libramoon2

[libramoon2]

twilight (in progress)

~twilight of the goddess, call to song to aery dancing, lady fair your fiery trance rewinds our souls; enjoy these offerings of fancy: all art is yours ~ Degree of my natal Hekate -- a liminal year for the dweller on the threshold. The search is for clarity, expanding borders, introducing elasticity as integral character. To see, to feel, to merge and undulate through; to discover, uncover, swim in the glory of original grace, ecstatic beauty. To see, to feel, to breathe in all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold, transmit as cellular energy. To paint upon translucent canvas subliminal etchings, private symbols generously revealed. Sagacity gifted, re-gifted, planted in potent fertility of visions, of cantations. The tinsel of starlight; the subtle scent of conflagrated pain; the feather touch of eternity. I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form. Move with the rhythm; caressed within word and worlds' mysteries. Resolutions and revelations. Look into the molten glass, sparking visions Clean star twinkles ask not, glorying in terpsichore, no written lines obscure wide sky, open beyond horizon mistily expanding into rolling sea. Drink to the season, to oblivion, to ecstasies bequeathed in excess emotion, rolling, amniotic, amnesia of expectation. Breathe -- vestigial gills awaken. This is the first measure of the first movement, a pirouette, a dervishly delightfilled whirl. Cast upon this rocky estuary, dance inner wise third eye calling dawn into destiny. The new day dawning, dawn's cloudy brew. Cumulative immersion with pollution, anthropic chemical solution under which we were formed. It will encounter clouds and hailstorms, turbulence and destruction. The curse took no notice of time or circumstance. I existed in a liminal state of vague dream images, static discharge of random sensory neurons. I did not expect; I did not wait; I was not aware of being. Caught in conundrum ‘tween twilight and dawn Formerly someone, lost without form Back to that question you asked being born and the answer that started when? At the crossroads, past midnight, just before dawn, the power of peeping dawn high in colors of awe. Songs that entwine backbrains, insist we all dance one foot, one mind, one goal or another. Face off, blinded, emit sonic rays as walls so steep, so hard, so badly soiled. In quiet dark before twilight, before time, vagrants paint with bloodied fingers, examine interstice and flow. Slowly, as viscous waste, then quicker pick up of pace, then light takes hold, caresses gentle as a kiss of friend intent. Will you let it in? Will you let your vision bend, extend, begin? Beginnings never warn of battle flame or drunken dares. They only promise vague adventure, valiant possibilities. wild in the sun, in the shadow, against the highway moving I to I in the twilight anticipate memories to come. There is a viscosity to twilight Cut from the core fruit of neural womb, gestating decades sluggish, subject to cravings, livid dreams Within the secrets of the seed, occluded aspects of beginnings, unfolding petal by petal sacred in the morning dew enticing fragrant fields as if myths foretell our lives twilights of harmonic symphonies when Sun touches green horizons. Twilight, trace forecolours of dawn, silence deepens, counterstroke to what is to come. as twilight melts into familiar constellations, migrating like flying life, early harvest still feeds celebration. Liminal Spaces Twilight, the wee hours, the dark of the moon liminal spaces, places where magic reigns, crossroads, crises, cusps. There is static on the radio. A song my voice was singing taking flight to surround me, the sound of music, a comforter of down to ease my soul. I've been trying to define a taste, a sense of bittersweet and salt. I've been trying to find a trace a footprint in the desert, a sound, a scent, a memory. I've been trying to find a trace of me, a piece to fit the puzzle, my contribution to the grand design. Seeking in the shadows, the space between myth and matter, those places words cannot define. On those insubstantial plains of myst and awe, the stuff of dreams, threshold of wonder, creation begins. A brief eternity before dawn, supplicating the night sky for solace, this soft moment before, an unmarked road to ride along home. That liminal space Between my body and the airwaves Creates a dance. Rather like a spell, you know. Those dawning tendrils sneaking through my windowshade. But it's much too early to be rising. So I'll dally in enchanted romance without recalling I've no one to wake to beyond the dawn. Simple acceptance The dancer with the dance enter pre-dawn mystery quiet interval, incanting music. Undulating reverie glistening in firefly light tell a rollicking tale, we demand of the piper we have paid all the long seasons of darkness it is time to reap an early harvest of dreams dancing to