
or the diesel drive,
and how many more?

But have you ever seen she who comes from the sea? Ever seen her riding in on top of the heavy white wave coming from out of her triangular sea? Have you ever actually wanted to carry her out of the broken surf, ever been sure of her intentions? Ever trembled, given over, as she's washed away the last remaining fiber of driftwood deeds?

The skirt she wore
like a fish net,
and that unmistakable
life scent;
and the light dreams
that shower down her spine
in the big bottom morning,
her water cloud mood,
leaning out of her secret stage
and still the dream.

It's the dream that becomes. The dream that becomes the guide star bearing. And this one opens up a night-sky sea, a mother night dream. Her face all and evenly night blue, as is the cloak she wears. Her hands hold me to her body. Her fingers pressing into my sides tell of all there is need to know about the oceanic scheme she takes us through, about the charged order of things that fits her like a silky slip. And she never speaks, never gives me the chance to tell her how lovely, how really lovely she looks. She just carries me up to her like a dead son she's come for, except I am not dead anymore. And then comes her rolling, swollen and private answer to the unspoken question. And it falls through her hidden face like a liquid smile, like the source of summer start spreading through us both. Just a whisper, just a shiver, just a yes. Just the phosphorescent shower running through her indigo cloak like ten thousand stars spangling in night's black wind.

Mother of night,
daughters of lights,
sisters of mercy.
And then again when
there's a certain journey.

copyright Terreson

Julia Weaver (c) 2002 "Invitation"

Julia Weaver (c) 2002 "Purification"

Julia Weaver (c) 2002 "Illumination"

Enigma No. 9

(c) Bill Wagner June 23, 2010

Now, on this 5 day,
My constellation’s in view,
Scorpius beams Red,
with the Moon in a dark place,
Planet Jupiter at my beckoning,
the bounce of the Sun,

Planets shine their glorious light,
as my retinas stretch to catch their glow,
very early morning,
or before the Moon breaks the horizon,
in the darkest place near me,
or, right out my door,
the 5th Planet,

so bright in the Solar System,
engages me,
390 million, miles away from our Globe,
leave at 5:00 in the morning for work,
these summer June mornings,
afford me its abundance,
until I take those final steps to my job,
saw the International Space Station,
altitude of 250 miles,
Orbited above me,
large in the sky,
from Northeast towards true East,
four long minutes,
watched its trail,
as three Astronauts,
live on until,
the Soyuz Rocket docks,
they climb off,
as others then there,
relieve their duties,
and another crew works and wonders,
and I wait again for their return.

Convalescent Streams

Lying there on the ground
Looking up at the array of stars
In you began to circulate
Convalescent streams,
From a liaison with esoteric entities
Through your shimmering third eye
So came a moonlight glow
Along a purple pathway.
Passing in cylindrical circles
With tingly, tantric tantalizations
As essences from diverse origins
Were centered within your sphere.
In an harmonious rotation
A deep, ethereal cleansing
Removed all toxins, infections and blockages
With a crisp, citrine current.
Balancing your yin and yang
Sedating the overactive energy centres
Stimulating the underactive chakras
With strings of sentient sensations.
You are like a conduit
Being the conveyor
Of messages from outside your realm
Which you synthesize,
Into a language
All can comprehend
You are like a medium
Who receives messages from transitional tunnels.
As you transmute these transmissions
Your vibrational frequency evolves
As this is not only a healing for you
But for all those whom you come in contact.
As you continue to absorb
So do you instantly emit
A shower of reflective cognition
Enhancing the prana of each life touched.
Travelling from the crown to the earth
All parts in between
Leaving behind in its wake
A symbolic, sustaining metamorphosis.

(c) Alex Chornyj

(c) Lakan "Heaven Praise"

Julia Weaver (c) 2002 "In Her Hands"

George Begay's dog Two Socks might have been part coyote or maybe even some sort of bobcat. Sure wasn't all dog. Had a mind of its own, could be gone for days, couldn't be found, and wouldn't come if called. A few days later she would appear acting like she'd never been gone.

The local people thought that George should get rid of the dog because it was just too weird, maybe a trickster come to mess with his life, a dark thing to be avoided. What George told no one was that his life was sure better after he took in the half starved critter, fed it and gave it a place to live. He found her full of porcupine quills, unable to hunt. George gave her little sips of water and pulled enough of the quills to make her comfortable in a sling he made out of his saddle blanket. George took her home, finished pulling out all the quills, tended her wounds, and fed her little bits of food until she was strong enough to stand. From then on, she was devoted, not quite tame, still a wild thing, they accommodated each other. George named her Two Socks because both her front legs were white.

