emerging visions

Threshold Revelations ~ EV21 ~ 11/11/11

2011-11-11T08:21:00.001Z

"Celestial Guidance" (c) Julia Still
Beliefs Divide

What I believe isn’t important. The fact that I can put order to my thoughts, sort them into opinions and fan them into beliefs is hardly impressive. In fact, such thinking is unavoidable. It’s what our highly evolved human brains do. They compare and contrast and judge in an endless attempt to make sense of the world around us. Believing is as automatic as walking or talking or sneezing, and about as noteworthy.

There was a time when I considered my beliefs to be something more than just an assemblage of thoughts. I mistook them for something much more important. I thought they were me.

At various times in my life I believed I was a Catholic, a Unitarian, an agnostic and a secular humanist. I was a liberal, a feminist, an environmentalist and a pacifist. I took on new identities in search of a higher self and, down deep, I think, to distance myself from certain vulgarities that characterize the human condition - qualities like greed and aggression. By connecting certain thoughts, by cobbling together new identities, I convinced myself and others that those unwholesome human traits couldn’t possibly define me. They defined thieves and rapists and murderers. I was above all that, and had a portfolio of beliefs to prove it.

I was not alone in my quest to adopt a new identity. Everyone in the world was doing it right along with me. Hindus, Muslims and Buddhists. Socialists, Communists and Greens. Progressive Unionists, Christian Democrats – some crafting identities the way college freshmen craft double majors. We were all attempting to rise above our inherited animal nature; but rising above it didn’t make it go away. We were still greedy and aggressive despite our deeply held beliefs. We were walking contradictions, projecting our inner conflicts onto the world; in fact, we were the world, and that’s why it was such a bloody mess.

Having wandered from one belief system to another, I thought I had explored life’s biggest questions; but I was only asking questions for which my beliefs had provided me pat answers. I had yet to ask myself the most radical questions, the ones that would eventually smash my beliefs to bits. They were questions no one seemed to be asking, questions like:

If a clash of beliefs can be found at the root of all the violence in the world, then shouldn’t we question their validity – not the validity of any particular belief, but belief itself?

Separated from our beliefs, would we lose our moral bearing? Would we fall prey to our baser instincts and rock the world with depraved acts of violence? Or is this precisely the behavior we exhibit under the hypnotic spell our beliefs?

Imagine a city whose buildings have been leveled by an earthquake. That’s the image I had of my mind after my beliefs had been toppled. I felt like I could see forever in every direction. The towering thought structures that stood as my beliefs no longer blocked my view of the world. I felt a disorienting sense of freedom. Liberated from the beliefs that had conferred my identity, I felt blissfully anonymous. I was a person without a suffix, without an –ist to affirm my existence. I had unwittingly joined the only club that matters. It numbers in the billions, doesn’t charge dues and welcomes career criminals. It’s called the human race.

It’s been years since I disposed of my beliefs; and I have yet to turn into a sociopathic killer. On the contrary, I’ve developed a deep affection for my planet mates now that I’m not measuring them by the yardstick of my beliefs. Gone are the walls of thought that prevented me from seeing who they really are. Gone are the lectures I’d give in an attempt to raise their consciousness. And gone, mercifully, is my compulsion to cast them as evil so that I can appear virtuous.

However sacred or profound, a belief is nothing more than a thought, and thought is never the thing it describes. It can only hint at the wonders it attempts to touch. Sermons about love garble love’s ineffable beauty. Speeches about unity clank after the first syllable. Courting belief is a prescription for a virtual, not a virtuous life.

(c) John Ptacek

"REFLECTION ON THE DEEP BLUE YONDER" (c) Olga Spiegel

Loony bin (part 1)

Telekinesis Armageddon cosmic over flow lights a small fuse in this universe I have created in my head where I can have late night conversations with childhood friends when I’m in that sleep yet awake state- until I realize there is someone there actually conversing with me & when that reality hits I will ask them "Are you still there?" but they wont be, you see, cause as soon as one’s mind clicks into the fact of what is going on that is when the conversation is lost- 2012 the kid knew who drank a ton of belladonna- he knew the score, & so did that guy Max who never showered until they forced him to- with a beard down to his balls- he never spoke a word even tho everyday I’d say "Hey Max! What’s happening, great day today aint it?"I stared at a cup of juice for 5 hours once & the staff was getting concerned, I could not & would not speak to anyone while I went into this trance like state where nothing mattered but me staring at that cup of juice, & inside my mind I saw with my eyes that juice finally begin to boil & that’s when I came out of the trance.hang around a bunch of lunatics long enough you will start acting like one- it’s like a feral child being raised by a pack of dogs that walks on all fours and barks and acts like a dog- any environment one is in will rub that energy off in one way or another until the conscious mind accepts that as normality- for instance I now know I do have friends to speak to as night falls-they may not be people you or somebody else can hear but I hear them perfectly clear now-5 points to the darkened sun when Yosemite explodes after the earth’s massive quakes melt & burn anything with lungs & you can scrub your soul all you want with bleach but that smell you now see, taste, and hear will stay around one’s aura like a volcanic fire ball of circling worms that out stretch from the inner hole of a brain damaged poetic urine fountain- the seven seals of revelation come like a tidal wave of bursting unpredictable showers of fire- your medications to make me a zombie are no longer needed because when I stare into the sun & make my mind as blank as a lobotomy patient- I can feel every sound of every star that explodes in the never ending black holes of an emotion galaxy inside another universe within the sanctity of simple breathing- I can feel invisible sand morsels surrounding my feet in a hot summer day while distant ocean waves slowly come to this new shore of enlightenment- we can feel the cat itching its fleas while it cleans its over fed belly now that the tree stumps have been cut down to mind sized elements of a future that no longer matters.My friend Antonio in the mental ward who was a confused pedophile who could barely speak English could turn into a monkey as soon as I said "ewe, ewe, ahh ahh…"& every time- he would have me rolling around on the ground in hysterical laughter- & that substitute doctor who thought she knew it all trying to cut my Prozac in half while not believing my shaking hands anymore after the fourth day of non stop Librium doses that put me in such a state where all I wanted to do was make new colored drawings like some whacked out third grader non stop- Antonio & others would draw with me and Antonio wrote down a movie he was going to direct with all these alien crafts up in the air. He told me it would be called "Bank Stony tee and the funky family tree movio the grandma Mexican American unknown kavino". "That’s a wonderful title for a movie." I’d respond. Certain staff members looked at us as if we were crazy, others seemed so used to any sort of behavior that came about they could never be surprised with whatever was going on- like the time this guy named Sam –an asian man- came into the TV room –pulled his shorts down & began shitting all over the tile floor while yelling some sort of gibberish in Japanese at the top of his lungs- others began to vomit from the smell but for some reason it smelled like fresh apricots to me- maybe I was starting to lose it for real- or maybe I already had-Sam was on constant suicide watch. Always a big black guard sitting outside his room with the door cracked staring at Sam laying in bed- it made me and the suicidal belladonna drinker roommate of mine wonder what the fuk Sam had done- so one time at lunch-if you can call their lunch food ( it was more like some mystery small portion of what looked and smelled like vomit every day, and a piece of bread) I lost 15 pounds in that place.Well. Suicidal belladonna drinker and me who were both obsessed with 2012- tried to spark up a conversation with Sam."So Sam? What’s your deal? Why are you in here?"He quietly looked up from his food and said…."It’s just a big misunderstanding, that’s all it is."We left it at that. But my mind began to wander, seeing him shoving sewing needles into his ear holes or something while he played Russian roulette with some ancient Japanese gun that was possessed by his grandpa who had killed himself after the war.My mind always thought things like this- maybe it was good I was in this funny farm- if they only had a sensible doctor that knew what she was doing- not this cunt who kept cutting all my medications that made me feel non suicidal- every time I had to look at her face and eyes or even come close to her I felt like splattering my brains all over the fuking walls & hopefully chunks of my brain matter would go flying into her stunned open mouth as I did it.Something about her was just wrong- she gave off that aura that she was so above everyone- like the time I tried to warn her about 2012 and she starts laughing at me saying she worries about what’s going on today, not what will happen in the future. But if we knew what was going to happen in the future it would affect us as to how we act today! I tried to tell her. She was so stupid and condescending-I told her one-day. "Don’t tell me what meds I need and don’t need, I practically have my PhD in medications- I know what makes me happy and what makes me angry-Everything you see around you is an illusion of an atmosphere that other people who have brainwashed you & the rest of society have inflated into this gigantic floating balloon of bullshit that you and most are all stuck in! & one day, with just one pinprick that fuking balloon is gonna pop! Understand! POP! And only than will you & the other robots understand any sort of meaning or truth or love! Understand!"She let out this snide smirky chuckle and whispered something to her assistant who seemed to be writing down everything I said.She made me so angry that I decided to let out this massive fart so that the entire session or whatever it was that we were having would end.So I did."BLLLLLffffffLUUUUUUUffffllRRRRRRRRRPPPPPP!"my butt cheeks ripped one out like a trumpet of belching rabbits being slaughtered all in synchronicity."That’s it MR. Martini! This session is over! Now get out of my office!"Her assistant covered her nose with her shirt and I started hysterically laughing at the looks on both their dumb faces.I walked towards the door & let out one tinier squealer-sounding fart just for good measure.I walked back out into the main room with the other loonies and Antonio came up to me and started acting like a monkey, and I was laughing so hard by that point that I just let out this huge scream of joy or insanity! I’m not sure what it was but I started tipping over chairs and running around in circles like a mad man as the staff of low IQ retards all chased me around trying to get me to stop.I had learned from some whacko they brought in the night before who went on a non-stop cursing fit of such vulgar insanity for hours at 3 a.m., that the crazier you acted the better drugs they would give you. Cause the next day that guy was stumbling around like a slobbering slow motion zombie. his eyes like half shut clueless brain dead glowing numbness.I wanted a big shot of whatever they had given him, and this would be the best way to go about getting it I assumed.I continued to run around in circles, tipping chairs over, and began screeching like a chicken or a rooster.."BEEEEEE GAAAWWWWK! BEEEEEEE GEEEEEEK !" I bellowed, while Antonio ran around doing his monkey impersonation right behind me. This one schizophrenic lady that was always walking around cursing and clapping her hands and singing religious hymns covered her ears and began letting out these horrid screams of pain.When they finally caught me, about five of the Mongoloids grabbed me and wrestled me to the ground and put me back in the straight jacket I seemed to have arrived in my first day there. They took me in this weird little room that was painted purple with doves flying around the walls with no windows. They all held me down and one of the goons brought out this huge needle filled with something. The mere sight of a needle filled with anything always brought a rush of excitement to my drug riddled junkie brain.Last thing I remember was that thing going into one of my few remaining veins & I woke up about 10 hours later feeling like everything was in slow motion and that all my limbs had turned into slippery spaghetti noodles."Feeling a little calmer today Mr. Martini?" this big black guy said opening the door. Only his voice was all slow and warped like some sort of fuked up drunken demon on Thorazine.My lips tried to answer but they were just big globs of jellyfish that wouldn’t form any sort of sentence. It felt like gallons of slobber was drooling down my chin. I had gotten just what I wanted, the less I felt, the more zombie-fried I became all the better was my reasoning. My manic mind & mood swings had to be shut down for long periods of time so that I could just stop thinking so much about so many things. I just wanted that feeling of nothing. Of such zonked out numbness that I wouldn’t even realize I was a human being anymore.

(c) Nicholas R. Morgan

"Dancing on a wire" (c) Tanja Udelhofen

Ode to a Raindrop

I am a god,

or at least,

a part of one.

I spiral,

turn in the air,

a broken tear

falling from clouds

upon the tops

of umbrellas.

I can make mud,

even puddles,

cradles for toy boats

estuaries that

boots may

jump into.

I am an unborn

snowflake, a

tiny river falling

to the earth in

a single, happy,

deadly fall.

(c) William Wright Harris

(c) B. Lynn

Amsterdam Wide Dreams

a lovely girl brings home her puppet
boyfriend
and plays with him

the tall convex space appears turquoise
draws a sinuous line
sensual on the perimeter
steeped in the events of others

is the profile of a sea wave
villain of the most beautiful seawater
ensures the persistence of blue

the opposite of darkness is spreading
slowly
the wave breaks regular
long
smooth

has a changing effect
hands out colours

the night owns the future

forgives the guilt
multiplies the fixed and reflected light
surrounds the vaporous game
unties a curtain

after dark
you look and measure the content
of mirrors
the anxiety of angels goes on stage
they have memory
remind all

the vibrations are perpendicular
penetrate the skin
a mass of water rises and falls
is female
able to overwhelm the spectator
with the honesty of her sins
under a dim light
so as not to be seen
so you do not see the others

there is a glare
vision is complex
a comely light
double

the volume of the music is consumed
a ruby-throated hummingbird flies free

growing soft folds follow the trend
the long radius
the imagination to reach
the underside of the tables

steel and water
deposit the gray and blue
in the depths of the deepest eyes

wooden puppet head is sitting
on himself
his face is opalescent
flattered
inspired by a happy melodrama

built on the water

(c) Alessandro Cusimano

"Shifting Universe" (c) Alejandro Flores-Oviedo

Night Sky Ocean

It is late and after midnight in the New Moon’s night. Her light of milky gauze is nowhere to be seen. The sky blackly turns, an indigo blue, and it’s as swollen as the ocean. The stars all swim like phosphorescence in the sea and the Great Bear has already passed on her way upstream. In these inlets and salt water marshes where love grows blind, it feels as if this is where the world got spawned.

I've been by this river for a long time now, and I don't think I can find my way back to the road. I heard a panther’s scream some while ago. It must have gotten caught on a palmetto breeze. Squatting here, as still and whetted as the marsh, I've been waiting through the water’s lifelines. And they've been breaking in the nocturnal feedings going on all around. But the tidewater’s flow is at its lowest, and the marsh’s up-from-under hunger has receded too.

I've given up trying to return before morning. I've given over to night water’s palm. I've been watching for hours the river and the way it opens to the night sky ocean. Its sleeping dreams have constellated, they've been coming to the surface. And they've been the night hags newly awakened. So eager, they've seemed, to fly on the stirrings of a wet wind. They've just risen so sinuously, sure of their own charms. And they've even brought all of their long stemmed, full waisted loveliness within reach of the sycamore’s water craving limbs.

I think I would have plunged into their element long before now, except for those other faces coming from the same unfeeling depths. I think it would be worth that plunge, worth a bloated eternity, if only for a single twining embrace. But those other faces have kept coming up, they've raised themselves to the top. And they've glowed like a fever sweating its way out. They are the molten faces. They're like faces of the men who have sought the wild woman’s daughter. And they will not turn away. Rising from the bottom, their eyes are empty, while the water keeps boiling all around them. They must have been stirred by the same fiery hands, their eyes having become pearl drops for the crossroad’s ravens. And as they're come nearer to the surface their faces have taken on signs of less uncertainty. I guess they ’re out of their depth in the river’s colder region, being more certain of what they are on the shore. And they're all like kings, with the way they keep surveying what they cannot see. Still I wish they would go away, or find someone else who might heed their warning. I wish they would leave me to the loveliest faces I've ever seen.

This must be where it all began. In these rivers of silt hiding red-black by day, in these glades of loosened life. Even now, in the New Moon’s night, in her no light at all when the month is a nighthawk flying out of the grove, you can see those girlie faces just below the black water’s rise.

(c) Terreson

"BEAUTY IN ALL THINGS" (c) JoAnn Nava

Into the mire

The steep hills provide shelter from chilly winds, and the mist rarely lifts from the bogland valley.

Trees with snake-patterned bark grow straight and tall here, and echoing calls of witch-time birds are heard by day as well as by night.

Among the hoarsely rustling grasses and rushes on the boggy ground, bodies and limbs swathed in pearly haze, unknown beings are living.

Is the lantern-guy an unknown being?

Many have told stories about him, how his treacherous lights have lured unsuspecting folk out onto the soft ground, out among the quietly whispering sedges, the gently rocking tussocks, out into another world, deep into that which cannot be named.