dawn Every dawn could be inspiration, bounteous gifts free of obligation, uplift of energy gleefully received. Symphonies, drums at dawn Inspiration and instruction carried forth through song and stage vibrant murals painting onward age to age Taking up the challenge of the tale that twists, turns, meanders providing kaleidoscopic opportunity ever to begin again wrenched gut throbs, eyes blurred to the howl Twilight crowd a'clamor for loud resilient community; tranced instant glamour distant from day's insanity entrains yearn for humanity Learn flexible grace staggering tribal stadia; fade lines between day and night as you play Grooving through the twilight Twirling through the fade Relax into madness, dark magic masquerade After images, ash sparks in the twilight, take flight, swirl within echoed breeze Readiness, relative to the free winds of chaos Here, in a world of fog and fury, blurred in twilight vengeance. Crows, ravens, portents of black flight circle above, a crown of shrieks, feathers cascade, rain like pestilence. No blame in blindness. "I could not see through feathered fog; could not save you." Signpost in the fog. Thick dry-ice blue billow emits formulations. Liminal, portals rise back, diminish time, disarrange context. Sear of light, brutal panic. Quiet. High-pitched sonic memories Eternity of now burns through bone, marrow -- flimsy narrow gate Liminality is waiting That liminal dimension between the pain and the screen selection of feeling, immersion away from meaning: what you don't mean Twilight passages when possible expands. Pre-dawn messages, first-draft images subconscious doodles before thought can capture plan. Empty enormity celestial map demands. Continuum of spectral light draws sight against backdrop of shadow’s span. Midsummer twilight, fairytales brought back from sleep. Sprinting across that abyss, goblin mouths, hungry ghosts. Dusk’s purple sky imagines snow, shoveling, streets aglow in festive lights, flights of fun. By liminal command, young aggressors channel to sport, fantasy battle, adventurous work. Next level survival demands we assess, re-learn. last of dying light first return liminal twilight -- dusk, dawn Oblique bands dapple into twilight Far away forests call Peace floats softly in trailing starshine mystically inviting. Dusk whirls of wilding sands. Gentle twilight, before the night, before all the freeze of laughter, bubbling partying, high hats and hands, desperate to ignite, to touch ice to ice and become. free of temporality, ephemeral, rare and precious and of the fleeting moment, exquisite beauty without further responsibility. Yet again, "be here now" ever changing landscape; ever changing dance of me to you. I am leaning into the whole illusion theory. Too many coincidences/synchronicities, object lessons, deja vus. There's too much that makes too much sense in a totally fantastic way. I feel like I'm slipping down the rabbit hole, through the mirror, into the Twilight Zone. Welcome to the Twilight Zone Welcome to the twilight zone for twilight presages the night the beautiful, magickal night where anything can happen any dream can be revealed. I ride a marvelous nightmare over evanescent swamplands, mysterious passageways into undiscovered treasure hoards. There is so much, mirroring its way into the future, recombining images, sounds, visions, eery macabre skeletal touch. Endlessly morphing images, whirling through me, each fleetingly touching its sweet taste onto my tongue, eternally cherished in a magnificent instant. There is no future in the night, no past, no present, only dreams and surreal landscapes, seascapes, skyscapes. There is an anticipatory quality that moves and dances, ever out of reach, never coalescing into form. This is the essence of magick. This is the promise, the curse, the incantation, the lion's roar. This is the homeland of vampires, lycanthropes, sorcerors from beyond. This is the holy see, the mist shrouded mountainpeak, the smokey lake, the boundaryless mystery. Welcome to the twilight zone, the band of pale purple light that draws us home. Darkening into heavier compression Molten heat compressing Density increasing toward event horizon. Twilight on the apocalyptic battlefield. Inside the box are we dying or transforming? another rainy day allowing dawn to hide behind weeping clouds Sunday into Monday, weekly transition Giving in to who we are despite our dreams Look! Listen! 