Out on the range on his patch of the reservation, George raised sheep like most of his Navajo neighbors. He hadn't lost any sheep since she showed up. There were plenty of rabbits in easy range and he never burned the fry bread anymore. She was someone to talk to and acted the part of a good listener. He liked to pretend she understood, so he told her everything he had on his mind.

The day George broke his leg was the most interesting. His horse had bucked at a sound in the grass, throwing George. A huge rattler slithered away when he saw George. The dog that had been off on one of her jaunts showed right up. She had the horse's reins in her mouth, and then she moved the horse close to George. The horse sat down, right next to George to make it easy for George to get on. Passing in and out of consciousness, George tried to pull himself up, but could only get to his knees. Two Socks sensed the bad leg and moved in so George could get his knee up on Two Socks' back and swing the other leg over the horse.

In his pain and confusion, George ended up on the horse backwards; but Two Socks took the reins in her mouth and led the horse back home. George passed in and out of consciousness over the next few days; but somehow he was fed a good rabbit stew and had plenty of water. Some of it tasted a lot like willow bark tea. In his delirium, George thought he saw a woman that wore white socks tending to him. He tried to thank her, ask who she was, but her reply was that she was only returning a favor.

One morning George woke up feeling much better. There was hot coffee on the stove, some fry bread and bacon in a covered pan, still warm. His leg was expertly splinted and there was a good walking stick within reach, but he was alone. After his breakfast, George looked around. The Hogan was cleaner than it had been in quite a while.

Couple of days later Two socks shows up wagging her tail and her tongue lolling. Looked like she was laughing at George. George called, "cummere girl." She jumped up next to him and gave him a big lick. He gave her a big hug and said, "wish you was that gal that took care of me in my dreams." She whispered, "That can be arranged."

(c) kitsune miko

(c) Gloria Martin "Mother Nature"

Of the Dog Star

Inside silver mouth of sky
up shoulder's cold pass of outcrop where
the sinking sun having gone before
surge of soul what stands to meet in
glint of Nile star and blue light;
canyon's depth in long shadow grows
frost whose grain is in climb up
brown wild rye and alder thigh and
cottonwood all in hard winter who
become the brothers cinched in sleep.

In sinuous line of creek whose coil
comes flexed in long down run of
swell in palm of middle river,
and sudden the sight in yellow crowned king,
the little flyer in canyon round
who whirs in late light hour;
or already alder whose tassels hang,
having press along neckline of her whose
white face touches from over, whose
touch is heat of faint sweep to cheek.

In blue star there the ache to keep
what cannot tie in tether;
for she who searches so far from home
her highest shores in voyage of stars.

copyright Terreson

Promising Star’s Emergence

I just could have kept on going
Something told me to rest
To sit by this stream
Then listen to the tone of its ripples.
At first it was subtle
As if a piano’s keys were being pressed
Just ever so lightly
As the notes danced in my mind,
But then these spheres appeared
Bobbing in the sunlight
With accents of purple
Suspended between the branches,
Like ornaments on a Christmas Tree
Just hovering and circling
For in these were images
Ones, my soul did recognize.
Here was a juncture
For those with inclinations
Why I was so fortunate
To be drawn by the light in my eyes.
For here existed
A spectrum of illumination
With each passing revolution
A deeper harmonization was created.

As I interacted
I absorbed these essences
Which in me forged
An elevated conscience.
My aura shifted
This window pane expanded
To these surroundings
Whose fluctuations were instrumental,
In playing a frequency
That brought me to this next step
One whose recalibration
Was the signal to ignite.
To usher in a vision
One that encircled
All near light bodies
Within the realm of a promising star’s emergence.

(c) Alex Chornyj

(c) Craig Blair "Emergence"

Life, the Universe and Everything
(for Patty)

Let's talk about life
the one you have and the one you imagined . . .
With all the world of possibilities,
what have you settled for?
Waking up in the cool, cool morning
Autumn crisp -- as your lungs reach for air
The sounds, the smells, the awaited adventures
Anticipation . . .
Or merely another day?
Do you long for love in the dark, dusky evening?
Do you count the countless stars,
knowing a miracle is on its way?
Has the chill of eternity captured your imagination?
What anchors you to Earth?
What makes you want to stay?
A journey of a thousand destinies
Written deep within your soul
Traveling daily through all the possibilities
Which are the parts that make you whole?