Many have told how people, believing to see a helpful light ahead, have gone astray from the safe path, sunk into the mud, sunk, sunk, foot, leg, body and all; sunk, do you hear! Away from here, out into there, disappeared, traceless, vanished, gone!

The tracelessness is the worst part. Those who disappear without a trace, can hardly expect to be met with an easy mind anywhere.

But how many have actually been close to the lantern-guy? Smelt his clammy hair, looked into his pale eyes, heard the almost soundless hissing of the tiny flames that spring from his fingertips?

Who has stood there, half-hidden behind a willow scrub down by the marsh, watching him move slowly, confidently among the rolling tussocks, now invisible, now as a clear contour in the mist – and his tiny flares, yea, the wee lights, those familiar little flames that attract humans.

The willow witch knows the lantern-guy, as do the many other dusky beings who have their home in the boggy land.

Theirs is the half-light world: the mire-haze, the frosty mists, the northern lights, the moongate, the flickering glimpses of late evening sun through the vapours and the lattices of tall grasses – all these are kin to the flares of the lantern-guy. And these, too, are regarded with suspicion by the humans.

The fairy folk of the twilight may well have their world to themselves wherever the lantern-guy shows the way.

And that is exactly what he does. He shows the way; he never leads anybody astray.

Everyone who takes the first step out onto the boggy ground, into the mist, into the mire, is on the way.

(c) Jane Røken

*
"second creation" (c) Thomas W. Bossert

Floral Silk Folly

Shall I tell your fortune, m’lady?
It won’t take long. I see you are ready to go.
Garden party, is it?
Ah, I can tell. Not only from your floral silk dress;
I can smell the anticipation on your breath, relish
the tingle of champagne and hungry glances
from pot-bellied handsome gentlemen. I know.

Your fortune, m’lady. It may not be what you expect.
It’s unconditional, but the rules must be observed.
When you leave the house, don’t look back.
Walk down the lane to the manor. The gates will be open.
Stay on the garden path. Accept no food, no drink,
ignore the desperately aimless conversation gambits.

Go to the bottom of the garden, there’s a summerhouse,
a folly, and the door will be ajar. Don’t touch it,
push it open with your foot. Walk straight through,
be careful not to pick up anything. Go out the back door.

Don’t be alarmed, m’lady; it may seem a bit strange.
You will see the naked sky, deep and splashed with stars,
and like a floral silken dragon you’ll take off to meet them.
Join your kin. Only the scene will have changed, not you.

With one finger I trace the diagonal of the mirror,
upper right to lower left. The glass turns blank and silent.
I get up, leave the house, don’t look back.
Like dragon wings, the floral silk propels me to the folly.

(c) Jane Røken

from 'Reminiscences of Elementals' by Lorna Smithers

Aqueduct Street Mill (Preston)

Salamandrina:

"Veracruz and Jarocha playing by the ‘malecon’" (c) Alejandro Flores Oviedo

Lit by a flash, rising a pyric spire
I see my image in her eyes
Supple backed, twisting,
My wings unfold and ignite
As her fingers stroke the guitar.

Strings cord, distaffs spin, shuttles fly
To the clap and smash of wood on wood.
They work the looms like demonic harps
To the industrial crash of Horrock’s drum.

‘Break the frames!

Raise your hammer, light a torch!’

My blistering kindred are borne on high
Writhing, flexing our burning fingers.
They break down the factory doors.
Splitting beams, collapsing timbers,
Distaffs grind and shuttles fall.

Warp and weft are folding in
The mechanical pageantry unfurls.

‘Ignite ignite!’

Thrown down we lick the cotton
Kiss the debris, raise it in a flaming embrace.
We are united in a vast conflagration
Liberated by the call of King Ludd.

My burning form fades from her eyes
Her fingers strum the guitar.
Her inspiration rises in my afterimage.
The mill resounds as she sings
Of the revolt of the eponymous King.

"Birth of Inspiration" (c) Alejandro Flores Oviedo

Riversway Dockland (Preston)

Undine:

As I bathe in the street lights’ amber glow
Across the face of my water their features quiver.
Profanefully unaware of what lies below;
A recess of mystery that would make you shiver.

Their words play ripples across my depth
They speak not of me but of another place
Where images play upon plasma faces
They do not see beneath the surface.

When I awoke in eighteen ninety two
Prince Albert came to ordain my basin.
He saw nothing more than his own reflection
And those of the ladies in porcelain fashions.

The trawlers trawled, the dredgers dredged
Ship loads of cargo were hauled off and on
Littering my visage with woodpulp and cotton
Beneath the flotsum nobody sees me.

They speak of pirates and buccaneers
All I’ve known is riot at the Ribble Pilot,
The revelling Manxman was rudely removed
Now its too quiet amidst the bobbing pleasure yachts.

They speak of ships and privateers
If this dock had not opened in years so late
Before the Dutchman I’d have had the Hind
Prior to Jack Sparrow Sir Francis Drake.

If the Golden Hind and its dragon captain
Had sailed resplendent into my dock
Would spirit have moved on the face of the water
Would he have seen below to the depths of my heart.

For views on the docklands the people gather
To see images floating on a surface so blank.
If you looked into my world, your world would shatter
If you stare into the abyss, the abyss stares back.*

*Friedrich Nietzsche - Beyond Good and Evil

(c) Lorna Smithers

"Reflection of the Moon in a Bubble"

"Aboriginal StarSeeds" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

Sing Another Chorus

Life is a beautiful carousel
Flaming ponies made in Hell
Just when you think:
"It's going swell."
the haunts overtake and destroy
where you dwell.
So sing and play me bonny boy
Hoist yer ale; inhale yer joint
Keep it light in the pale, dank night
and work through the blazing day
till you've given it all away

libramoon

"Awakenings" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

Quantum Quandaries

Soft, like pristine water, a delicate voice, redolent of secret inspiration, not often used.
There is the high-pitched panic
drones like angry bees, chaotic, insistent. That voice is not hers, but of her demons,
flaying, cackling, castigating, sizzling knives flown from angry hands -- pyrotechnic effect while consciousness bathes in restraint,
senses restricted to calm, to cleanse, safe inside.

There is another voice, sure as ocean rain, forceful as gunshot on a silent night.
When we hear its tune, we listen. Pure bell that sings only Truth, it is in our sacred core to listen.
That voice is rare and wonderful, the essence of beauty. The more we listen, in awe, compassionate wisdom takes hold,
we become attuned. We become the voice of welcome, of familiar kind regard.
We become complicitous encouragement.

Mobs, ignorant, angry people boo and hiss, too loud to hear anything useful.
Lords of violence, long conjured real enough fear, sneer for the big screen. Pimping for Jehovah?
We learn to fear from what attacks every day.

How can I explain?
Rats, spiders, assorted displaced vermin, semi-feral humans, scrabble through garbage, stagnant remnants of rain and replenishment, to no good end.
Children grow.
Revised as zombies consuming what is available, what is given or taken -- no minds worth saving, subsisting on dead flesh and legendary fear. How can dreams cope?
Impossible to pick up such raveled stitch.

"Garden Of" (c) Alejandro Flores-Oviedo

Watery imagery -- the ocean that meant to keep me so many years ago.
I become a swimmer,
a survivor in the storm.
I don't know why. It wasn't my idea to be strong. I didn't think, just let my body work along from one place to the next.
Sing of surf, held close to mystery. Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight. Call of cheer that carries carefree souls.

Far stars here call our craft home.

We've made a career of matter of energy.
After brief eternity, given the designation "life," find a free meadow under the sky.
Simple, mundane sensuality
-- slimy tears dissolve eye grit; sore structural muscles ease into melodious jazz.

She is stronger more able, vibrant in song. We are all learning to play; this world we create, build in conversation,
turn conceptual experience into a private wealth from each to each,
teachers and students on the art of renaming.

This peculiar Hades Bohemia reflects like jewel facets, bioluminescent charms.
Too bad those chained to arms,
deprived of what arms can claim to feel fulfilled,
seek release in arms defined to kill
or to be killed.
Powerful self-devised agent to prescient shadows, to pay penance,
ritually claim my soul.
Yet, essence,
possibilities inherent in living seed
grow in potent mixtures (tinctures for violent bifurcation, strictures, intricate captivating lulls)

Captive, imagination still wanders on
long walks that suddenly awaken questioning:
"Where am I going?
Who is this "me"
that has a destiny
or merely flits along prevailing wind?"

No one to remember, holding on to random sensory familiarity.
Don't trust the mirror.
They love to lie, lazy, wistful --
if wishes could be more real than these fantasies,
murals tied to greasy walls --

Why should death's mystery entice so much more than life's?
What hope the best of men survive death's fiery trial?
Why insist, assume, the bond of flesh is blood consumed, all against every?
Where is ecstasy of hand touching hand?

libramoon

"Sidestreet Stroll" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

Fibbing Coon

I tell the raccoon he was a liar
For there is no good in this sector of reality
He laughs at me as he digs through the refuse of man
But to him this is a treasure trove
His laughter makes me laugh
I forget the world is so serious
But I leave him and ask the humming bird the meaning of life
She smiles and says
“On a fortune cookie from east, there is a saying
Life is not a gift but a duty”
I tell the humming bird she is a fool
She should move to the East
Where the axis spins and the rain clouds back peddle
Who am I but the son of a fool?
Yet, we all play the clown in the circus of life
I choose to be the ringleader of this asylum
The doors are open but the windows closed
Where are the guard dogs of the sane?
I believe another lie-sanity is a gift
I believe insanity (is the ultimate level)
For the real world is a maximum-security prison
Racism, poverty and gay porn
All met to keep us in place
For the hardest ward to escape is the mind
But I know a trap door
It's called fantasy

(c) David Michael Joseph

"The Light at The End of The Tunnel" (c) Brigitte Cinq-Mars

No Longer Disconnected

It is words that you ask for and it is words that you shall receive. Not the words of Man, but the words of Spirit. Words that caress and touch to the heart. That lead one from ego concentration to inner contemplation and connection to what many in your world call, the Soul, the Higher Self, the Collective Unconscious, the Oversoul or Super Ego. We just call this your Self.

Nothing more, nothing less than yourSelf. So, now we come to Self direction rather than being directed by one's ego needs and wants.

Now, once connected to yourSelf, you are automatically and simutaneously connected to the Divine. The Mother and the Father which you came from and from which you will return to again one day.

No longer disconnected or confused by your fears. No longer mis-informed, mis-educated, mis-led away from both Nature and your Self.

Now you are free from sin. For sin is that taken from outside yourself, nothing more, nothing less. It has tainted and colored your reality and led you astray. Yes, we refer to it as an it, being neither of your humanity or of the Divine. A collective nightmare, a collective fear, a collective non-reality imposed upon you from outside yourSelf while you were distracted and led away from the reality of a Self living within a human form.

Loneliness is a by product or side effect of this disconnection. For there is no reason to be alone or feel alone when you connect again to Nature and to the Divine. A magnitude of helpers are there to guide you and show you a better way of living.

This was the way in the time of the Monoliths and before. Man was alive and connected strongly to the Earth, which in turn helped him connect to other realms as well as the Divine. Man was grateful for the fruits of the Earth as well as for the fruits of the Spirit.

Man had an intelligence and farsight only dreamed of today, not yet actualized within your present day physical reality.

For the Priests of old taught Man to fear Nature and to fear your natural abilities as a way to deceive and to take control of the direction mankind would take in future generations.

This fear was taught and is not a part of you or natural to your humanity. It is as a drug or a hypnotic spell placed near your consciousness telling you over and over again that you need to be told by others what is best for your being. It cannot enter into your consciousness, for this will not be allowed by Self; but it can be placed near enough to be heard by your ego which lives in a state of fear while wishing itself a God, knowing that it is dependent upon its human, or more truthfully stated, its more than human Host, while within human form.

This ego is vulnerable since it is a filter, a receiver, or a translator between the body and the Host. These Priests in their weakness understood this and figured a way to influence others through word and image. False images were created to lead Man astray, away from the wise and loving consul of the Earth Mother and the Heavenly Father.

This was allowed due to the gift of free will and due to the love of the Parents. Their view is a long one and Their wish is for Man to develop in the gifts of Spirit and take their rightful places upon the true throne, that place that you call the human heart.

Yes, your heart, not just a physiological organ, but a great hall, a place of meeting, a place of justice and generosity. The meeting place of Heaven and Earth, The Central Station where Heaven and Earth meet and love is born, a love of both the natural world of Mankind as well as the realm of the Divine.

Once Man could at will open the veil between realms and refresh and enliven not just his or her human body, but the body of human community. Man at that time lived for thousands of years if he or she so wished, or could stay a short while if this better suited his or her goals.

These Priests of Dark Determination taught limitation, fear, greed, lust, guilt and jealousy. Disease was created, as were a number of other illnesses to dull the senses and bring Mankind into a state of forgetfulness.

This tradition continues today; and has been allowed since Mankind was given this place called Earth as an experiment. One could say that the experiment didn't go as expected; yet this is the short answer. The long answer is that time has yet to run out, for Man and Mankind's destiny is still within Its own hands.

An antidote will soon be found to this sickness or illness of Man; and Mankind will gently awaken again to its true nature and potential, and pick up again where delayed and distracted, at the places of stone.

Now, those places will awaken; and future and past will meet again; and Man will remember his glory of old as well as remember his future glory. Past and future will come together for the betterment of today. It is today or in the Now that is the starting point as well as the ending point.

The circle will be completed and Mankind again will know the Truth of their being here on planet Earth.

No need to look outside of life. For all is within the circle as all is within the heart of Man. Take refuge in the heart and sing with joy this day.

(c) Michael Hopkins

"Goddess" (c) Robert J Donaghey

Synchronicity, B/W digital print on vinyl banner, 24" x 36", 2011.

The basis of the language of this painting/banner derives from hieroglyphic origins as it fuses the visual and verbal into a powerful composite and reflects a source of inspiration by movement from Cairo's Tahrir Square protests. At the same time, it stands for 'computer hieroglyphs' subjected to the new visual requirements in a digital era. The simplicity of image serves to accelerate communication. The geometry establishes the parameters of a symbolic cosmic order, where: triangle - stands for social wisdom and force of energy, circle - for a global unification, and square - reflects a materialization of expectations. The strict black and white palette helps to accentuate spatial attention.
The original painting was executed with 60 strokes a minute; an equivalent of the beat of the drums, the sound of our time, which generates their internal matrix of spatial rhythm. This matrix constitutes unique personal code. The arrows signify the direction, as vector of pulsating energy. They are oriented towards the center of painting/symbol, which becomes the center of tension.
When human figures are introduced into the image, they may be be considered as 'human ciphers' in a sense that they embody an ethereal presence. They are in constant interaction with each other. The oversize arms and hands reinforce their eccentricity and struggle.
The banner image derives from an original painting and was inspired by drawing the Vitruvian Man by Leonardo Da Vinci in attempt to examine new, creative forms of expression which are emerging and shaping our collective consciousness in an era of upcoming 'digital renaissance'.
Finally, the peculiar dimension of this work springs from its hypothetical grounding in the year of social, cultural and economical changes.

- Jolanta Gora, Oct. 21, 2011

"False Flag America" © 2011 All International Rights Reserved by Myztico

shield and sword

The biggest difference was diversity
If there are so many kinds of people welcome here,
there must be room for me
is how the thinking goes.
Even if I lick my toes before dancing from room to room
to keep clear my position on the ground.
Little Nell sparkles in dark corners,
shimmers like radiant heat behind rings and clouds.
Well made-up bag ladies tisk tisk and tickle under
her flounces, stick her with branding fronds
behind her ears,
Titter just below the threshold so she knows/
but knows not what they wish to have told her
that she has no place, no home, no town, no proud name,
but if she will but play according to the script they
have memorized, allow their discreet bullying is just
what she most lovingly desires,
they might not chase her away,
may suckle off her sparkle
until it dims,
gives them pause to move on to more diverting fools.