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? Light coalescing into sound into waves into sea? What is the demand of sky of sea of fire dripping through the twilight? Reflections half moonlight, half mind. Someday soon the piper calls a merry tune you're too afraid to answer; you are no dancer Still afraid at dawn chirping birds upset you Those who have not met you no longer matter Mad as a hatter you open your soul to the night and find though blind in your flight better ventures than fright now bid you to believe your fate It may not be too late too close to the dawn I hear the nightbirds pleading for just one more song Like you, I've learned everything I know from late night movies lyrics on pre-dawn radio. I look behind to shining grace realize my place out, far from grim, grey dawn upon dawn listening for enchanting pipes of Pan to follow past the painted sky Longshoremen, in early dawning stinking of dead fish seagulls' wet crying Desolate, the sea entwined with sky casting about into another day. Dream Street Bright colored lights, Boisterous music, Gaily chatting people drawn in by wares. Carnival beauty painted so prancy whirling romance casts off daily cares. At the dark end of the street quietly peaceful drawn in to the pre-dawn air. birdsong, voices conflating the sum of experience let loose into this foggy dawn colours, still subtle arranging catch liquid dissolve in undulating air tell a story Coloured atmosphere, diffracted light The many metaphors of dawn Layered clouds, clarify ecstasy perfect inspiration dissolves the lock twixt everyday and magic. Times, forms, enemies change. The game goes on. Bright golden Sun absorbs mist a glorious dawn. The smell of lonesome prairie after the train's rushed through. On this side of the bars, life is slow awaiting judgment. A brave touch twixt worlds Can change minds into consciousness with such subtlety "Of course, we knew it all along." on the threshold before the eclipse before the dawn before we are given our missions, sent forward in time we must be ready must rise to the challenge without map or guidebook to prepare we endure the patience to exercise control over every capillary, every synapse, of our being it's not the believing, but the seeing a better world needs a new kind of ware be a ware for peace, for life, for consciousness before the wake quest Deep in our ancient lives Far from our daily chores Hidden within our minds With no bright line to follow Could I be true? Breathing, a mist so fine sprayed from brave ocean floors Seen in dreamlike design shades dark and blue Dawn's pink-purple hue breaks through over time while I wander in dreaming What could be true? Torn by my primal cry how would you answer? Words of Peace speak beyond structured language sharing profoundly in joy graceful dancing to music of each dawn morningbirds Welcoming the light creamy purples into day so swift the change (when it happens) from predawn mysteries. Trees sway gracefully. Morning birds are singing. Primeval emotions awake in my dreams before I remember to whom my day is promised. Old King's Cold/Grail King And the old King dies. Sends out his mortal ghost to dance on Olympian plains. I am the mighty he; ruled wisely while I was allowed; sold my soul to please the crowd; withered on the vine divine. There is no more of me. Drink from the golden Grail, Oh New Found King. You are triumphant. A bright dawn upon the kingdom offers sparkling hope, new dreams aborning. Don't despair old peasant folk, though you think despair all you can cling to. The Fisher King has returned from his desert adventures. He brings the tides to slake the thirst of this arid land. I beg you yet again to take a stand. Take harness, plow your pastures. Believe that the seed will take hold. Listen to the heralds shouting lines in the sand. They know a flood is coming after many a hard rain -- but don't despair! It is a flood of fertility, a harbinger promising carpets of grain and lush vegetation. All this is promised if you do your part. The old King, so long dying of his festering wounds, has poisoned you with ill-fated rule. Cast out the poison from your hearts. Tend your fields with a will and a song. Never forget you are free. Never forget that responsibility. May I say, I am awed by the way your presence echoes, keeps time and space at bay as if you create each new dawning day A new day dawns cloudy and forbidding. We are entering San Francisco in the morning fog, early, early, the world still dreaming. Or maybe it was Cambridge, Mass., lost in the fog, unsure of time or space. Sometimes there is singing: something about a "Yellow Submarine" or "Strawberry Fields" or sometimes haunting melodies without words. But it's all about the words, even those implied by the music. Wine can help. By the gods, wine is sometimes all that can help (tho sometimes even wine betrays me). The stinking debris of mornings after the night before, or just morning by the coast with the stink of rotting fish, the cries of gulls or sirens, the emptiness without tears, the cold of morning -- I remember that too. That no more mornings could touch me, that I could hide contented in the night dreaming flying dreams so none could touch me. Fragments. Taking life in fragments. Folding each shiny fragment into tender velvet pockets sequined to reflect the light, let them be all right, feel cared for. Let the nights protect us from the days. Like a wandering hermit