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

Jude Cowell "Cosmic Reverie" Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative 2.5

the Blind eye of Desire

the blind eye of Desire
the madness of Passion
the writhing Dragons in my chest
call out

call out for the quenching
call out for that which can never last
more than a millisecond in and eternity
call out . . . for Beauty

my aged heart
tired soul calls out
like calls to like
the sound of my deepest chest rumble
my inner most howl
thunders thru the far places
runs the riverbed in the sky
curls and crests like a wave in a storm
like a whisper in a hurricane
like waters through the living rock
i turn above
below and
on the earth

i swim alone in oceans of longing
i dance mathematics of sonnet and hyperbole
i walk the thunders of internal combustion engines
the dreams of glass and steel
alone for one reason
one reason beyond gentle Reason
i am alone in my hunger for beauty

others can smell it on me
addictions of alcohol or cannabis they understand
but this . . .
this relentless call disquiets them
displeases them
and they leave
leave me alone

my love
why do you hide?
my heart grows old
my time grows short
and yet you
do not answer
Beauty . . . answer me

the blind eye of Desire
the madness of Passion
the writhing Dragons in my chest
call out

i howl in the night
like the wounded animal i am
and yet you are sequestered
i curse you
plead with you
make deals with the gods
and you do not answer
all these years and more i would endure
with no thought of remorse
if only there was an answer

in the more quiescent times
when I am merely mad
i have given my full mind to this
given my full . . . soul
and words are but tiny reflecting surfaces
that show the blizzard of need within me
the need for a moment's caress of her gentle hand
the need to catch her ascendent eye
the need . . .
for this is the deep call
this is beyond deception
beyond denial
beyond the chemical light
that runs the myriad river under my skin
this is the synergy
that composed the Universe as a living thing
Beauty is the Vortex from which we come
we are not created
we are grown from the center
we grow in a reflection of Beauty

i am an artifice of things that might reflect Beauty
and I have touched many things considered worthy
but I know by the reflection
that there is a greater source
you exist beyond anything I can forge
and all I can do is call to you . . .
i have stripped my neurons naked
i have lifted the oceans from their beds
i have walked the hole in the zero
and yet
i am the expression of this one fact
i am the physical expression of the Desire

and yet
she remains sequestered
she thinks this funny
a grand game
and how sad will it be
when i have changed into the thing
i am becoming?

the blind eye of Desire
the madness of Passion
the writhing Dragons in my chest
call out

i should be used to this by now
and in many ways
i am
i have given the world good children
with arts and intellect
i have given my protection
to the precious ones
and the weary and wounded
i have fought those who would
gain at the expense of others
and made the young strong
with my teachings
i have had a good run
i have tried to portray Beauty
in my thoughts and in my words
in what I have done . . .

and many would be fulfilled by such

but is it such a mortal sin for me to call out?
to long for
just freaking once
to know the touch of Beauty
is that too much?

Darkness comes with Beauty
a transaction i have gladly paid
for i am always fascinated by the thunder
by the rushing river where it is so deep
you are up to your waist and the current
is so strong
and you have to lean into the current
and see with your feet
and you realize
that you have gone too far
and you can't go back
and one single misstep
will result
in being dragged away
to a cold death
yes i have played that game
and many like it
and yet the stars are silent
the hills do not echo

This need
this Desire
this Passion
is written on every atom of my existence
written in the throws of this Darkness
this absence of Beauty

and when this has been walked dry
will i want to remember it?

the blind eye of Desire
the madness of Passion
the writhing Dragons in my chest
call out

why do you not answer?

copyright William Burns

(c) Teseleanu George "Discovering Light"


(c) Teseleanu George "The Apotheosis of Time"


(c) Teseleanu George "Meditation"


The asphodels stand firm upon the hill
Above the grass their pillar stalks rise high
Translating on their stamens wind’s low trill
The names of who today would live or die.
The leafy edges wipe the atmosphere;
It rolls across them little drops of fruit
With widowed dew from passing cloudy tears
With gold and blue they gather for their roots.
The starry flowers form a constellation
Of white with yellow flashes primal magic
Obscuring mountain landscapes clear from vision,
Transforming light into impressionistic
Waves blown across the eye a fluid maze
Of distance unclear lost within its haze.