I exhort you once more to be the change,
change the sign,
sign the slogans with sweeping motions
charge into the fray
breathe the sludge
taste the waste we so freely made
be the cause
because we can only
seize the day
ride wild winds, embrangle kites of prey
deride perversity

libramoon

(c) adan delbosque

Contributors to Threshold Revelations

2011-11-11T08:16:00.000Z

*
*

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

Julia Still

All my works are in mixed media and traditionally executed with a pair of lucky scissors, glue and heavy books of all kinds for pressing. Any computer effects are only to correct wrinkles in paper, reflections in scanning and unforeseen "bloops". Since I am recovering from brain surgery, my eyes do not tolerate the computer for long. I consider my artwork as a tremendous gift from my imagination, my body and the Divine. It is steeped in symbols, archetypes and what treasures are to be unearthed from my unconscious. It is my language because images come to me more naturally than words. I create my images hopefully to contribute not only to my healing but to anyone who may need it, and that includes this home of ours called Earth. I pray that each and everyone's individual journey is blessed and guided by the stars and that this planet is surrounded by love and care.

"Celestial Guidance"- how else can we navigate the Universe and the Unknown but by the light of our stars.
You can see a more extensive collection of my work:
www.labelleetlabeteart.deviantart.com

John Ptacek

My life has been enriched by the teachings of wise men and women. My essays attempt to interpret their sometimes perplexing teachings so that more may be exposed to their wisdom. They appear on my website, On Second Thought, at www.johnptacek.com

Olga Spiegel

E-mail: ospieg@aol.com

www.olgaspiegel.com

Magic-realism & the minds eye

Inspiration exists when the soul finds joy in the infinite.

Olga Spiegel, was brought up and trained in Europe, lives and established her studio in New York. Her work has evolved from the abstract and optical energy field influences of the 1960s through later study of the Old Master's technique with Ernst Fuchs, to her current unique visionary alphabet, that has lately included computer, digital paintings.

Nurtured by Psychedelic Art, European Fantastic Realism, Surrealism and Science Fiction, her art points to an inner process, a chemical visual interaction were the inner self's messages are deciphered through images and symbols taking the viewer into an edgy realm of realism and unnamable forms.

On the wings of improvisation free flowing images and color create associations to uncover a mysterious universe. Ancient icons, space-age imagery with metaphysical overtones, that reveal an evolutionary flowering, nature and its organisms populated into myriad of forms. Fine art does not always fit within a context, it is more like science searching for a cure. Hidden in a fractal dimension, a cosmic ricochet surfs into a realm incessantly reinventing itself. Journeys into fantastic dimensions, as our imagination expands so does the universe, it is the energy that fuels survival.

Her work has shown in galleries and private collections in Europe and America and has been cited in many books and publication.

Nicholas R. Morgan

http://www.redbubble.com/people/nrm333
http://roscoemartini.blogspot.com/

Adam Pinson

It all starts with white paper madness......

Once my starting point has been established the rest is created mostly by process of elimination like a roomful of junk somewhere in my mind where I pull out objects and shapes to throw onto the paper. Once started the picture begins to draw itself depending on the evolution and juxtaposition of surrounding shapes and forms. Generally nothing is preconceived, everything is drawn right onto the original.

Each piece has probably seen a few hundred different images all of which at some point have been constructed and deconstructed gradually. I view my deconstruction very much as a progression as it shows me what I don't want, half of the time spent is breaking down the image. I could easily spend an entire night drawing shapes, lines and forms, erasing parts, redrawing and exploring different angles just to find myself destroy it all during the fuzzy battle that is morning.

www.redeye-art.com

T-shirts available @ the link below

www.redeyeart.branding2go.com

Tanja Udelhofen

I have always been imaginative and creative. During my schooldays I took part in different art projects, and later attended several art classes. Being a self-educated person I never stop to develop my skills in different genres, but mostly I create surreal and dark themed artworks. Originally from Germany, I now live in the great city of Rotterdam, Netherlands, with my partner and my stepdaughter.

My contact information: mail@galeria-surreal.com
http://www.galeria-surreal.com

William Wright Harris

My poetry has appeared in such literary anthologies as Immortal Verse and Favourite Memories, through such online publications as Poet's Ink and Languageandculture.net, and literary magazines such as Write On!!! and Ascending Aspirations. I am a student of English Literature and Creative Writing at the University of Tennessee- Knoxville, and have been fortunate enough to study poetry in the workshop setting from Marilyn Kallet, Arthur Smith, Jessie Janeshek and Marcel Brouwers. I have also been lucky enough to receive several awards, such as the Editor’s Choice Award from Poetry.com as well as be published in three countries: England, Canada, and of course my native United States of America.

B. Lynn

if anyone would like to contact me, my email is bmtimework123@hotmail.com

Alessandro Cusimano

was born in Palermo, Italy, on July 2, 1967. He lives in Rome, where he is writer, poet, translator. Anarchist and visionary, painful and surreal, his works reflect on anxiety, crush conventions and illusions, proclaiming, with a barrage of words, that life is, by its nature, a scandal. An unconventional path, funny and desperate, populated by staring puppets and strange creatures, whose life unfolds between sarcasm and resentful emotion. Appearing recently on the international literary stage, some of his writings have been published by The Cynic Online Magazine, Decanto Magazine, The Recusant, FOLLY Magazine, Exercise Bowler, Streetcake Magazine, Bewildering Stories, Numinous Magazine, Deadman’s Tome, RED OCHRE Lit, Orion’s Child Magazine and Black Cat Poems.

Alejandro Flores-Oviedo

http://www.redbubble.com/groups/solo-exhibition/forums/10757/topics/148245

Terreson

Poet, sometime novelist, short story writer, and essayist. Said with some tongue in cheek, but when asked about my career I tend to think of what Djuna Barnes said about herself late in life: America's best kept literary secret. One reviewer has said of my work: "Terreson's is a masculine voice that heeds the feminine, and unites these contrasting aspects into a rich, harmonizing body of experience." I can go with that, at least viewed as motive. I've always kept to a daytime job and not just for money. These years it involves honey bees and honey bee queens in the Deep South.

I can be found on Delectable Mnts Salon Chat poetry board: http://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/ -- "DM styles itself on the salon notion. It looks to be a gathering of free thinkers, dilettantes, amateurs (which means 'lover of the thing'), aficionados (which means 'to have an affection for the thing'), and conversationalists for whom conversation is as essential as bread and water. Ideally the board is a place where doctors of philosophy, mathematicians, poets, outlaws, technicians, experts, liberal artists, housewives, garbage collectors, and desperados can bounce ideas and experience off each other."

JoAnn Nava

"BEAUTY IN ALL THINGS" is a part of my Wildlife Sanctification Series

www.JoAnnNava.com

Jane Røken

Jane Røken grew up on a diet of Russian folk tales, the Salvation Army, and Norwegian fiddle music. She believes in angels, moomintrolls, and rocks that chant in thunderstorms. She lives in Denmark, on the boggy interface between hedgerows and barley fields, and likes to think of herself as an internationalist.

Thomas W. Bossert

The painter Thomas W. Bossert from Germany clearly has been influenced by the great surrealists, Dali, Magritte, and also H.R. Giger. In his acrylic paintings he combines organic elements, forms from the microcosm or mandalas with human figures, and thus symbolizes how tightly intertwined the human existence is with its external world.

Many images are born out of playing with symbols, colours, lines, and structures.

My homepage: www.art-of-thomboss.de

Lorna Smithers

comes from Penwortham, nr Preston, Lancashire. She completed a BA in Philosophy and English in 2004 and an MA in European philosophy 2005. Since then she has worked with horses as a riding instructor and groom and is currently working as a cleaner whilst hoping to a establish a writing career.

In the quartet which this pair of poems are from, ‘Reminiscences of Elementals,’ she connects with places in Lancashire by working with spirits of the elements to evoke visions of it’s industrial past.

"Each piece confronts the issue of the loss of industry and the groundlessness of contemporary society. I see this as relevant to the topic as the poems take the form of revelations upon a threshold where the divide between the material / imaginative and present / past breaks down to bring about the visionary experience set into words on the page."

My e-mail address: lornasmithers@tiscali.co.uk

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com; Seers and Seekers Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/seerseeker/; The Healing Dance Network Yahoo Group: http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/healingdance/; Visionary Arts and Minds Tribe; theme-based chapbooks 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://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html; 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

feel free to email me to discuss visions and art: libramoon42@mindspring.com

Jorge Myztico Campo

Myztico was born in Cuba and raised in the Times Square District of NYC. He is a self taught artist, muralist, musician, filmmaker and writer. His works have been collected by the Museum of Native Americans in Washington, D.C and held in private collections internationally. His work was recently showcased in TheVisionary Revue
http://visionaryrevue.com/webtext4/mystico.html

He has showcased his work throughout the USA. His work can be seen and heard at: http://myztico.mosaicglobe.com/
email address: myztico13@yahoo.com

Freedom is the only proven path to prosperity. Sanity is the only proven path to freedom.
Courage is the only proven path to sanity. Knowledge of Self is the only proven path to courage.
Visit my Art Shop: http://www.zazzle.co.uk/lucidshaman

David Michael Joseph

I'm a Filmmaker, poet/short story author and screenwriter from New Jersey but living in Los Angeles.

Brigitte Cinq-Mars

"The Light at The End of The Tunnel" is one of my nail polish–on–canvas paintings.

Michael Hopkins

http://mnhopkins.blogspot.com/

Robert J Donaghey

http://www.artisticgenius.com/SacredArtSlideShow.html

Jolanta Gora-Wita

is a Polish-born media artist and independent curator living and working in New York City since 1986. In September 2002, work by Gora-Wita was added to the Permanent Collection of the Library of Congress in Washington D.C.. She has been featured in group shows at museums, galleries and cultural centers in Europe and the US, including the State Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia; Chelsea Art Museum, NYC, NY; L'Universita di Roma La Sapienza, Rome, Italy; Kulturverein Schloss Goldegg, Goldegg, Austria; Kunstwerk Project, Galerie Hofmeisterhaus, Fotogalerie LichtSchatten, Siemens Nixdorf Gallery in Munich, Germany; Whipple Gallery at Southwest State University in Marshall, Minnesota; and Museum of New Art, Detroit. She was presented in Japan at Index Gallery, Osaka and Casa Gallery, Tokyo. In New York City, Gora-Wita has shown at D.U.M.B.O. Mastel + Mastel Gallery; Monique Goldstrom; Eighth Floor Gallery; Trans Hudson; 450 Broadway and more. (...) She was also featured artist in a group exhibition at the Consulate General of the Republic of Poland.

Combining the roles of artist, art activist, and curator, Gora-Wita has organized numerous Global New Media exhibitions including “Unauthorized Access “ at Hermitage Museum, St. Petersburg, Russia; "The Sonic Self" at Chelsea Art Museum; "TLON" and "Mission to Mars" at Eighth Floor Gallery; "Sonic Identity" at 450 Broadway; and "Binary Code" at Trans Hudson Gallery.
These audio-visual-driven, ambient events have extended her work in the domain of sound art; Gora-Wita wrote as Sound/Media Art Editor for NY Arts Magazine 2002-2006.

Fascinated with electronic culture and its implications, Gora-Wita uses emergent technology to explore ancient concerns about the limits of the possible, the efficacy of communication, and human interactions in the modern culture.

"I want to share with you from bottom of my heart my creativity to express this moment and my support to the OWS movement."

http://bincode.com/exid/

"When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace” - J. Hendrix

Adan Del Bosque

I hope you enjoy my visionary art.

if you wish to contribute to a future issue, take a little trip to

Submission Guidelines ~~ http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010/08/submission-guidelines.html

visit previous issues in the archives * *

Submission Guidelines

2011-11-11T08:14:00.002Z

issue 21 Theme

threshold revelations

has emerged 11/11/11

EV#22 - Gifting Gaea

Gift the Goddess with your most mind and heart opening art

Embrace Her with our beauty

Get them in by early April 2012 (the Year of Prophecies)

Submission Guidelines:

Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine is an online 'zine displaying various visual and written visionary art connected into a derivative artistic statement. It is free for anyone who wants to view it:

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com

Issue dates are idiosyncratic and astrologically linked to the issue's theme.

Selection of submissions is about the quality of your work, but moreso about what works together for the issue as a whole.

I am looking for visionary art which encompasses depth of meaning and grace of execution. This can be in the form of poetry, flash fiction, essay or visual art. Nothing superficial or formulaic will be considered.

In terms of length, it can be as short as you like, but not more than a few standard typewritten pages for written work. For visual work, I am assuming each piece can be formatted to fit an appropriate page size.

There is no restriction on simultaneous submissions or previous publication. Before publication I will ask for a written (emailed) statement affirming that you own the copyright to the piece(s). I will also ask you for a contributor's bio (see Contributors' page for examples) and the form in which you wish your copyright notification to appear.

Please submit your work in the body of an email, or send in the body of an email a web address where the work can be seen with specific indication of which piece(s) you are submitting. If this does not work in specific instances, we will individually work out another method. Please indicate in the subject line of the email that this is a submission to Emerging Visions, and, if pertinent, the issue number and/or theme name. The email address for all submissions and correspondence is:

libramoon42@mindspring.com

Please feel free to ask any questions for clarification or that may help you in your decision whether to submit your work to "Emerging Visions."

If your work is selected for publication, you will be notified in advance of publication, at which time any details can be addressed.

)mad magicks( Emerging Visions XX May 2011

2011-05-22T03:15:00.002Z

Beyond

created by Radio Free Clear Light

I am going beyond, to where you cannot reach me, but I can still reach you. I can hold you in my mind, cradle you as if you are one of a basket of delicate little things, but you cannot conceive of what I am becoming, where I am going. The words that shape your mind will not let that knowledge in. When I reach from here to there and touch you it is possible that you will feel frightened, threatened.

Who is this unknown other? You might write me a letter saying that I have become a stranger to you, you might assume that I am unhappy, filled with a terrible darkness merely because you can not see me. Just because you are blind, it does not follow that I am filled with darkness, or that the darkness that I am filled with is filled with terrible things. You fear what you do not know, what you cannot know. You fear what you do not understand, what you cannot understand. You fear me, or fear for the me that you once imagined me to be because I am moving beyond your reach, beyond your sight. I have gone far from your bosom and you suppose that it is a bad thing.

Why do I go? Why am I casting off blindness and stepping out of the chains that make us who we are, who we imagine we are? Why have I stopped playing the serious game with you? Why have I ceased to be serious? Because I am going beyond, stepping out, making a creative choice.

How can I say that, you have asked. I’ll tell you. I can say anything now because it is all meaningless, all as meaningless as red, blue, and yellow. All words are colors that I play with like a child with finger paint. I will not compare myself to a master, I will not say that I am to words what Rembrandt is to red, blue, and yellow, but the only way for me to get there is to begin here, playing with these words now. The way to begin is to say farewell to you and begin the trek beyond.

You may feel angry with me for refusing to play, for refusing to conform as you have conformed to the world made of words that is the shape of your mind. You may feel angry as those dogs locked behind chain link fences feel angry when they see another unleashed dog stroll by beyond their reach. Are you angry at me for choosing liberation, or are you angry with yourself for choosing imprisonment?

You may also feel sorrow. You may feel that I am breaking your heart by leaving you, that I am hurting you by releasing my ties with you. For this I have no answer that won't sting. Should an able man sit down in the desert with a man with broken legs?

I would drag you, but you have no desire to go where I am going. You prefer the desert, your perpetual suffering. These desires live in me as well, but in my case something else is growing, something with the power to override desire. I call this thing my will and it is carrying me beyond, to where you cannot reach.

THE MYSTERY OF WATERS

The Black River moved east to the Red Sea
as August crept in on soft hands,
all before a lost tribe of clowns
carrying cartoons and sacred images
high above their heads
close to the blue sky
close to their desire.

Calliope music beckoned them enter the
cathedral that nestled under a grand mustard tree,
as Mary Magdalene flew high above the center ring
Saint Agnes recited the seven truths
Lucifer blew fire and ice
ending the world as predicted by Frost.