with a self-igniting lantern . . . . Coming to the Light My mind playing tricks on my eyes That golden glow bringing me into worlds of pumpkin coaches, Valkyrie in flight, neverlands that never were, yet so much more real than what passes for day to day. Sadness is beauty brought down by ugliness, truth succumbing to convenient lies. Joy is opening all the senses into the spectrum of beauty. No moderation, no limitation, no convenient structural captivity. Let the stars be shining beacons calling us home. Let the wind be a magical cloak, the rain an exultation. Let the cold, dark night be a treasured, inspiring friend. Let the night take me forward Into everfulfilling fantasies The never empty cup, the magic wand/magic word, sprinkled with faery dust, toasted with the fine bubbles of celluloid champagne. Let us, the night and I, sneak off into exotic adventure. Let us learn the secrets of the Moon and Stars, ancient runes and alchemical wonders. Let us play upon the backs of dragons, learning to fly, learning to breathe fire, learning to explore the mountainpeaks and caverns of our chthonic fears and spin them into gold. The new day dawning it will encounter clouds and hailstorms, turbulence and destruction. It will be a day of startling showers and unsettled wind, of unreasoned pain and empty solace. It will be a day to try our souls. But it will be a day of infinite possibilities. Let my good friend, the night, join me in play to help prepare me for the day. Let the earth and fire and rain and wind infuse my spirit that we all be fellow friends in the new ventures coming with the light. Early morning dawn awakening to a season of wild abandon a golden moment of sensation In a flash -- alive to an open season Alive to a new awakening Alive The future descends from the fear-embroidered skies the vision is of holocaust -- when everybody dies A new day is dawning, but is it sun or storm? We have a chance to make our mark but is it right or wrong? They dream of liquid floating in suspension and do not understand. We are the product of their dreams. We suck you of your life fluids, moving mouths on every part of your body. Vampires of experience, we will not let you go till we have sucked you dry. Like a vampire's victim, you will crave the life, the experience of others, will suck them dry to gain eternity. We suck you and lick you clean, fondlingly. We again enter you through every opening, cleaning you through. You have been exhausted. We complete our ritual cleansing as you lie immobile, beyond response. We symbolically cut off your genitals, cut out your heart. We now own your soul. It has been a good night. Dawn has long since risen; they will wake soon. Soon they begin again, another day of their busy aimless lives: rise, work, unwind, sleep, and, oh yes, consume those predigested market-attractive packaged products of the mass media, the mass brainwash, the mass society. Silent, the singers are searching for voice They know in their souls it's a matter of choice They need to find reason, a cause, to rejoyce, A newly turned path to felicity. A new day is dawning, but where is the sun? Our freedom and faith are defined by the gun. The symbol of power overrules everyone 'Til we create our own electricity. But under cover of darkness a banner's being stitched Of patchwork-bright colors and radiance To someday soon be unfurled in the breeze As we march to freedom's song. Dreams drifting by The neon letters "LOVE" lit up in the air A poem in pictures and sound. Rather like a dream, you know Those dawning tendrils Sneaking through my windowshade But it's much too early to be waking So I'll dream on of morning romance Without remembering That I've no one to wake to beyond the dawn. Reaching to the stars, Tarry in eternity: This is all. If life were simple, childish agonies dispelled with dawn's bright kiss, we would laugh cross-purposes, cross-talk easily sorted out in counsel. Cast into sorted cells with little thought to empower; we could harness the Sun, Moon, birth of stars, simply allow minds to grow. Growing Out of Liminality Thirteen Wizards Shall Guide You, rotating in 7s, to be chosen from a wizard test administered at regular intervals to any who wish to apply. Each wizard shall serve at his/her pleasure -- until they decide to move on. Any wizard may return by retesting and getting the highest score amongst those currently in line at the time of a vacancy, like any other candidate. The test to be devised by a wise pre-council to ascertain qualities of wisdom, compassion, responsibility, integrity and clarity of communication. The test may be reviewed and revised at any time that the full council agrees to do so, based on evidence of better result to be gained. The wizards do not make the laws. Laws are made by direct democracy, after a sufficient period of debate when an overwhelming majority of consensus seems likely. Wizards do have veto power. Wizards do