Dedicated to Keith Muscutt

The seven lords in subterranean exile
Sit on their thrones, each one carved with the animal
That once had served as their clan's spirit guide
Back in the day before the people died.
They sit in robes of bat skin, cloaks of feather
With their long hair bound in the spines of jaguar.
The gold with which they're decked like fire blazes:
Long pins of gold pierce through their painted noses
And shinning figures lay upon their chests
Recording long forgotten gods and conquests
While symbols hang from earlobes and tall llama
Wool llantos. In the chamber round their china
White thrones metallic plates are on the circular
Wall with etchings of archaic figures.
Thick giant snakes crawl up the sides of pyramids
Towards a sun or Thunder Birds amid
Strange flora or, perhaps, a brontosaurus
And hieroglyphics fantastic as mysterious.
Their voices stir like mental flocculent drafts
And rise up with the birds through dusty shafts
To where they had been mummies in the festivals
And further on the winds to distant peoples.
“Once our Cloud Warriors stormed across the Andes
While those who dwelt in Chavin weren't yet babies.
We are the ancestors of the Ugha Mongulala,
Whose distant sons were called the Chachapoya.
To them our mighty Akakor was a legend,
A misty city dwelt in by the dead
And we who saw the dawn of man were nameless
And cryptic beings whom they’d only bless.
They had renewed much of our ancient domain,
Upon the mountains and the Amazon basin.
But still, this echo of the once great Akakor
Was ended by the Inca in a war.
Here in our sacred kiva hid in tunnels
We watch the turning of the stellar cycles
And send our voices out as dreams to all
Who’ll be receptive to our distant call
And share our hope the Gold Age may return
Without disaster as the cycles turn.”

copyright Santiago del Dardano Turann

(c) Marina Petro "Galaxy"


(c) Marina Petro "Cosmic Angel"


(c) Marina Petro "Celestial Fire"


(c) Melissa Lin "Misty Slumber"

Andromeda Unbound

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

Primal emergent scene of fear/betrayal/rage
Against prosaic life tuned to a simpler age
A woman and a man and progeny of course
A life tailored to plan, no stranger to remorse

So early in the days of what might hence occur
The learning of the ways of how to be are stirred
So legends have been cast, so myths in mist abound
As some realities are buried underground.

It was a cold and gilded house, camouflaged as home
It was a brutal game of chance camouflaged as life
Chain me to my jagged rock and let me bleed
Let the ravage start, I will not plead,
My tears will only flow when primed by raging seas

They say that life's a school, we must learn or die
They knock into us what, where, when, forgetting why
Each put into our place and left to wait our turn
It's not about what we may be, but what we earn.

Tree-lined sidewalks, car-lined streets, children at play
It seems so calm and peaceful, keeping fear at bay
Do the laundry, buy the groceries, pay the heating bills
Get it done, don't delay, no matter who it kills.

It was a curse hurled from the gods, but it wasn't mine
Punishment for a crime of pride I did not commit
Clinging to my prison door, I hide my eyes
Expecting no pardon from the skies
No where left to go to hide from my mind's lies

What can't be told infects a deep and deadly path
Buried wounds untended surface into storms of wrath
A beaten creature huddles beneath a snarling face
Dying for a welcome smile, the warmth of caring grace

Some doors left open lead to mystic hidden rooms
Of purple velvet drapes, plush carpets and rare perfumes
The tapestry of life upon an ancient wall
Or was it down a rabbit-hole you meant to fall?

I begged a chance to be saved, but it was not my time
The monster's howl a hungry hound denying rest
Lost in a tempest, finding none to care
Petrified by my own inward icy stare
Bound and cursed by the gods, of what use is prayer?

Comes the time in spiraling life of do or die
Take the time to breathe the air, read visions from the sky
Willing change, allowing pain to tell its sorry tale
Rearrange the picture's frame, learn to adjust the scale

The rules laid down to keep us bound were never friends
A hero's quest with divine intent can open stories' ends
Gods inspire nature's desire for beauty, healing, choice
Reclaiming heart, we do our part, obeying our true voice

Opening my eyes, raising my voice, I claim my power
The gods respond not with violence but with joy
Claiming my life as my own, I turn my demons into stone
Free at last my spirit soars as I
dance by day through sweet Olympian fields -- by night among the stars

(c) Julia Still "A Leap of Faith Contemplated"

(c) Julia Still "Clutch Lightbeings"

Robert David Michael c. 2009

A Billion Years From Now

A billion years from now, can men be Man?
On worlds of stars whose names we're yet to dole
Or learn or alter, they may live out spans
Ten times our own. Yet they'll feel warmth, rain,
And they will still dress themselves in clothing fine
And wake at dawn to know the glad gay wealth
Of sunrays that bring pleasure to their minds,
Soft winds will murmur low to Time Himself;
They shall know hunger, purpose, fear, hope, pain.
They will do toil to earn what's valued high.
And seek brief ease, then suffer (by choice again)
To bring some glowing 'Dream' one touch more nigh.
Let me be sung then--if men feel I understand
The yearning of art, the reach of bold youth's hand!

(c) Lakan "Nephil Angel through the Veil"

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