Alice, their queen, kept watch -
Alice who knew the secret of grinning cats and wise caterpillars
smoking dope high above the cathedral on tree limbs,
purring to perfection in sitting meditation
dreaming of dancing mice
one minded mischief makers.

I remained silent and floated on to the Dead Sea,
where blood drops become rose buds in bleeding hearts.
Watching ash fall from the hand of an avatar
snow flakes in August
dusting me white as talcum after baptism.

These wandering mysteries.
These puzzlements of mind.
Meditations on the nature of rivers and seas,
breezes that dapple my mind in sunlight at midnight.

Will you float with me
On this river of grace?
Belly button pointing toward heaven,
umbilical eye staring into the mystery of love.

copyright Charles P. Ries

(c) Jhana Bowen "Dancer of Colours"

Redemption

(c) Lindsey Carrell "The Flute Player"

Witness, watcher, water dancer, warrior
And almost wilderness within
He was, a compass always pointing north
Alone a century in dark without a moon.
Unending longing, startled fast as noticed birds,
He knows a promise only half-fulfilled,
A once and not forgotten evil
Not recorded on the wall with any other name,
A loneliness though intimately
Known in blood
And will she
Always look at him with tears?

All waste and wasting wound the wilderness
And also freeze his soul to witness yet again.
Four compass points, four winds, four trout,
And four cliff images of never lost again
Are his, a fortress, magic, wonder still his armor
As he walks alone in darkness,
Treads the hall where she is wasting, bloodless,
Soon to join the gone, the lost, the never knowing.
This time he has read her name and whispered it,
Will read in stone and paper that there were
For her no fortress and no grizzly bear.
He wished for eagles, feathers wide.

At close of light and birth of stars,
Chokedamp, firedamp, no zephyrs, he is. He is
Not in conquered wilderness nor close the rapids,
Only crowded concrete. There again alone unless
A seeker, sailplane, sapphire gentle-bright:
Set fire the sky, she knows
His heart in blue and purple, red, and gold,
And fur and feathers, wind and longing.
Soar, set fire the sky, the gone, the lost,
The never knowing
Candles of forgiveness in the darkness,
Spirit guides.

bej01/30/99

copyright Beth Johnson all rights reserved

Jude Cowell "Shroom Trio"Creative Commons Attribution-No Derivative 2.5

T'Alçae ElFaken and the Lady of the Crimson Dance

T'Alçae ElFaken draws a circle around the Fire dancing

Careful to faithfully render the twilight dividing line

Between the fire’s light and the Night that sucks it away

Higher wizards might use enchanted staffs or talent devices

To inscribe the shielding circle

But T'Alçae uses a common stick from the forest

And achieves an acumen far above his station

Achieves the highest protection

Achieves a Circle of Ages

(c) Adam Pinson "Cycloscope Kaleidoclops"

“Fair Salamander

Dear Lady of the Crimson Dance

An admirer seeks a knowing. . .”

The hues of the quick flickering Dance sputter and hiss

The pop and crackle of the Undulation become a staccato

“Fair Lady I offer sustenance.”

And the prepared measures are cast in the proper fashion

Billions of tiny spark angels become the comely curves

Of a Lady both dark and light

A Lady of Fire

T'Alçae holds a proper silence

Awaiting her pleasure before speaking

And this pleases her as she has not been pleased in years

She considers the young warrior wizard

A zephyr whisper

Softer than the vampire feathers known as snowflakes

A voice so soft and subtle

Asks:

“You are not entirely unpleasing to me

And I would know your name. . . "

“Fair One I ask to know the proper manner to address you.”

“Oh a gentleman. . .

A gentleman would not ask a Lady to reveal her secrets

But he would never be so rude as to refuse his name to her.”

“I am T'Alçae ElFaken.”

And he is wisely silent, offering none of his titles of honors

The Lady smiles

The sky above the circle tips the balancing point

Spilling over the spine of the night

And everything slides toward Dawn

“Speak your question gentle Wizard.”

“I seek an understanding of the mad magic known as Love. . .”

She is laughing, a not entirely pleasant sound

“Lady of Heat and Passion. . . "

Now her cackling has become embarrassing

He is silent

“Oh child of Fear and Flesh

Serve me another portion.”

Flask – Floom – Chortle and Cavort

“Silly mortal

Love is the only divine magic you ephemerals may know.”

She is growing into a fountain of spark salmon

Her voice is quick and relentless

“Love. . .?

You ask of Love?

Look Kid you have been respectful

And I have no taste for your flesh

So I’m gonna grant your request."

(c) little lightening bolt mccoy

"Love is the weirdest magic of all

My sister obeys no laws

She will not be conjured or abided

Sacrifice is the coin of Her Realm

And all who come to know her caress

Find Love to be the shortest distance

Between wherever you are

And total madness.”

A whoosh and a whom

T'Alçae shields his eyes

And she is gone

He stands

Still quivering

When comes the Dawn

Quixotic as ever

copyright William C. Burns, Jr.

Twenty-First Century

A moon walks into a bar
and forgets to take off his soccer cleats.
A lady friend bellows, Look at those cankles!
Moon is embarrassed, his face turns
pumpkin and sunflower in the cheeks.
A flashlight mistakes him for another flashlight,
and tries to pick him up. The moon is too drunk to trust
his own diminishing moral code,
so he consults his lady-friend in the bathroom.
She tells him, let him blow you, but don't touch him or anything.
The bathroom is playing “Kiss From A Rose” by Seal,
which is Moon's favorite song.
He takes it as a sign and goes back into the smoky bar,
ready to be fondled by a stranger.

The flashlight is talking to a boat-shaped chandelier.
He orders her a mind-eraser and thinks he's suave.
The flashlight avoids eye contact with Moon
while telling the boat-shaped chandelier about how pre-Raphaelite
she looks, how bright she is, like a banana leaf.
Moon thinks, don't get so down on yourself.
People don't think about you as much as you think they do.
They keep trying to cop a feel, claiming,
I've never felt anyone's moon before. They ogle
at his big soft legs, like they're made of sugar and his hair
looks a bit oily. Some Chinese claim to worship the moon,
offering him a slice of honeycake. He prefers to drink beer
out of a sippycup, gets salt-hard. People notice,
offer him their business cards, trying to network.
They ask Moon, what was your major in college?
He replies, rhetoric. It shuts them up. Somebody says,
My friend Jupiter has a lot of moons, and people barhop
to get closer to the sun, where there is more breathing room.
They finally leave Moon alone.

Quietly he prays to Father, Son & Holy Spirit. He looks for Earth,
his own Father. He forgets that right now he is living on Earth,
not in his crater-womb but holding his hands on the ground.
You know that trite quote about footsteps? You know the one,
the way it's endlessly re-printed on funeral programs: I was carrying you,
my Son, all this time. Not many people know that Moon's footsteps
are clouds. On overcast days, Moon exercises with sooty allure
and a pedometer, hoping to shrink to the size of a goose-necked banana.
Earth stares back at his son, disappointed.

(c) Christine Reilly

Where forgotten Scarecrows weep.

I saw you in the land where forgotten scarecrows weep
dancing with an old Guy Fawkes that had somehow escaped the flames,
a cellophane rose gripped firmly between your teeth.
Skeletons clacked castanets and a mariachi band who had drunk too much tequila
and missed the Day of the Dead played xylophone on human bones,
tapping tom-tom skulls and strumming pelvic guitars.
Beneath a thousand falling stars I fell in love with you
again and again and again, beneath an always rising Moon.

"There're playing our tune, my dear," I whispered in your fleshless ear
but you couldn't hear me and couldn't see me either,
My phantom Lady Godiva, dancing Shank's Pony up and down
the cobbled streets of Cornwall, along the spine of the Pennines,
in secret forests of Merlin-haunted Scotland
where old stone circles jig and reel beneath cold northern lights
and on a clear December night the Lord of the Arctic
gazes out from his castle windows dreaming of Summer.

All through January and February I followed your shadow,
throwing tiny stones and pebbles at your roughly stuffed companion,
willing him to fall apart. Finally in March a cold gust
of easterly Siberian blew his stupid hat off...
but still you kept on dancing,
whispering sweet nothings to the old broomstick
sticking up out of his neck.
Only with the coming of April did your faithful Guy finally disintergrate,
cheeky birds just returned from warmer climes
stealing his stuffing to line their nests.
By late July you too had all but dissolved
but before you vanished away completely
I trapped a little piece of your vegetative essence in a jam-jar
and even now it sits upon my marble mantlepiece
inbetween the cuckoo clock that doesn't work
and a little clay ballerina with a broken leg.

But sometimes in my dreams at night
I walk with you beneath a thousand falling stars
and a moon that never sets.
You gaze into my eyes at last and whisper tender endearments.
I have been lying in this overgrown cemetary now for ninety years
but still the dream of love keeps me alive...

copyright Willowdown

Chalice

This empty chalice to be filled by spirit's essence, placed open, according to ritual, waits for its turn.

The Goddess stands over Her cauldron, deep in this hidden chamber of Her chthonic cave. She tosses in the herbs, recites the liturgy, long-practiced but never without supreme concentration.

Sprite sparks, disembodied voices, curls of smoke stained with potent ash, swirl about, crazily careen, above and around Her pot of charming, of magicks.

Goddess of so many duties, many eras, supplicants, sorrow-filled worshippers, She bears the longing, the emptiness.

"I cannot fill you. I can not fill your chalice of emptiness. That is not my gift or purpose. I can offer only to guide you to what is already within."

Nearly quiet, sea sounds, dank odor of lowtide, creeping Spring carries melt of harsher climes. She stokes the fire to remember when the Sun was high and strong, and present. Fire has its own secrets, its own order. As do we, each our own furnace, nurturing a flame that is destiny. So old, She has been burnt by many flames -- blistered, scarred, hardened. She still tastes every fiery spice, seasonings, marinades. It all moves Her to cackling hysteria. You don't want the pain of knowing what She endures. You just want soothing fantasies to believe in.

She understands your fear, withdraws. No need to escalate sorrow. She is self-contained in her work, close-knit layers of exquisite aeons, sense memories, distilled lives.

"Was I a woman, then, upon the Earth, feeling succulent breeze of early Spring uplift me while returning birds and budlings rushed into new beginnings?"

In the dark, in the cold, enclosed below that hopeful ground, stirrings still find Her. She can not miss Sun, Sky, open fields. They are ingrained in Her, as immediate and intense as ever they could be. There is no yesterday, no tomorrow. Always all times, all places, all emotions, overwhelm, yet gentle strand by strand amuse. She has no pity. There is only action, including the action of long enthrallment, of stasis within unfolding storms. There is no room for judgment, no excuses. She sees beyond all the rationales, the weak flailing attempts at blame, at justification.

Laughter takes Her. It makes so much more sense to revel in release, expelling, cleansing for exploration, for readiness to take the next step.

The rampant confusion clears. Her eyes explore moving scenes; Her ears hear the clamor of supplications. She feels, breathes, their stories. She cocks an ear, widens the circumference of her eyes, takes in this kaleidoscopic landscape, cacophonous data. Minutely, she discerns cloying strings of powerful souls as yet unaware of their gifts, gladly grasps familiar flavors. She narrows in Her focus, becomes more attentively intent in Her seeking, images of journeys to be undertaken. It has never been that She demands worship. She is fully aware of Her responsibility to those few who demand Her influence, those who, knowingly or from inchoate intuition, claim kinship.

Chthonic wilds, primordial castings, build into eternity. Silent, archetype of will ponders life, intrinsically senses despair, bottomless sorrow, waste of intent on such a merciless plane. Invigorated, challenged, She gives challenge to her wards. "Find me, at the root of desire. Your truest wish of will to be fashioned, you must give only the price of who you were made against your nature."

*************************************

Long that Full Moon night she stood on the balcony, staring at Lady Moon, breathing in sweet night blooming herbs from the cloistered garden. She fancied hearing faint music in the rustling wind. Slowly, not knowing that her body moved, she danced, the wind carrying her like a lover's arms caught up in dancing slow and closer than a kiss. "Goddess?" Her voice quavered at the audacity; but she felt surer of her course. She felt helpless, unloved, unsupported. She felt a slow, undulating anger move through muscles and mind.

"Goddess, I am your child." Nothing had ever felt more true.

"I am of you; and in need of your aid. You know I have not asked anything of you before. We are independent, a self-dependent kind. We enjoy challenge, figuring out the puzzles, crafting our own prize, facing the demons square on with defiance and grace. I know these are your attributes when I see myself thus behaving.

Tonight I am lost. I have lost my lust for challenge. I am defeated, unable to marshal the means to fight.

I beseech you, turn to you in supplication. Tell me, what can I do? How can I escape this false fate that will seize and drain my soul, if I can find no exit?"

Reveling in the ecstasy of the dance, eyes closed still facing moonlight, she felt a calming presence, so near, palpable. The perfume was like sleep, intoxicating, evoking dreams. That funny way that dreams have, half-baked images, fragments take on narrative.

She was somehow, without memory of travel, deep in archetypal forest. It was deadly dark; but the trees, the moss, flower petals, glowed, an unearthly light from an unannounced source.

She was drawn to a particular tree, indistinguishable from many others, yet a presence unto itself. Without segue, a shovel was in her hands, shoveling. Her apron pockets (an apron that had apparently fashioned itself and appeared atop her dress) had supplied themselves with a mixture of particular herbs, most of which were unfamiliar. Somehow her arms and shovel had excavated ground to reveal the tree roots.

Strange roots, these, alive. Yes, I know roots of a growing tree are alive; but these were lively. They wriggled, pulsed, seemed to dance, though in circumscribed place.

The shovel was now a knife. She cut open a finger of root. It bled copiously, a brilliant green. She mixed the root blood with the herbs from her pockets. A song came from her lips, from her throat, from her gut, bubbling through her as the herbs and tree blood mixed into a viscous paste.

"Root of desire calls
infinite melodies
binds the seven seas
spills through centuries
cast out among the stars
essence of who you are.
Feel the root of desire
enflame your heart.
Realize your part.
Play its haunting melody.
Charm vibrations repair your fears.
Released from harm, from chains
of foes,
find your destiny
rooted in the throes of desire."

She recognized the Goddess's chalice that held the potent mixture as it touched her lips. Drinking the potion of the root, she felt light and free. Viscous green light poured through her, igniting every capillary, every neuronal fiber.
Suddenly she knew what she had always known.

There was that moment when her Goddess spoke through her, to her, seering, branding with faith that all she could ever need was hers.

The dreamlike night receded. She slept deeply, curled above hallowed ground beneath protecting leave laden branches.

Her immediate fears and cares no longer matter.

She will awaken into a life she does not expect.

The Goddess smiles, spent for this evening. She fills her chalice with consecrated wine to drink, savor intoxication of liquid fire, as embers of her night's workings settle, gently, into history.

(c) Laurie Corzett

In the valley of fallen idols.

In the valley of fallen idols
A thousand dethroned Gods sat and debated
The quality of various types of dust.
"The sand over which my shadow falls"
said a great, cracked eidolon of Baal,
"is tinged with the blood of a million sacrifices
offered up to me in reverence and fear
- the very dung-beetles that breed beneath the bones of the desert avoid the touch of its lingering pestilence."

"The sand over which my shadow falls"
said a disfigured statue of Astarte,
"glitters like a spilt cornucopia of gemstones like unto the precious jewels, rings and necklaces that a multitude of suitors have offered up to my incomparable beauty beneath the Evening Star
- the Moon and stars themselves lean down from the horizon to cast their jealous gaze upon such scattered wealth."

"Beware", said a fish-headed image of Dagon
half-buried beneath the silt and rubble of wind and time-blasted temples,
"Beware the treacherous false sand o'er which my baleful shadow falls.
Beneath its seemingly smooth and innocent surface
the bones of countless mortals fester in slow decay:
priests, sacred-virgins, great Kings and Queens with their retinues of concubines, catamites, soothsayers and slaves by the score.
Even after the passage of ten thousand Suns and Moons
it is still hungry for the blood of worshippers
And trembles lustfully at the softest tread of distant footfalls."