not control the economy. That is the province of the market. The wizards do oversee the use and conservation of common resources. They do oversee a social infrastructure that assures everyone a comfortable, secure livelihood. They do oversee disputes to assure that everyone is treated fairly in the course of commerce, and in the course of community life. They are not paid an outright salary. They are given comfortable living conditions that their minds may be free of personal want. True shamans aren't ready for this world, dreamcatching from all hallowed and harrowed. Wrapped in a cloud of moonbeams -- query and call; capture fleet answer and call -- Eerie, yet wondrously apprehended in glory of original grace, ecstatic beauty, to remember we only borrow tomorrows on our return to eternity. ...a liminal epoch for the dweller on the threshold. Internal search for perspicacity, expanding borders, authentic elasticity as integral character. Letting go Earthly gravity. Crafty synaptic flow. To see, to feel, to merge and undulate through; to discover, uncover, burst renewed. Uplifting notes, affecting themes, track social rhythm, mark liminal time. Lyric, simple sweeps of tone and cue, never meant to trip up but evoke true meaning. In unknown dark, shadow hosts deep thought to lark and lounge. Dawning form seeps toward reward, to speak out what’s been found. promotes liminal wisdom promotes calm acceptance of non-rational realities, promotes reintegration of self as programmer promotes self-reprogramming in alignment with self-progression to a place of bliss and dharmic awareness in which every piece fits, magically finds its place in expanding space eternally unwinding. Being, not being, letting it be. Day upon night swept by twilight. Vague images coalesce, remain an instant, slowly disintegrate. Ghosts in smoky distance reset dimension, eternal reconfiguration. Twilight of Goddess Revelation What twisted so maliciously your mind? Your God -- Created that greedy leaders may more easily prevail? Is it guilty shame, seeded by consistent training insisting that you fail? Lost to balance, whole possibilities, unable to be free or sane. Eternal life is yours, we scream, while you destroy our birthright in service to conjuror's dream of denial. but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start, each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart II. Born other than imperial, torn into what we are told is real without power to protect ourselves from venal brothers of the order spreading hatred like any venereal disease. We no longer need to meet you cowering on our knees. Karma's a hot potent bitch unschooled in mercy. Witches reclaiming noble heritage, reframed herstories will prevail. Though born, forced to service, in our master's jail, lost and lonely midst the masses, masked to fit expected forms. but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start, each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart III. Listen, little one, watching every moment for our chance, we will break free to adventurers' romance; dance away the chill of foreign hills enrapt in leaves and grass. Hiding in primeval castles, tightly aligned to a bright inner sphere, holding to hope of life to hold dear. Learning to fly, ride to some unknown side, escape from the herd hate stone, can't be as hard as learning to stand alone. but it's just for a while, while we learn what we were from the start each creature alive to the beat of a self-reasoned heart So she drifted through the night, content, serene, laughing at silly little private jokes, singing wisps of songs as they floated by, making up fantasy landscapes and stories from the shadow shapes as she passed through. As dawn approached, shapes became more distinct against the color infusing sky. She understood that her journey was over, as the memories returned in one last burst of clarity. Leaves twinkle falling. Stars arise in twilight. Their song soft, insistent siren call. Lost to primeval moorings. Washed by eternal storm to awake transformed. Twilight at the Dark of the Moon Moving inward. Spiraling into deepest silence. Feel me here, oh my most darling. Here is the free-est flow, river of bliss. Bounty of years of grey resistance, incrementally awakened to swirling shades -- mystic purples, mad magentas, sky-eyed blues. There is ancient music, crescendos to peals. Layered millennial ears, creatures of seas to trees murmur through. Ripples of soundwaves, broker wisdom not yet condensed into words. Romances spun of clay and sand, woven into fashion’s fabrics. Hearty voices join, create regaled mythology. Star-shaped world story reverberates with chill and heat. Nascent strive for enriched clarity that must open ever more widely, a luminous spiral up, out, in, around. Come, brave as you imagine. In that brief eternal interval all of energy coalesces. Imagine the day that dawns when you are no longer dreaming.