Beneath the ruined figure of a particularly hideous three-headed,
multi-limbed deity the shadows were thickest of all,
A pool of clotted midnight wherein a shattered stone gryphon crouched at the feet of its many-eyed Master
(was it Time, Eternity or Death?).
Presently, a young child came skipping lightly between the broken and half-toppled statues,
Singing sweetly, tossing a golden ball up into the air and catching it.
Between the fallen Gods and Demons she skipped
From patch of burnished sunlight to shadow and back to sunlight again,
Oblivious of all but her happy game.
Lost in their reveries of splendour and power
The dethroned deities of the Ages debated the various qualities of various types of dust.

Estariel.

Estariel,
a laughing-eyed river girl
is staring up at you from beneath
the water's rippling mirror
- has the impudent creature no manners?

Estariel,
whose is that slender shadow following you about
in the silvery starlight,
leaping and dancing at your feet
with scandelous mockery
- why do you allow it to behave so boldly?

Estariel, Estariel,
there are moths of gossamer and ethereal fire
engaged in some erratic display
above your moonlit hair
- is it the scent of your dreams that attracts them
or are they merely drunk on your beauty?

Estariel,
has that impudent river's daughter
plugged your ears with water blossom?
I have been playing plaintive love songs on my catkin-harp
all evening long
but you have not looked my way once
- are you, or I, under some subtle enchantment?

Estariel,
my throat is tired with praising your beauty
and my eyes grow tired with the dust of so many stars.
can you not spare a single glance
or sigh a single sigh
before the birds begin to sing
and the world begins to waken?

Estariel,
what a cold and heartless girl you are,
sitting beneath the moonlight all night,
unmindful of my vigil,
shamelessly allowing the wind to caress your bare arms
and plunge its lewd fingers into your hair...
tomorrow I will take my harp to the Forests of Gold
and sing my song to the tree-nymphs.
I will not be made a fool of in this way!

Estariel,
the invisible Prince of some faraway Kingdom
has laid a garland of phantom flowers at your feet.
His ghostly shadow is sitting quietly next to yours
as he gazes into your dreaming eyes
and tries to fathom your name.
A white owl flies across the stars,
a feather drifts slowly down from the Moon;
tiny droplets of dew are arranging themselves
aesthetically on the petals of flowers,
blades of grass and strands of frost-silvered spiderweb.
All the little river girls are gently swaying in their
beds of fresh green weeds and water-cress,
dreaming of mischievous games to play the next day
and sunbeams to chase through fields ripe with summer.
Estariel, Estariel
- what fortunate thought has strayed into your soul
and fallen under your spell?

copyright Willowdown

(c) Jennifer Lange
"The Gaze"

For the May Queen

Tick Tock
Time's a'creeping
Maidens weeping
beating rags along the river's edge
Shallow floods keep the land aware
destiny is seatide

Crazy lady mending her endless tears
Throat flumed, a voice to run from
Love never tarried, though many she married
She cocks an eye, arrowing flocks of fears
Cackles and coaxes sweet mourning doves
to carry her coffin to market
Buyers beware

Don't stop
Don't answer
Don't stare
Don't be seen
Hide in the green
Hide in the hole you call home
Never admit you belong
to the caste you belong to alone
Never assent to succeed to the throne
Wait for cover of darkness
Wallow in comfort of sleep
Trade what time you're given
for a secret you can't keep
Destiny is seatide

libramoon

Guns ‘n Butter

I’d been having an affair
with a hydrocarbon medusa.

"Medusa"

A crude relationship
based on heavy metal
m.r.e.’s and gunshot residue.

I wanted her to meet the folks
but she couldn’t come inside,

said their roof blocked out the sky,
said she could only climax
on her back
with starlight glancing
off the soles of her feet.

At water’s edge
Medusa pulled me atop of her.
But as I plunged in she was cut
on a scrap of beach glass.

She bled out on the sand
and left me lying in a pool
of thirty weight.

A classic conundrum.

It was infatuation;
I couldn’t get enough of her.
But my mother is happier now.
She says a hydrocarbon medusa
was too old for me anyway.

text and image (c) David Blaine

LIGHTLESS

Each year the light is less.

We can barely see it now,

The faint necklace of

The Milky Way.

The old ones were wrong,

You know with their waxed fingers

Pointing up like abandoned adobe.

Yet you know better in your cubical gardens

And half moth-eaten moons,

You have arrived in

Handcuffs.

copyright Clinton Van Inman

It Is Written

I stand, open and defenseless,
Waiting for Pluto to overpower me,
Take me where he will,
Suit me to his purpose.
Or, is that my sister Hecate
Coming to meet me,
Coming to embrace me,
To set me free?

Wondrous are the ways
of the shifty, glamour-ridden mind.
We peek out through rainbow slits
Onto a sinuous landscape.
Slippery bits of meaning slither along
Hissing out of forked tongue
Oracular riddles.
"Oh, yes, my love awaits me.
In the tall grasses we will twain.
Great fortune is to befall us.
It is written."
And rewritten, and rewritten
On and on through the fever.
Burning molecules, organic fuel,
Dancing, wildly, within a fiery pentagram,
Within channeled schematics,
Ignited by a living passion.

I am beyond words.
Tumbling through shiny bubbles
And iron-wrought hieroglyphs.
There is nothing to depend on
But pure will
And the ability
To suspend belief.

libramoon

Contributors to )mad magicks(

2011-05-22T03:06:00.001Z

*
*
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

Leland Auslender

Frozen in timeless beauty, Auslender’s Celestial Images reflect transcendental or “peak” experiences of our oneness with the mystical universe as we open ourselves to receive whatever it might offer…

glimpses of the glittering biodance,
visits by the mysterious Muse,
the cosmos as a cathedral,
fantasies… dreams,
ethereal angels,
mythical gods,
nature spirits,
love and
bliss.

The photographs and films of Leland Auslender have been critically acclaimed at national and international exhibitions, including many one-man shows. "The Birth of Aphrodite" won the CINE Golden Eagle and the Atlanta International Film Festival Silver Phoenix for Best Experimental Film. It was an official U.S. entry at the Cannes Film Festival.

"Radio Free Clear Light"
composed of
Etanna Sack
Lydia Harari
JC Mendizabal

Radio Free Clear Light is a living radio built of human components for the purpose of tuning into an otherworldly transmission through creative action.
Their experiments in constructing and deconstructing the written word can be explored at: www.maddogmagick.com
And the maddness deepens...
www.radiofreeclearlight.com
www.blacknotemusic.com
www.viasinistrae.com
http://sinistrae.libsyn.com/
http://rfcl.tumblr.com/
http://secretsareeverywhere.blogspot.com/

Any portion of their text may be reproduced at anytime as long as you are willing to credit the source abstractly and face the eternal consequence.
Feel free to contact at maddog@viasinistrae.com

Jennifer Lange

"I've always been fascinated by surreal art. The human mind is a wonderful playground, and I love creating artworks that give a different view of things, and maybe can even inspire viewers."

My Gallery: ranarh.deviantart.com
My Art Blog: ranarh.blogspot.com

Ione Citrin

"I DREAM, THEREFORE, I AM"
A Statement by Ione Citrin

I CREATE ART BECAUSE I MUST.
IT IS A NECESSARY EXTENSION OF MY LIFE.
IT IDENTIFIES AND SUBSTANTIATES MY EXISTENCE.
IT IS MY PROFILE AND MY LEGACY.
I WANT TO INTRIGUE AND ENTERTAIN.
I WANT TO INITIATE WONDER AND QUESTIONS.
I WANT TO COMMUNICATE MY THOUGHTS, DREAMS AND DESIRES.
MOST OF ALL, I WANT TO BE!

______________________________
BIOGRAPHY - "MY ART IS MY VOICE"

Ione's art has shown nationally since 1998 when, after years of world travel, a successful television, radio, theatre and film career in the performing arts, she decided to focus her richly diverse talents on the visual arts. Ione's artistic expression, creativity, and passion for communication have resulted in numerous awards for her painting, sculpture, mixed media, and assemblage. Her work has also been featured in several important publications. Ione maintains an extensive exhibition schedule in juried, non-juried, and invitational arts venues.

http://www.artbyione.com
ICitrin@aol.com

Charles P. Ries

lives in Milwaukee, Wisconsin. His narrative poems, short stories, interviews, and poetry reviews have appeared in over two hundred print and electronic publications. He has received four Pushcart Prize nominations for his writing. He is the author of THE FATHERS WE FIND, a novel based on memory, and six books of poetry. Most recently he was awarded the Wisconsin Regional Writers Association “Jade Ring” Award for humorous poetry. He is the former poetry editor for Word Riot (www.wordriot.org) and a former member of the board at the Woodland Pattern Book Center. Charles is Co-Chairman of the Wisconsin Poet Laureate Commission. He will have new book of poetry published in 2011: Girl Friend & Other Mysteries of Love that will be published by Alternating Current Press, Leah Angstman, Editor. He is a founding member of the Lake Shore Surf Club, the oldest fresh water surfing club on the Great Lakes(http://www.visitsheboygan.com/dairyland/). Most recently he was interviewed by Jane Crown for Blog Radio. You may find that interview by going to: www.janecrown.com and clicking on archived shows at the bottom of the page. You may find additional samples of his work by going to: http://www.literati.net/Ries/

Jhana Bowen

is passionate about inspiring people & is committed to sharing his gifts. Since 2004 he has been working to enhance the creative abilities of children, adults, the elderly & people with a disability in both Australia & abroad.

His works hang in many private collections worldwide. Jhana’s 6 years of Tibetan schooling, his yoga & meditation training, provide a unique approach to his classes & workshops.

my website
www.jhanabowen.com
my Facebook page
http://www.facebook.com/pages/Integral-Arts/145594985476028

Lindsey Carrell

is a self-taught painter living in Montana. She paints with acrylics and oils and is greatly inspired by the natural world. View her gallery at http://lindseycarrell.redbubble.com or gallery and poetry at http://birdstar.deviantart.com

Beth Johnson

I live in rural Southeast Michigan with a lunatic grown-up kitten and a peaceable yellow Lab who tolerates the kitten thinking she's a moving-parts cat toy. My primary profession is quality improvement in health care. I seek love, through all people and all situations; I seek the light and the lessons in others. I am one with Divine Design and Forgiveness, Infinite Intelligence, and always restored to abundance. I believe there is genius in each and every one of us, just waiting to be released.

I can be contacted for feedback, comments, questions, via poetreleased@gmail.com

Julia Still

All my works are in mixed media and traditionally executed with a pair of lucky scissors, glue and heavy books of all kinds for pressing. Any computer effects are only to correct wrinkles in paper, reflections in scanning and unforeseen "bloops". Since I am recovering from brain surgery, my eyes do not tolerate the computer for long.
I consider my artwork as a tremendous gift from my imagination, my body and the Divine. It is steeped in symbols, archetypes and what treasures are to be unearthed from my unconscious. It is my language because images come to me more naturally than words. I create my images hopefully to contribute not only to my healing but to anyone who may need it, and that includes this home of ours called Earth. I pray that each and everyone's individual journey is blessed and guided by the stars and that this planet is surrounded by love and care.
You can see a more extensive collection of my work:
www.labelleetlabeteart.deviantart.com

Jude Cowell

Lifelong artist and Georgia native Jude Cowell creates both visionary and botannical illustrations in oil and watercolor pencil on paper.
Her online art galleries include: Cosmic Lilith Art, Cosmic Persona Designs, Dreamyfish Art, Sepia Art Theater, and Two Hours You'll Never Get Back (all on Blogspot). Plus, you are cordially invited to browse the Jude Cowell Art Shop at www.zazzle.com/cowelljude if and as you wish! Jude also blogs on Politics through the lens of Astrology with a common good p.o.v. at Stars Over Washington and Jude's Threshold.
Visit: www.starsoverwashington.com/
and www.judecowell.wordpress.com/

For queries, to offer feedback, or for ordering details, email artist at: judecowell@gmail.com

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 . . .

Adam Pinson

It all starts with white paper madness......

Once my starting point has been established the rest is created mostly by process of elimination like a roomful of junk somewhere in my mind where I pull out objects and shapes to throw onto the paper. Once started the picture begins to draw itself depending on the evolution and juxtaposition of surrounding shapes and forms. Generally nothing is preconceived, everything is drawn right onto the original.

Each piece has probably seen a few hundred different images all of which at some point have been constructed and deconstructed gradually. I view my deconstruction very much as a progression as it shows me what I don't want, half of the time spent is breaking down the image. I could easily spend an entire night drawing shapes, lines and forms, erasing parts, redrawing and exploring different angles just to find myself destroy it all during the fuzzy battle that is morning.

www.redeye-art.com

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

littlelighteningbolt@gmail.com

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 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

http://www.flickr.com/photos/30759095@N02/

http://antiquatedontology.blogspot.com/

http://animistvisionaryart.blogspot.com/

Christine Reilly

Christine Jessica Margaret Reilly is currently pursuing her MFA in Poetry at Sarah Lawrence University. She received a bachelor's degree in Psychology and English: Creative Writing at Bucknell University. Two of her poems will be featured in “The Clearing: Forty Years with Toni Morrison, 1970-2010”, a book by James Braxton Peterson and Carmen Gillespie. She has been published in The Fossil Record, Toad the Journal, Bewildering Stories, Salzburg Review, Barely South Review, Forge, Anemone Sidecar, Asinine Poetry, Breadcrumb Scabs, Blood Lotus, Canopic Jar, the Bijou Poetry Review, CaKe, Blinking Cursor., Vox Poetica, Louffa Press, Eudaimonia, Caper Literary Journal, The Smoking Poet, Clutching at Straws, Lines + Stars . In Breadcrumb Scabs, her poem was named “Editor's Pick” of the issue. One of her poems was featured in an African Blues Art Installation piece in Bucknell University's Bertrand Library. She lives in New York.

Versions of her poem "Twenty-First Century" were previously published in Salzburg Review and Barely South Review.

Kendrah Lee Horn

-=http://khaotyk-artwerx.tk=-

Janice Duke

http://www.janiceduke.com/

Janice Duke is a UK-based Freelance Artist, specialising in Illustration. She works confidently in both traditional and digital media.
To contact her email: jr_anarchist@hotmail.com or janiceduke@janiceduke.com

Willowdown

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.

Tanja Udelhofen

I have always been imaginative and creative. During my schooldays I took part in different art projects, and later attended several art classes. Being a self-educated person I never stop to develop my skills in different genres, but mostly I create surreal and dark themed artworks. Originally from Germany, I now live in the great city of Rotterdam, Netherlands, with my partner and my stepdaughter.

My contact information: mail@galeria-surreal.com

http://www.galeria-surreal.com

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com; Seers and Seekers Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/seerseeker/; The Healing Dance Network Yahoo Group: http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/healingdance/; Visionary Arts and Minds Tribe; theme-based chapbooks 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://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html; 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.

"Chalice" is a reworking of the first chapter of a current fiction work in progress, working title: Root of Desire

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

This is where I like to play: Delectable Mnts Salon Chat poetry board: http://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/ -- "DM styles itself on the salon notion. It looks to be a gathering of free thinkers, dilettantes, amateurs (which means 'lover of the thing'), aficionados (which means 'to have an affection for the thing,'), and conversationalists for whom conversation is as essential as bread and water. Ideally the board is a place where doctors of philosophy, mathematicians, poets, outlaws, technicians, experts, liberal artists, housewives, garbage collectors, and desperados can bounce ideas and experience off each other." [Board description, but I concur]

feel free to email me to discuss visions and art: libramoon42@mindspring.com

David Blaine

lives in the Michigan Thumb where he and his wife Judy operate the state’s oldest hardware store.