[libramoon2]

soclib sem 2

soclib sem 2 (the School Everyone has their stories, and they are fascinating mused with imagination would we not rather share, engage with daring quests, brave romance, laughs of surprise   so much more fun, entertaining, even wise than hiding behind barriers of hateful cruelty, isolated, lonely, in despair with no stories but our boring old self-deprecation? Please, release these wonders you could become to everyone.

[libramoon2]

*  *  * ... "Some of the things that bring me joy don’t cost a thing, like standing outside underneath the full moon, walking through the woods, or conversations with friends. So does talking about the religious and spiritual things I write about on this blog. So does doing those things. The things that bring you joy will keep you going when the Tower is crumbling, when politicians lie and steal, and when your family and allies keep you beyond busy. What brings you joy? What needs to be born at this year’s Winter Solstice? Celebrate the Solstice This is the season of the Winter Solstice. The sun is dying, and with it the calendar year. The challenges of 2017 are coming to an end. 2018 will bring its own challenges: some better, some worse, and many the same. Let us mark the dying of the sun, and let us prepare for the birth of the new sun. And as we do, let us consider the state of the world and how we make our way through it. What needs to be born at this year’s Winter Solstice?"

[libramoon2]

Armed conflict bleeds congested streets. Escalation of weaponry. Post-apocalyptic game scenarios in living gore for all to feast. They say this world is ending, floods and pestilence, but mostly war. * Saddened by madness of petty jealousies against dissenters who dare to act, create, engage, rather than placate the masses with daft diversions. Ineffective complaint the common trade. Disdain, dismemberment the rage. Rabid temperament of this tentative age. No respect for hope, change. Inebriates of secure stagnation in a fantasized past. This is what we do. Chew, swallow, regurgitate sweet, malignant hate. * Synchronicities. Coy heralds for fleet intimation, intuitive response. Hawks in battle formation, storm threat signs in the atmosphere, pull harried attention to fear-monger pleas for war. Armor against armament, against disarming conversation. Is it hard to admit different views might coalesce to a future worth sharing? More cogent eyes may clearly appraise fair judgment against destruction. I say these sentiments, hear their presentment so overplayed, boring, trite. Where is our mighty orator, resplendent scribe to sell benign affiliation, compel. Why would people court Heaven and Hell, demand segregation instead of what we could build on Exploration Speculation Entertaining unfamiliar ideas — broadening expectation. Mutual respect – what could generate from that.

[libramoon2]

December

December Wine Decant December wine The best saved for end of the year held in fond anticipation Traveling slick hills on sleigh rides of old Reliving the thrills over fine age and spirit A day we hold dear it is worth far more than gold I see a star pale and strong hear glorious wind made of song -- holy choirs singing There is sacrament in desire Wonders of will, of intensity wild like the sweet breath of winter Drink in the joy of being alive Betty dances an instant choreography of our conversation. Her familiar rhythmic motion seems to keep flow of thought musically cohesive. We play at soliloquies, interweave of dialog, tangential themes, dissonance in effective counterpoint, comic relief. Betty enhances assiduously. Rarely do we hear her voice, or need it for eloquence. These gabfests include all who are present. From each according to individual style. Tonight, to welcome December, we assemble to figure out this season of stress and expectation. Betty falls into slump as if exhausted. A mischievous grin peeks from between tumbled hair. Her fingers float, mime symbols rising on bare air. She crawls into upward pose, awaits our inspiration. Marcus sarcastically Ho-Ho-Hos. She bows, lifts his right arm to her left shoulder, then deftly pirouettes across the room. skidilee scadilee A man who remembers A maid whose Decembers Have wintered away Dew of the Morn gone to Desert in sentences Wick of moisture cools skin He begs her to stay Remember, remember, love is the ember. Catch fire to your mind, to your brutal December, to your losses cast upon a lotus sea. Hold for your life, upon this memory; into this lonely Moon of sad reflection send those longing nights when no one remembered you. Can you recall, reanimate, reconnect? Can you forestall, hold so close there can never be bisection? Can a silent echo fill so completely, instill ever enriching, radiate that instant, that bond? Is the memory of a song, the distant weep of times so long bereft of sweet release, a mantra moving mind beyond self-imprisonment for a crime of passion? Winter Warmth On the longest night How do you celebrate, commemorate our nature? Living world dependent on a circled star for light and warmth, for energy to fuel our fate. We bring our forests inward. Ceremonies carry epic myth to shape consciousness. Night walks for reflection. Touches contours of Earth. Cuddles dervish bevies of stars. Night desires primal connection. Eternity compressed, expressive spirits too subtle to survive Sunlight. Longer nights, stronger ties to sky lore. Siren songs run along aspirant spine, instruct your mind to widen, become open to awe. December days go fast. Light returns slow through white horizons. Darkening tones feel appropriate companions. Sparkling peace, alone in vastness, at one with gladness. Cold, gallant partner, urges closeness. Calm before pent up congregation. Ready to pop Hallelujahs, surge ecstatically. World wide exultation. Electronic connection. Virtual warmth. Past fantasies’ achievement. We weave into future beliefs, reach forward. Accept and demand: We are all in this together. Capricorn at December’s End Quiescent summit of hero’s mountain soothed by view of waves, of distant heights. Currents lift to flow, falling to rise. Symbols, wisdom releasing over transits of Time. What year has this been? Wishes obtained, sustained, begun. Deep inspirations. Races run, sunsets framed, scintillating proclamations. Bold, flirtatious masks; goal enhancing tasks; reflection of cascading plans in sheltered flames. Relaxing fun, happy laughter, expansive games. Holding the best to memory; the rest let fade away. Increments of transitions, long, steep, often discovered in critical obsessions,stored in popular modern messages. Hard to keep up, in touch, aware of cards in play. Unable to resist insistent caring. Still weak, wary. Yet, need to lean on panic’s crutch a bit less each day. Taking steps, stands, giving attention. Over months and moments projects start, fit, flow. Unknown unknowns less like monstrous black holes. Mystery, magic, sage co-creators in ecstatic circle. Familiar woes, stories of want, of work without reparation, strangely dispel. When we all begin again to resolve to evolve, to make a better trade, more alive, less afraid ready to dig in and build for blessing. No prohibition, requirement of mission denies desire’s essentiality to feed our greatest visions. What bright star might foretell future resolution, fears openly quelled, goals of hope in sight? Beacons, blessings of a night, cold yet comforting. Season of projected light, of ice and fire.