Dave’s writing has appeared on and off line in numerous small press publications. He is a co-founder of The Outsider Writers Collective and enjoys good drinks, strong cigars, and reciting poetry. David can be contacted through Facebook or at his blog, A. Hello Whiskey

Here is the address for that blog:

http://www.davidblaine.blogspot.com/

Clinton Van Inman

I am a high school teacher in Hillsborough County, Florida. I am 65 and a graduate of San Diego State University. I was born in England. I have had many publications throughout the years. Recent publications are Blackcatpoem.com, Tower Journal, The Hudson View, Winter 2011, Inquisition Poetry, and Munyari.com to name a few. I consider myself the last of the beat generation and my collection of poetry will be called “the Last Beat,” as I still fight for the cause.

Greg Bart/turance

My art is an endeavor to share the vulnerable depths of experience, in all their rawness and grace, in order to occasion insight and true maturity. I live in NY, and my work can be found at turance.deviantart.com

if you wish to contribute to a future issue, take a little trip to

Submission Guidelines ~~ http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010/08/submission-guidelines.html

visit previous issues in the archives * *

"Spacing Outward" EV#19 ~ December 2010

2010-12-06T00:51:00.000Z

I dedicate this issue to Ronald Anthony Ebner,

with blessings beyond space and time ***

"Aiming when the treasure is so near" (c) Claudia Dose

"Spiralis Spiritus" (c) Janice Duke
Metamagical Circuit (random excerpt)

Practice, practice, vibrant fire-red
smoke rings for my lady
Goddess grants this smiling day
ritual of play
Glory Glory fat silver swords
swashling, caressing, violating the air
You with your act of splendour, curtseys,
curses, all guaranteed to cure
a thousand years of sleep.

Once upon a forest
clip-clop horse hoofs
noses snorting change
seasons - paleo to neo
robins hopping to seed greenery
glowing owls, blessedly blind,
grant swift sanctuary beneath wingspans
illuminated in Arthurian myth,
symbols that yearn like long dormant worms
sucking out dark holes over eons

Today we go to the circus.
Gather, children,
hooked to treacly tether
sharing sweet secrets
surreptitious touch
Mind the invisible netting,
safe from trailers hurtling over highway
or perennial city bus discharge of zombie drivers
only intent on fulfilling the schedule, home before
detonation.

"Glassworks" (c) Jane Røken

The circus is superb.
Imagine a trampoline ignited by grand fireflies
sparkling dayglo spraypaint into heaven.
Imagine noble elephants, gravely kneeling,
telepathic tremolo soothing vibration
carrying dreamtime back to Earth.

Imagine a dandelion trail outside the
schoolhouse window
breathful breezes of mint and lilac
destiny swells to crescendos of urgency.

Imagine the day that dawns when
you are no longer dreaming.

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

***
**
*
**
***

"Holy Clouds" (c) Jane Røken

"Head Holder" © Tanja Udelhofen, Galeria Surreal

“NOW YOU DON'T HAVE TO BE DIFFERENT”

(c) Santiago del Dardano Turann

While riding on the L one afternoon
I saw an advertisement at a station
Proclaiming in bold glossy letters freedom
From all the thousand shocks to which we're heir.
Enlightenment is just a pill away
As what was once the soma of the devas
Can now be gained through modernized indulgences;
Prescriptions from the drug cult of the doctors.
This gospel from respected drug cartels
Proclaimed “Now you don't have to be different.”
Is 'different' now a psychiatric state
Thus casting 'health' as flat-line drugged conformity?

The hundredth monkey is the strange one;
The one that for the first time took a twig
And stuck it in an ant hill for its lunch.
How much of what we’ve done flows from that moment?
Without its hunger and anxiety
As fuel to drive its life on into new
And unknown vistas it would not have happened.
If some dark alchemy should sponge away our sorrows
Then entropy alone will fill the void

"Fly Out of Time" (c) Fanitsa Petrou

Any unauthorized reproduction will automatically lead to legal implications.

Conscious Peace
(c) William T. Hathaway
"Entrance" (c) Greg Bart/turance
I was sitting in full lotus, body wrapped in a blanket, mind rapt in deep stillness, breathing lightly, wisps of air curling into the infinite space behind my closed eyes. My mantra had gone beyond sound to become a pulse of light in an emptiness that contained everything.

An electric shock flashed down my spine and through my body. My head snapped back, limbs jerked, a cry burst from my throat. Every muscle in my body contracted -- neck rigid, jaws clenched, forehead tight. Bolts of pain shot through me in all directions, then drew together in my chest. Heart attack! I thought. I managed to lie down, then noticed I wasn't breathing -- maybe I was already dead. I groaned and gulped a huge breath, which stirred a whirl of thoughts and images.

Vietnam again: Rotor wind from a hovering helicopter flails the water of a rice paddy while farmers run frantically for cover. Points of fire spark out from a bamboo grove to become dopplered whines past my ears. A plane dives on the grove to release a bomb which tumbles end over end and bursts into an orange globe of napalm. A man in my arms shakes in spasms as his chest gushes blood.

I held my head and tried to force the images out, but the montage of scenes flowed on, needing release. I could only lie there under a torrent of grief, regret, terror and guilt. My chest felt like it was caving in under the pressure. I clung to my mantra like a lifeline to sanity. I was breathing in short, shallow gasps, but gradually my breath slowed and deepened, the feelings became less gripping, and I reoriented back into the here and now: my small room in Spain on a Transcendental Meditation teacher training course.

"Julia's Exploration of the Air Element" (c) Julia Still

I lay on my narrow bed stunned by this flashback from four years ago when I'd been a Green Beret in Vietnam. I had thought I'd left all that behind, but here it was again.

I sat up and was able to do some yoga exercises but couldn't meditate. Instead I took a walk on the beach. For the rest of that day and the next I was confused and irritable and could hardly meditate or sleep. But the following day I felt lightened and relieved, purged of a load of trauma, and my meditations were clear. My anxiety about the war was much less; the violence was in the past, not raging right now in my head.

Gradually I became aware of a delicate joy permeating not just me but also my surroundings. I knew somehow it had always been there, inhering deep in everything, but my stress had been blocking my perception of it. I felt closer to the other people on the course, connected by a shared consciousness. Then I started feeling closer to everything around me; birds and grass, even rocks and water were basically the same as me. Our surface separations were an illusion; essentially we were all one consciousness expressing itself in different forms. Rather than being just an isolated individual, I knew I was united with the universe, joined in a field of felicity. This perception faded after a few days, but it gave me a glimpse of what enlightenment must be like.

* * *

"Reflections" (c) Olhos da Pastora

I had begun meditating in 1968, several months after returning from the war. I'd come back laden with fear and anger, but I had denied those emotions, burying them under an «I'm all right, Jack,» attitude. I was tough, I could take it, I was a survivor. Within certain parameters I could function well, but when my superficial control broke down, I would fall into self-destructive depressions. I finally had to admit I was carrying a huge burden of stress, and I knew I had to get rid of that before I could live at peace with myself or anyone else.

My best friend from Special Forces, Keith Parker, had started doing Transcendental Meditation and said it made his mind clear and calm. I tried it and found he was right. When I meditated, I sat with eyes closed and thought a mantra, a sound without meaning that took my mind to quieter, finer levels and eventually beyond all mental activity to deep silence. Subjectively, TM was like diving down through an inner ocean into a realm of serenity. The effects were more real than anything I'd experienced through prayer or psychedelics. My stress and pressure began to be relieved.

I started going on World Peace Assemblies, large courses led by Maharishi or one of his assistants where we meditated as a group. This strengthened the effects, making me feel both tranquil and energized. Then I attended this four-month course to learn to be a teacher of Transcendental Meditation. Every day we did hours of «rounding,» repeating cycles of meditation, yoga and breathing exercises, each taking us deeper towards transcendental consciousness. Afternoons and evenings Maharishi would answer questions and teach us how to be teachers of meditation.

One of his favorite topics was the connection between modern science and Vedic science. After getting a master's degree in physics, he had studied metaphysics with one of the great swamis of India, so he could integrate both worlds. He taught us how the unified field that physics has discovered is the same as our own consciousness, that the fundamental level of the universe is the fundamental level of ourselves. And most importantly, he taught us how to experience this unity, where the duality of subject and object disappears and separation merges into oneness. This is the source of creation, a realm of bliss where even the concept of enemy doesn't exist. It's the level from which energy manifests into matter and form. Enlightened people live there all the time, but all of us can experience it, and once we do, our reality is different.

Ordinarily, our awareness is directed via sense perception outwards to physical objects. When we meditate, we reverse this direction and move our awareness back towards its source, the unified field. The mind goes inward and perceives progressively more refined levels of thinking until all thoughts drop away and we reach the ground state of transcendental consciousness, in which the mind is alert but without thoughts, pure awareness without an object. In place of thoughts, we are filled with a joy that can only be described as divine. Here we are united with all of creation. We are no longer observing the universe; we are the universe.

* * *

"Space" (c) Arabella Proffer

The deep calm of meditation is more than just a subjective experience. Physiological research has shown that during TM oxygen consumption decreases twice as much as it does during deep sleep. Brain waves become more coherent, changing from the usual scattered, disordered patterns into synchronized waves coordinating across both hemispheres, an indication of more integrated mental functioning. Blood flow to the brain increases. On the skin, electrical conductance decreases, a sign of relaxation. In the blood stream, the stress hormone cortisol decreases; serotonin, a neurotransmitter that relieves depression and promotes well being, increases; arginine vasopressin, a hormone that regulates blood pressure and improves memory and learning ability, increases; blood lactate level decreases, indicating lessened anxiety. And rather than being in a trance, the person is fully alert and aware of the surroundings. This physiological condition defines a fourth state of consciousness distinct from the three usual states of waking, dreaming and deep sleep. In this rejuvenating transcendental consciousness, the physiology repairs the damage done by traumatic events and illnesses.

More than anything else I've experienced, Transcendental Meditation creates a peaceful inner change. The personality and basic self remain the same, but fear and hostility diminish. We become friendlier to ourselves, and so we can be friendlier to others. As our personal stresses are healed, the mind functions better and we gain access to more of our mental potential. We're more able to perceive and correct the sources of social stress that surround us. Recent research has shown that the effects don't stop with the individual. Large groups of people meditating together produce coherence and stability not just in themselves but also in the society around them. This extended effect has been demonstrated in experiments in Massachusetts, Rhode Island, Iowa, Washington DC, New Delhi, Manila, Puerto Rico, Nicaragua, El Salvador, Iran and Holland where large groups met for long meditations. During every assembly, crime, violence and accidents in the surrounding region dropped and the composite Quality of Life Index for public health, economics and social harmony rose. All the changes were statistically highly significant. The groups of meditators improved the whole society: negativity decreased, positivity increased. After the assemblies ended, the figures returned to their previous levels. The results were calculated by comparing data from different time periods to insure that the only variable was the meditation course, thus establishing it as the cause of the change.

I attended two of these assemblies, in Washington DC and Iowa, and the experiences were wonderful. Meditating with thousands of other people strengthens the results. The mental emanations reinforce one another into a palpable effect of group consciousness. I enjoyed deeper levels of inner silence and clearer infusions of transcendental energy. Outside of meditation, we treated one another with a harmony and tenderness that I'd never experienced in a group of people before. It was a taste of what an ideal society could be like.

* * *

"The Mystic's Dream" (c) Janice Duke

Wars are hurricanes of the collective consciousness. Hurricanes relieve the physical atmosphere of excess heat that has built up. They result afterwards in a more balanced climatic condition, but they do that destructively. Similarly, wars relieve excess stress in the psychic atmosphere and bring a temporary peace, but their destructiveness generates more stress and another war.

In contrast to this stormy approach, a meditator in transcendental consciousness broadcasts the qualities inherent to this plane: peace, orderliness, harmony. And when many meditators reach transcendental consciousness together, their energies reinforce one another into a surge of positivity that overrides the stressful emissions of the surrounding population. The minds of everyone in the area receive this broadcast of coherence. It's a very subtle effect that is under the limen of most people's perceptual awareness, but they are influenced through this field where all human minds are joined. This life-nurturing energy purifies the collective consciousness of fear and hostility before those negative forces can build up and erupt into crime and war.

New experiments demonstrated the effects on war. As civil war was raging in Lebanon, a group gathered nearby in Israel to practice long meditations. During their assembly, the intensity of fighting in Lebanon lessened and war deaths plummeted. In Israel, crime, traffic accidents, fires and other indicators of social disorder decreased. All the changes were statistically highly significant.

* * *

Groups of 7,000 meditators also reduce terrorism. During three of these large assemblies, worldwide terrorism dropped by an average of 72 percent as compared to all other weeks in a two-year period, based on data compiled by the Rand Corporation. Statistical analysis ruled out the possibility that the reduction was due to cycles, trends, seasonal changes, or drifts in the measures used.

Peer-reviewed studies of these experiments have been published in the Journal of Conflict Resolution, Journal of Mind and Behavior, Journal of Crime and Justice, Social Indicators Research and other academic publications. Twenty-three studies based on 50 experiments document the long-distance effects of large groups of meditators in reducing violence and improving quality of life.

With this overwhelming evidence Maharishi approached the governments of the world and requested that they establish these groups on a permanent basis to secure peace and social harmony.

The governments of the world weren't interested.

So Maharishi decided to build a long-term group. With the help of a wealthy donor he constructed a residential center in India and filled it with 7,000 meditators practicing several hours a day. The other experiments had been short-term, lasting a few weeks or months, but this one lasted two years -- a time that fundamentally changed the world. The Cold War ended, communism collapsed, the people of Eastern Europe and the Soviet Union freed themselves of totalitarian rule, the Berlin Wall came down, 80 nations signed an agreement that saved the ozone layer, black and white South Africans dismantled apartheid, hostile borders became open and friendly, former enemies signed arms reduction and nonaggression treaties. It was a period of unprecedented good will, a breakthrough for world peace.

"Candle Unicycle" (c) Michael Pukac

* * *

Again, no government was interested. Why did they turn down such a scientifically verified program that would cost little, harm nothing and possibly bring world peace?

In three of the countries that participated in the initial experiments, the governments were thrown out of office after the assemblies. Three dictators -- the Shah in Iran, Somoza in Nicaragua and Marcos in the Philippines -- had invited the TM teachers because their populations were rising in rebellion. They hoped the meditating groups would act as a social tranquilizer that would pacify the rebels. The opposite turned out to be the case. The increased coherence generated by the groups enabled the whole society to join together and throw out the dictators with a minimum of violence. Other governments didn't want to risk losing power through a similar upsurge in the collective consciousness of their people.

Another reason was that although many governments pay lip service to peace, they don't really want it. What they want is to use the military to control their people and enforce their aggressive foreign policies. They also profit from the arms trade; peace would be bad for business.

A third reason is that the concept of meditators being able to decrease violence half the world away is just too unconventional for most politicians to comprehend. It doesn't fit the worldview they've been educated into. Our society is still living in the shadow of 19th-century empiricism, where matter was seen as the basis of reality. Science has moved far beyond this position, but the old view still has a lingering effect on our thinking, causing us to reject what we don't understand. The insights of unified field physics are only slowly being absorbed by the general population. Most people can't yet comprehend that energy rather than matter is the basic component of the universe, and that this energy is identical with our own consciousness.

"Masquerade" (c) Ione Citrin* * *

Seeing consciousness as primary and matter as being manifested from it is a whole different way of looking at the universe and will require some getting used to. But every paradigm shift in human thinking has had to confront the prejudices of its time. As Arthur Schopenhauer said, a new worldview is first ridiculed, then attacked and finally accepted as self-evident.

* * *

EFFECTIVE DEEDS
(c) Eric Chaet

"Global Overview" (c) Elena Mary Siff

Most effective deeds are just the logistics, I know
of people selling things for more than they cost them
or people killing more so-called enemies
than the so-called enemies kill them
or people organizing coalitions to gain advantage
more efficiently than their rivals do---
& I know that most
who read poetry
these days
especially most
who publish & edit
venues for poetry are
suspicious of anyone
speaking of deeds
or effectiveness
or results---
retreat & consolations
are the fashion---

& I can’t brag of my own effective deeds
my situation is ramshackle & tenuous
I’ve stumbled from crisis to crisis---

but the spectrum of glories of this world---
I don’t mean the vanities---
is obscured by such pervasive suffering & injustice
& bad habits including my bad habits
& delusions, probably including my own delusions---

I hereby---& will again & again---
dedicate myself to the effective deeds---
I don’t mean mere efficiency---
that can be the only remedy---

& I hope to demonstrate such capability
by achievements other than those the deluded cheer
that others similarly capable will ally their efforts with mine.

"The Revelation of the Ignoramuses" (c) Hector Pineda

Raindrops Dimpling

As you reach into tomorrow

Don’t forget what you learned today

Take with you all the yesterdays

Don’t retrace your steps,

But remember where you have been

All the things you have done

All the faces you’ve seen

How this mosaic is interwoven.

Then accept the next sliver of light

As dawn is about to break

Like raindrops dimpling

Seeing a flower’s petals opening.

To absorb this nourishment

From the skies above

So do you in like manner

Inhale this beneficence.

As you stand with one palm up

One palm facing down

To indulge in earth’s reservoir

Simultaneously being infused,

With unconditional love

From the cosmic universe’s portal,

Thereby recycling your energies

Through both jet streams.

This is your daily ritual

As you face the east

From where the sun’s glimmer

Makes its first appearance.

By this are you cleansed

From an ethereal shower

That leaves no stone unturned

Just creates a perfect harmony.

As you receive, so do you send

Between all exists this relation

Like one scratching your back

You, then returning such reciprocity.

Yet life goes deeper and beyond

Enriching through your travels

As long as you’re an open channel

Wisdom will flow through you constantly.

"Groove 1" (c) Michael Pukac

THINKING ABOUT THE FUTURE

I have to break free

to think about & affect the future

today, tomorrow

the rest of the week, month, year

the rest of my life, & beyond—

for all those who strive with pure heart

disciplining themselves so as not to harm others

& yet, to develop & contribute

what they’re capable of.

I have to get free

of the petty expectations others lay on me

& that I’ve internalized & lay on myself

& also of the grand delusions—

& think about & affect the future.

"A Visitation" (c) Julia Still

Double Sonnet--Now, and Then
Robert David Michael (Cerello)c, 2007

Now, and Then

What do I love most? Skyscrapers, rockets, stars,
Marguerites, reeds, oaks, Miklos Rosza's themes,
The full moon's rising, Shao Lin's green needle peaks,
Skyfilling dawns; lime pie; oboes; guitars;
Moonlight glimpsed through a black tree's winter boughs;
Mountains gone azure blue that a sunset paints;
Camping in deserts' stillness; cloud fleets that sail
Heralds of stormwinds; islands feeling the pow'r
Of ocean's hands; the Milky Way's blaze by night;
Tiger lilies; koi; Africa's wild beasts;
Jungles; deep pinewoods; snow that tops swelling peaks;
Orchids and violets; the light that steals
Past rugged Grecians hills; Iguazu Falls;
Dancers who leap; actors' lofty; the human voice;
Beauty in any guise--But, THIS above all:
Yes, past these figurings, this calculus
Of what stands lovely, mighty, estimable,
(Perhaps as Tschaikovsky's symphony now swells)
I love to dream on Man's Galactic Quest--
On the strong states and cities men shall know,
The worlds of distant suns; the routes of trade,
Keen feats of daring by scouts in starships made
Out in Immensity. Indeed, I know
The heat of their far day on my shoulders here
As keenly as I see Earth's dear, aging Sun
Making molten a flow of coin-gold leaves
In this autumnal season. The sound I hear--
Of starcruisers bound through oceans of light-years--
Is vivid to me as the lark's song heard in fields.
Man of two ages, I hold both songs as dear!

"They Follow the Pattern of the Wind" (c) Olhos da Pastora

Opening Night

Empty branches yearn for

darkening breeze.

Eerie singing echoes

from the horizon.

Slower days, longer nights

made for reflection ...

And wind sings, trees dance,

stars laugh in the moonlight.

libramoon

"Hubble" (c) Diana Manister

THE BLACK HOLE

Here knowledge ends, imploding into no-thingness

Dissolved in streaming elemental force

Of naked gravity unborn inside a womb,

A knot whose threads are doom and mystery.

Here all the flow of light is swamped in tangled

Dead tides of photons in their fading flicker

Exhaling drowning colors in the vortex;

Horizon endless where all matter fizzles.

Here radiation and magnetism spin

In scrambled patterns broken firing down

At speeds where light is seen to crawl

With random matter crushed to quantum bits.

Here space and time have blossomed into Being

Where all man knows inverts to strange

Dimensions alien lattice work of non-

Euclidean geometry cast in liquid veils.

(c) Michael Pukac

In Storied Nights

(c) Terreson

How wood, how water,
how heart-still stays the tender of home,
the fire and thirst for love's perfection
in body touch in calm eye of storm.
Dances of November, dancers off the ocean,
the wild weather of womantide warming with
honey of fireweed heavy on forehead,
heavy in abandon when dancing trees
come nearest in on haunted grounds of home.

Far out from the poppy glow, the glare glow
of city beneath embossed light shield,
out from and into the innocent night
where death and life mix inside the milky bowl;
in no shame for where they are, where they've
come from, where their children bear
upon them upending passion for more.

In the palm, in the hand, in the spiraling,
the mother round mystic of the universe
where there is no stop to river and flow,
no check, no erratic rock to halt
the cosmic habit of deep time's fractal fold.

Just so the forest calls in like stalls
the names of those who hear or who
cannot hear except in waking dreams.
In white femur bone of deer on fertile floor,
in windless breeze rising up sparse leaves,
or in tawny wildcat gone winter gray
who occupies midnight corners of the day,
looking in on things he sees out of
green eyes looking out from things inside.

Clarity when comes of perfect space can
have return, when spatial texture of fleshy
sculptures hold in high hand dreamer, thinker, or
perfect lover; there when Wild beauty in Calm
leads on, leads on.
She who lives out through the human fracture.

"A message from a distance is coming" (c) Elena Mary Siff

Fusion
(c) Turance

Healthy and starborn, I drift with scrutiny

waiting for the burning bush and game

for the rigor of gazing. Though I may flail

I come home to my footing in the vastness

between galaxies. At last the view opens

up when I befriend a star and time

is crushed by the union across light-years.

"Party Boat to Atlantis" (c) Michael Pukac

Aurora

(c) Susan Adams

We wore it like a borealis

a cape of glorialis

2 souls shimmering

interchanging communion on fluorescent skin,

we rode the sky's magnetic storm

in scintillating freefalls and

sparking updrafts.

We were the polar lights of magnetism

charged particles in electric air

Aurora's 'Dance of Spirits' -

corona of the solar flares

with curtains of striations

we danced on lust and laughter

the Salome of veils.

The colours breathed imbued us

we wore them clothed as signals to each other.

Our cloaks of polar aurorae exposed us

brightly shining morsels for the picking

prey for the predator, birdwing, tongue of worm,

our own ability to self destruct.

In a moment of neglect the parachute of time took over

didn't open, we descended to black and white

the march of a million feet marking time

the glare of our introspection and analyses

the questions of why.

The beauty of Aurora Borealis raged above

calling in silent flashes of code

while we waited for our destiny to be decided,

my cape the shade of street

I creep in its folds, this scab of detention

of wet marshmallow stickiness,

dismissal the verdict.

I'm sentenced to a shroud.

"Realm Gazers (c) Julia Still
Lifelines

It's a tale many times in the telling
Of wisdom and wonder and enchantment foretold.
Captivating, yes compelling.
But catch it now, before you're old (We're so soon old.).
Cross country wide and free; a gypsy's life by caravan
And what is yet to be is stretching wide, without a plan.
Try, if you can, to imagine just how you're gonna end.
. . . You're gonna end.
Past ships and planes and miles of dusty road,
It's all been told . . .and then retold.
We've lived a thousand lives before, we the vagabonds of Earth
But let me try to tell to you my story, it's all I own
Whatever be its worth.
It started in a coffeehouse so many years ago
Where poets of our century were wont to waste their days
And in those days did bright mindwaves cast their nets and flow
To catch up young unruly souls and charge them with the craze
For adventuring -- for "something new"
To catch a star and follow wherever it should lead
To search out the sacred answer to the ache of human need
To be the first new holy breed to wholey shake the Earth
To usher in a promised age, so many years in birth.
It was a time of carousels and colored lights;
A time of feeling grandly strong and right;
A time when Life was just beyond our sight.
What made it go? Which corner was the wrong one turned?
Or is it merely time to take things slow,
To gather up the threads of what we've learned?
The darkness cast upon us, how was it earned?
Oh yes, I meant to tell you of brilliant desert skies
And city street romances that sparkled ere they died.
Of Denver's summer snowstorm and LA's winter flood
And secret, solemn friendship pacts seal'd in sorrow's blood.
Of a much awaited sunrise within a foreign town
Of food and flowers and incense freely passed around
Of turquoise rings & violent springs & jails of many brands
And music wafting through the streets
Of gentle smell of smoke so sweet
And wondrous madmen once to meet who read witchcraft in your hand.
And so much more; yes, lifetimes more.
I would give it all to you, asking nothing in return
But that you seek, in your own style, for yourself to learn
Of corners waiting yet to turn before our time is through.
And perhaps one day you'll say to me:
"Yes, the answer's here! Yes, the answer's clear!"
And you will say to all of us: "Here's what we must do."
Before our time is through . . .

libramoon

"Mind Navigated Flying" (c) Fanitsa Petrou

Any unauthorized reproduction will automatically lead to legal implications.

Blueflower (c) Arabella Proffer

Contributors to "Spacing Outward"

2010-12-06T00:46:00.001Z

We paint on the walls of our existence the reflections of our being.

You can see most of my paintings on my website: http://www.claudiadose.com

A painter with a passion for color and spirituality.

Read more about it on my blog: http://claudiadose.blogspot.com/

Janice Duke

http://www.janiceduke.com/

seeking outlet for those crazy thoughtstreams, is always moving into new (or resurrected) projects, including Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine: http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com; Seers and Seekers Yahoo Group: http://groups.yahoo.com/group/seerseeker/; The Healing Dance Network Yahoo Group: http://health.groups.yahoo.com/group/healingdance/; Visionary Arts and Minds Tribe; theme-based chapbooks 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://caelastory.blogspot.com/2009_03_01_archive.html; 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

Jane Røken

Jane Røken grew up on a diet of Russian folk tales, the Salvation Army, and Norwegian fiddle music. She believes in angels, moomintrolls, and rocks that chant in thunderstorms. She lives in Denmark, on the boggy interface between hedgerows and barley fields, and likes to think of herself as an internationalist.

Tanja Udelhofen

I have always been imaginative and creative. During my schooldays I took part in different art projects, and later attended several art classes. Being a self-educated person I never stop to develop my skills in different genres, but mostly I create surreal and dark themed artworks. Originally from Germany, I now live in the great city of Rotterdam, Netherlands, with my partner and my stepdaughter.

My contact information: mail@galeria-surreal.com

http://www.galeria-surreal.com

About the artwork: I had the idea for "Head Holder" as I thought about human beings and that they often tend to assimilate to avoid conflicts. I thought: What if human beings would loose their individual "faces" and expressions more and more? Would an expressive face be something teachers talk about to their pupils: "Now look at this photo: People used to have their very own faces with individual expressions. But this led to a lot of conflicts, and over time, we became peaceful, loving and completely faceless people."?

Santiago del Dardano Turann

There is very little to tell about my biography. I was born in April of 1968 in Cincinnati, Ohio, and grew-up in rural Butler county. After a period of wandering I settled in San Francisco, California. I do not have a college degree and have worked blue collar or retail jobs my whole adult life. My website is: http://dardanidae.yolasite.com

Little Lightening Bolt McCoy

http://antiquatedontology.blogspot.com/

http://animistvisionaryart.blogspot.com/

Fanitsa Petrou

"Fly out of Time" Gouache & ink.
The flight from Time and Space, two mirrors reflecting each other.
A spiral winding into eternity.

The spirit will fly.
Like a fly with diaphanous wings.

A fly. FLY!!" - Fanitsa Petrou

"Mind-navigated Flying" Couache.

"Interplanetary Flying.
Mind-navigated Flying.
Fly!" - Fanitsa Petrou

Hand rendered. Copyright © Fanitsa Petrou. All Rights Reserved. Any unauthorized reproduction will automatically lead to legal implications

Browse through the web site

http://www.fanitsa-petrou.com to check out over 550 ART-gift ideas! Original Art / Illustration / Art Prints / Angel Books / Angels / Fairies / New Age/ Fantasy Art/ Surrealism/ PORTRAITS/ Traditional Art/ Goddess Tradition/ Mythology/ Book covers/ Commercial Art/ Graphics/

William T. Hathaway

«Conscious Peace» is excerpted from a chapter from William T. Hathaway's new book, RADICAL PEACE: People Refusing War, which tells the first-person experiences of war resisters, deserters, and peace activists in Iraq, Afghanistan, North America, and Europe. It's a narrative journey along diverse paths of nonviolence, the true stories of people working for peace in unconventional ways. Other chapters are posted on the publisher's website at http://media.trineday.com/radicalpeace.
Hathaway's other books include A WORLD OF HURT (Rinehart Foundation Award), CD-RING and SUMMER SNOW. A selection of his writing is available at www.peacewriter.org.

Scientific evidence indicates this technique can cure the root cause of war -- stress in the collective consciousness -- and bring world peace. This could be the most important discovery of our time, and we can all participate in it. Several studies have shown that individuals meditating on their own for 20 minutes twice a day also contribute to this effect. More information and citations on the research can be found at www.permanentpeace.org.

Greg Bart/turance

I consider my artwork as a tremendous gift from my imagination, my body and the Divine. It is steeped in symbols, archetypes and what treasures are to be unearthed from my unconscious. It is my language because images come to me more naturally than words. I create my images hopefully to contribute not only to my healing but to anyone who may need it, and that includes this home of ours called Earth. I pray that each and everyone's individual journey is blessed and guided by the stars and that this planet is surrounded by love and care.

You can see a more extensive collection of my work:
www.labelleetlabeteart.deviantart.com

"Julia's Exploration of the Air Element" -the first collage dealing with my relationship with the elements accompanied by animals and spirits along the way.
"The Visitation" -inspired by the closest visit of Mars to Earth in 26,000 years.
"Realm Gazers" -dedicated to Jupiter and Sagittarius and the insatiable drive for adventure.

Olhos da Pastora

...a joker, a smoker, a midnight toker...some call me the space cowboy...

Olhos da Pastora is not my name, but rather a title of sorts. As an artist on the path of knowledge and self-discovery, I klug the Multiverse, merging resonant frequencies into pulsating heartbeats of beauty.I find joy and wonder in fleeting synchronicities and irreverent whimsy.

vegetalo.wordpress.com/

olhosdapastora@hotmail.com

Arabella Proffer

Arabella is a painter, designer, and co-founder of the indie label Elephant Stone Records. Her loose narrative themes revolve around a fascination with punk rock, aristocrats, Renaissance fashions, aging socialites, pre-code cinema, gothic divas and rock 'n’ roll groupies. She attended Art Center College of Design in Pasadena, CA before receiving her BFA from California Institute of the Arts, and has participated in solo and group exhibitions throughout North America and Europe. Born in Ann Arbor, Michigan, she has taken up residence in many cities including Laguna Beach, Los Angeles, and Boston. She currently lives with her husband on the shores of Lake Erie in Cleveland, Ohio.