[libramoon2]

like a hurricane like a natural disaster wind and rain laying waste to my life. tossed, torn, left astray and a stranger in the way, or at least not the norm. a sad wastrel left adrift in the storm. sing my wanderers' song tonight. let the wind carry my fading melody off onto wind-whipped ports of call. my breath's been carried out to sea nothing left to become of me once the hurricane has passed into the day the foggy, rainy day . . . I gaze upon the ragged sea. ,,, ‘’’ Rainstorm howls, cleanses, sends tidings, murky repentance and beard for tears. Savage rain tip-tapping rhythms and blues. Barrels for dipping, for ritual washing, for tribal hydration, replenishment. Agriculture, hunger, health, hygiene. Sordid rain, ashen water, terror, pain, diluted blood. Storm warnings advise caution. Cover yer windows and blinds. Hide in cellars and pray. Find salvation in fearsome company. Oh, Hell – give in! Cave into slippery ground; swallow and be swallowed. The rains came, carried fortune to further shores and supplicants. Long into unspoken tomorrows. ,,, ‘’’ I’ve got rain. No words. No fancy maledictions. Pounding drips against my inner scream. Out in the valley, obscured by smoky haze, gathering armies. Bright polished armor. Weaponry clean beauteously shines, stars behind dark clouds. No roots to cling to. Flood water rises, drowns fire, air, ability to speak of sorrow. Ashes fall unevenly through seeping valley. ,,, ‘’’ Steady chilly rain of irritations, builds into pools of rage, a sea of tears. Paddling, that old canoe splinters through. Dreary, filthy floodwater, always needs bailing. I am sore with life, bruised, blood-stained, a sorry sight. I cry out to Gaea’s strength, brutal acceptance. My body aches to mend in healing bend and release, graceful hypnotic undulation, deep breaths of puissant sea air. Expanding horizon beckons. Waves of welcome extend hand to hand, beyond gravity. Fragrant allure of serene ease. Feel the moonlight, gently embrace, then, twirl me grandly into cosmic glee. Exhilaration, peace beyond compassion, beyond evidence of empty space between. Ebb and flow. Drought and tsunami. Guiding beacon, or oncoming train. The underworld is flooded; rotting stench escalates to outrage. We on the surface busily scramble to survive. In this torrent of madness float keys to magical caverns beneath ocean swells. It is a fine era for purveyors of diving gear and we with will to learn new methods of breathing. ,,, ‘’’