Contact: Purchases, exhibits or to be added to my email list: ArabellaProffer(at)Gmail.com

www.elephantstonerecords.com
www.arabellaproffer.com

Interested in having a portrait done? Commission Info & Pricing Studio: Located at: The Screw Factory
"Space is the Place" 11x14" oil on panel, in honor of the first cosmonaut anniversary
"Blue Flower" oil on canvas 16x16 inches

Michael Pukac

Los Angeles Visionary Steampunk painter

http://www.michaelpukac.com

Ione Citrin

Masquerade, 26" high" x 30" wide, acrylic on paper
"I DREAM, THEREFORE, I AM"
A Statement by ione Citrin

I CREATE ART BECAUSE I MUST.
IT IS A NECESSARY EXTENSION OF MY LIFE.
IT IDENTIFIES AND SUBSTANTIATES MY EXISTENCE.
IT IS MY PROFILE AND MY LEGACY.
I WANT TO INTRIGUE AND ENTERTAIN.
I WANT TO INITIATE WONDER AND QUESTIONS.
I WANT TO COMMUNICATE MY THOUGHTS, DREAMS AND DESIRES.
MOST OF ALL, I WANT TO BE!

______________________________
BIOGRAPHY - "MY ART IS MY VOICE"

Ione's art has shown nationally since 1998 when, after years of world travel, a successful television, radio, theatre and film career in the performing arts, she decided to focus her richly diverse talents on the visual arts. Ione's artistic expression, creativity, and passion for communication have resulted in numerous awards for her painting, sculpture, mixed media, and assemblage. Her work has also been featured in several important publications. Ione maintains an extensive exhibition schedule in juried, non-juried, and invitational arts venues.

http://www.artbyione.com
ICitrin@aol.com

Eric Chaet

Eric Chaet, born 1945, Chicago, South Side, worked in factories, warehouses, and offices. Author of Old Buzzard of No-Man's Land (1974); How To Change the World Forever For Better (1990, 2nd edition 1994); and People I Met Hitchhiking On USA Highways (2001). Wrote and
sang the songs, while playing guitar, on the vinyl LP, Solid and Sound (1977). Mid 80s to mid 90s, hitchhiked back and forth across USA, stapling posters he'd silkscreened on cloth to utility poles. His so-called poems have appeared in periodicals and websites in the USA, Latin America, Europe, and Asia. His website, 100 So-Called Poems, is at http://www.ericchaetpoems.com. There is more information there, and a way to contact him.

Elena Mary Siff

In my studio, I interpret the mystery, the humor and the threat of my dreams. Like a beachcomber or a scavenger wondering among the ruins, I collect and juxtapose bits of disparate material, creating my own order. The souvenirs of my travels have been a constant source of inspiration.

"Everything can be used, but of course one doesn't know it at the time. How does one know what a certain object will tell another"

- Joseph Cornell.

That unpredictable dialogue is the basis of my method and my faith.

-Elena Mary Siff

http://www.elenamarysiff.com

http://www.elenamary.etsy.com

Hector Pineda

Alex Chornyj

I am from Canada. I am a Reiki master teacher and as such my writing has an esoteric, spiritual accent to its influence. I have been published in books such as White Mountain Publications, in several magazines such as Articulations, The Tower Journal and The Canadian Federation Of Poetry; in online sources such as www.artistsforabetterworld.org , Decanto Magazine, Fashion For Collapse, Awaken Consciousness Magazine, Earthborne Magazine, Michael Solender's site at The Not, and in many blog talk radio spoken word programs such as Shaman's Hand and Poetry Super Highway. My address is xelanire@hotmail.com. I believe an inner consciousness creates a soul from which to see new shades of light. You can view my reiki information at www.jadeyogastudio.com.

Robert David Michael (Cerello)

was born in Glen Cove, Long Island, New York, and presently divides time between San Diego, CA, USA and Europe. He is an Objectivist philosopher and author. He graduated from Sayville High School, Pomona College, Laverne University's Teacher's program and holds an MA from the University of Virginia and an ESL certificate from S.D.S.U. He has written plays, novels, short stories, songs, screenplays, criticism, non-fiction, verse and poetry for forty years. He aspires to be a scientist of the arts and is well-known as a lecturer, actor, singer and teacher.

Diana Manister

Terreson

Poet, sometime novelist, short story writer, and essayist. Said with some tongue in cheek, but when asked about my career I tend to think of what Djuna Barnes said about herself late in life: America's best kept literary secret. One reviewer has said of my work: "Terreson's is a masculine voice that heeds the feminine, and unites these contrasting aspects into a rich, harmonizing body of experience." I can go with that, at least viewed as motive. I've always kept to a daytime job and not just for money. These years it involves honey bees and honey bee queens in the Deep South.

I can be found on Delectable Mnts Salon Chat poetry board:http://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/ -- "DM styles itself on the salon notion. It looks to be a gathering of free thinkers, dilettantes, amateurs (which means 'lover of the thing'), aficionados (which means 'to have an affection for the thing,'), and conversationalists for whom conversation is as essential as bread and water. Ideally the board is a place where doctors of philosophy, mathematicians, poets, outlaws, technicians, experts, liberal artists, housewives, garbage collectors, and desperados can bounce ideas and experience off each other."

Susan Adams

an Australian poet who has been published in anthologies, online and print literary journals both in Australia and internationally. She has been read on ABC Radio National 'Poetica' and 'All in The Mind'. Among her recent publications in the last month have been Eureka Street, Five Bells and Eclecticism.

Interested in submitting to a future issue:

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010/08/submission-guidelines.html

Enjoy the journey -- and don't hesitate to revisit past issues in the archives ~

Starry Desires * Emerging Visions #18 * Nagasaki Day 2010

2010-08-09T07:13:00.002Z

Invitation

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

play

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

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

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Julia Weaver (c) 2002 "Purification"
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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,
radiating,

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.

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.

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) 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

alone

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

hidden

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

once

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?

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SONNET 23

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.

THE LORDS OF AKAKOR

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

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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,
cold;
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!

Contributors to Starry Desires

2010-08-09T07:06:00.002Z

Find the Submission Guidelines Here:

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com/2010/08/submission-guidelines.html

Julia Still

I consider my artwork as a tremendous gift from my imagination, my body and the Divine. It is steeped in symbols,archetypes and what treasures are to be unearthed from my unconscious. It is my language because images come to me more naturally than words. I create my images hopefully to contribute not only to my healing but to anyone who may need it, and that includes this home of ours called Earth. I pray that each and everyone's individual journey is blessed and guided by the stars and that this planet is surrounded by love and care.

You can see a more extensive collection of my work:
www.labelleetlabeteart.deviantart.com.

Laurie Corzett/libramoon

John Vega

www.johnvega.com
www.dancingimage.com

Terreson

Poet, sometime novelist, short story writer, and essayist. Said with some tongue in cheek, but when asked about my career I tend to think of what Djuna Barnes said about herself late in life: America's best kept literary secret. One reviewer has said of my work: "Terreson's is a masculine voice that heeds the feminine, and unites these contrasting aspects into a rich, harmonizing body of experience." I can go with that, at least viewed as motive. I've always kept to a daytime job and not just for money. These years it involves honey bees and honey bee queens in the Deep South.

I can be found on Delectable Mnts Salon Chat poetry board: http://bdelectablemnts.runboard.com/ -- "DM styles itself on the salon notion. It looks to be a gathering of free thinkers, dilettantes, amateurs (which means 'lover of the thing'), aficionados (which means 'to have an affection for the thing,'), and conversationalists for whom conversation is as essential as bread and water. Ideally the board is a place where doctors of philosophy, mathematicians, poets, outlaws, technicians, experts, liberal artists, housewives, garbage collectors, and desperados can bounce ideas and experience off each other."

Julia Weaver

is an environmental arts educator, a licensed psychotherapist, and an exhibiting artist. She has more than 25 years experience combining the arts and cross cultural practices, particularly the creation of mandalas and gardens for individual, community, and global healing. Her 30 years of spiritual practice include Buddhism, Advaita Vedanta, Navajo and Sufi traditions.

While swimming off the Kona coast in 1996, Julia had a mystical experience where she spontaneously received mandala images, which took her artwork into deeper dimensions of healing and spiritual practice. Two weeks later, she began studying with Dr. Judith Cornell, author of Mandala: Luminous Symbols for Healing and Willow Scheel-Kushler. She gratefully apprenticed and assisted her mentors in workshops through 2001.

“For several years I had been praying for a vehicle to express my spiritual visions that wasn't about me personally, but encompassed the whole. The Mandala process turned out to be the ideal form.”

After receiving the mandalas, she was blessed to swim with a small pod of wild spinner dolphins with only her family and two other women for several hours. She has experienced deep physical healing and spiritual awakening through her contact with these highly evolved beings. Many of her mandalas have been birthed in her annual pilgrimages to Hawaii. Since 1996, she has offered mandala workshops for adults and children in her studio in the San Francisco Bay area and across the US, as well as dolphin swims retreats in Hawaii. Her adult workshops were featured in New Age Journals Body and Soul (spring 2001), and she co-facilitated a workshop for children with Julia Butterfly Hill and Jane Goodall at the Kinship with All Life conference held in San Francisco. A passionate environmental arts educator, Julia designs and facilitates rites-of-passage ceremonies and combines the Mandala Process with tree planting, gardening, and collages to promote community revitalization and ecological healing. In response to the events of September 11th, 2001, she created large-scale community interactive Peace Mandalas called “One World One Heart”. Her chapter on “Goddesses of the Ocean” is featured in the forthcoming book, Feminist Mystical Artists. She also uses the mandala process as a creative consultant with non-profit organizations and is available for consultations or embodied psychotherapy sessions in person and by phone.

A licensed psychotherapist, her 30 years of incorporating embodied expressive arts, movement & spiritual practice include Buddhism, Vedanta, Shamanic & Sufi traditions, along with Sensory Awareness, Neo Reichian, Continuum, 5 Rhythms, Authentic Movement & Soul Motion. She lives with her human family and two golden retrievers in the woods of Northern California.

**I am now certified Level 1 i Rest Teacher offering dyad and group iRest sessions by phone and in person. *** http://www.irest.us/..... for a limited time the first session is my gift to you!

More information about her work can be found atwww.MandalaWeaver.com, or by calling Art & Soul at 415-455-5989.

Bill Wagner frater3

Long time songwriter, would be poet - my Muse has taken me to never before realised realms of poetic enlightenment. I prefer to allow ideas to flow, rather than work at finding phrases, etc... Even one word or sound could send me off on a new exploratory path. That first real view of Jupiter through my telescope, along with well known constellations Scorpius and Pluto, left me with a feeling that, once home, ink to paper came naturally.

I can be reached at bass54@comcast.net

Alex Chornyj

I am from Canada. I am a Reiki master teacher and as such my writing has an esoteric, spiritual accent to its influence. I have been published in books such as White Mountain Publications, in several magazines such as Articulations, The Tower Journal and The Canadian Federation Of Poetry; in online sources such as www.artistsforabetterworld.org , Decanto Magazine, Fashion For Collapse, Awaken Consciousness Magazine. Earthborne Magazine, Michael Solender's site at The Not, and in many blog talk radio spoken word programs such as Shaman's Hand and Poetry Super Highway. My address is xelanire@hotmail.com. I believe an inner consciousness creates a soul from which to see new shades of light. You can view my reiki information at www.jadeyogastudio.com.

Prof. John Paul "Lakan" Olivares

http://lakandiwa.deviantart.com

kitsune miko

Gloria Martin

Although I've not had formal training in any particular media, I dabble in many, and envision myself as a blossoming artisan. To see more of my work I cordially invite you to visit my blog: barefootmuse.blogspot.com.

Craig Blair

received his Bachelor of Fine Arts degree from Edinboro University of Pennsylvania. The many places that have displayed his work include the Bowling Green State University Planitarium, the Fort Wayne Museum of Art and the Center of Science and Industry in Toledo. His works can be found in private collections throughout the United States and in Europe. He was the show coordinator (and participating artist) of the International Surrealist Show 2006 in Spencer, Iowa. He serves as President of the Weston Arts Council.

Craig lives in Northwest Ohio with his wife, Alaire, and his daughter, Briana, where he is in the process of restoring a 100 year old house.
Visit Craig's web site at www.surrealogic.com.

Jude Cowell

Lifelong artist, Jude Cowell, currently works primarily in oil and watercolor pencil on paper. This Georgia native's drawings may be viewed online at Cosmic Persona Designs Art Gallery, and at Dreamyfish Art, where postcards and limited edition prints are available upon request. Cosmic Persona Designs is a collection of archetypal feminine images, cosmic-visionary art (some from an earlier series, Unseen World), children's art, and more. An astrological influence is apparent, for Jude has been a serious astrology novice for 14 years, and is writer and publisher of the Political Astrology blog, Stars Over Washington. Dreamyfish Art is a gallery of Saturn's realism--botanically-drawn tropical fish portraits--blended with Neptune's watery, illusory qualities--a combination which neatly describes the artist's natal Sun Capricorn-Moon Pisces personality. Fish dream, too, and here you may have a sneak peek into their most favorite and secret dream locations undersea at Dreamyfish Art. Several moons ago, Jude was an art student at Atlanta School of Art (now College of Art) on Peachtree Street, and even now you may detect a Fashion Illustration, Layout, and Design influence in her work, especially in the Cosmic Persona Designs collection. You never know what might show up at Cosmic Persona, but you are cordially invited to stop by when you can...and remember that fish dream, too!
For queries, to offer feedback, or for ordering details, email artist at: judecowell@gmail.com or dreamyfishart@earthlink.net

Wishing Peace, Love, and Art to All,
Jude Cowell
http://cosmicpersonadesigns.blogspot.com/; http://dreamyfishart.blogspot.com/; http://secretmoonart.blogspot.com/; http://limslimericks.blogspot.com/; http://starsoverwashington.com/; and http://www.zazzle.com/cowelljude

William C. Burns, Jr.

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 . . .

Teseleanu George

I'm a collage artist from Romania.I do my art as a hobby. In real life, actually I’m a student at the Faculty of Mathematics. I draw my inspiration from the surreal and dada movement, and recently I started experimenting with the cubist movement. The reason why I chose collage is it allows me to express my self, although I can’t draw, paint etc. Another reason is because you can do something out of nothing, using only some basic tools -- scissors, glue and paper. If you have any questions you can find me here hrn.deviantart.com

or at blana_de_maimutza@yahoo.com .

Santiago Del Dardano Turann

Marina Petro

I am an artist, clairvoyant, and present workshops in Intuitive Painting and Intuitive and Psychic Development. My work is considered Visionary and Healing Art. Many of my paintings are created intuitively and flow spontaneously from my imagination. Painting from my inner world demands existing in the moment--responding to impulses and impressions as they arise and seek external life. My still life pieces and more realistic landscapes and florals are painted from life or photographs. This provides the dynamic of a visual reference point in the external world--a radically different experience. One is my internal, spiritual world brought forth and made visible. The other brings the external world into, and through me, for expression. Each is a great adventure, providing unlimited possibilities for creative discovery.

I was recently honored by Rebel, ensemble for Baroque Music in New York, who requested permission to use my painting “Angel Of The Eclipse” in their program “Out of the Eclipse: Music for Transformation and Revelation.” They felt the image would raise the vibration of the concert. My artwork has been used to illustrate national magazine articles, music CD’s, wine bottle collections, and featured in a variety of publications and national magazines. My paintings and prints are in private collections worldwide. I am grateful for the opportunity to share my love of art with you. I hope you are inspired by these paintings, as I have been inspired creating them.
Website: http://www.marinapetro.com
EMail: phoenix@marinapetro.com

Melissa Lin

is a self taught artist from Malaysia. She enjoys exploring hybrid creatures, anomalies in life, different planes and existences of a surreal bent in her artworks. She will return to school to pursue a degree in Fine Arts at the Academie Minerva in the Netherlands soon.
contact: redrosesburning@gmail.com
website: redrosesburning.com

Robert Michael Cerello

Submission Guidelines

2010-08-09T07:05:00.019Z

issue 21 Theme

threshold revelations

has emerged 11/11/11

EV#22 - Gifting Gaea

Gift the Goddess with your most mind and heart opening art

Embrace Her with our beauty

Get them in by early April 2012 (the Year of Prophecies)

libramoon42@mindspring.com