[libramoon2]

eve of Hekate

Stars’ Crossing * * Crossed roads, slowly swaying entrance beads from day to night. Slip in between to become for that instant of eternity dancing gypsy calling to Moon, to storytelling stars. Embrace that mystery, train tracking adventure. Breathe forgotten fields, lush or shriveled, dependent on water and feed. Let go of all but one brave hand solidly grasped to the doorway. Let go; let fingers fall reaching. * * * * Second Star to the Right * * Traveling beyond Persephone’s garden on the etheric threshold ‘tween mortality and death. Taking an oblique path at the crossroads onto an accessway along the axis of bliss. It’s not a road on which the dramas fade. It’s not about a numbing block to pain. Drama unfolds — my chemistry responds exquisitely. Touch is just touch; sensation translates information. All the appointed tasks, routine errands of the everyday, little pauses along the bliss path, allow me to breathe the scent of endless possibilities, as path and consciousness expand blissfully aware. * * * * Liminal Spaces * * Twilight, the wee hours, the dark of the moon, liminal spaces, places where magic dwells, crossroads, crises, cusps. * There is static on the radio. A song my voice was singing, rhythm of sound takes flight to surround me, a comforter of down to ease my soul. * I’ve been trying to define a taste, a sense of bittersweet and salt. I’ve been trying to find a trace a footprint in the desert, a sight, a scent, a memory. I’ve been trying to discern a trace of me, a piece to fit the puzzle, my contribution to the grand design. Seeking in shadows, the space between myth and matter, those places words cannot define. On those insubstantial plains of myst and awe, the stuff of dreams, threshold of wonder, creation is spawned. * * * * Crossing the Threshold * * At the crossroads at midnight My lady did swear That she must be alone To face up to her demons * “Please understand that I must be aware of just who I am and where I’ve come from.” * I sat by the bridge as she set forth her tools, her sorcerer lore, her alchemic runes So she’d know who to honor, to break and to blame What she’d been made for, her journey, her truth. * At the crossroads, past midnight, just before dawn My lady thrice nodded and stamped out her flames. She beckoned I join her out on the meadow to kiss and rejoice and reveal our true names. * * * * Cross Purpose * * At hours’ crossroads, Reason drowns in rage, scathe, irradiated rain, treasonous air. Weary of care, of punishing, bottomless anger, of sobbing men robbed of their right to give birth. Wrested from Mama’s warmth, from the cave, to play brave. And it’s ladies’ choice as you squirm in fool’s corner. Such a chore — kissing at this and that for a chance to score the shame, the blame from stuck-out tongues, the bloody laughter. “I could bite off that little thing — make you squat to pee.” Wired to fight, at any cost, because, of course, the Cross proclaims “We’re right. They are inherently wrong.” “Those below must be taught to obey our superior tools, to be broken, that we may ride.” Against our better fate, sad race divides along strict lines, by difference nature devised to spawn us strong. * * * * Alchemy * * Simple acceptance. The dancer with the dance entering pre-dawn mystery. Quiet interval, enchanting music. Undulating reverie. Alone in Hekate’s garden, breathing in memory of jasmine and spice. Weary roads traveled crossroad to crossroad; the journey continues. Weary days have found sustenance in secreted hovels, dimestore romance. Convoluted talk, empty gestures, soul-less ritual take up the stitches of time. Some brave midnight, if I learn my lessons well, I will eat the fruits of Hekate’s garden, dancing in piquant reverie, leaving my tears and anguish along the windswept trail. Ebullient music dances me as the Goddess kisses my tearstains into gold. Degree of my natal Hekate — a liminal year for the dweller on the threshold. The search is for clarity, expanding borders, introducing elasticity as integral character. To see, to feel, to merge and undulate through; to discover, uncover, swim in the glory of original grace, ecstatic beauty. To see, to feel, to breathe in all exquisite luxury of prescience; to hold, transmit as cellular energy. To paint upon translucent canvas subliminal etchings, private symbols generously revealed. Sagacity gifted, re-gifted, planted in potent fertility of visions, of cantations. The tinsel of starlight; the subtle scent of conflagrated pain; the feather touch of eternity. I fall into velvet voice, enchanting form. Move with the rhythm; caressed within word and worlds’ mysteries. Eve of Hecate As we approach the 13th of August celebration of the Dark Moon Goddess under shining Moonlight, Faery Queen or fabled harlot stirs potent night blooms, expelling myths of what we cannot bear, cannot overcome Feel in the electric falling starlight Spells of renewal, of power to look back upon our falterings, to find the seed now grown yet changing still and ever, able, willing, co-creating in the illuminated shadow invoking the peace of dissolving twilight of midnight's hopeful resurrection of the hinting flame that lightens before the dawn take peace into each breath, each incantation from the strength to align impeccably with your deepest truth The transition to the transformation of death is a different kind of birth. Hecate would understand, the Goddess of birth and death and the spaces between, thresholds, doorways, crossroads, limbo. Goddess Hecate, I understand that I am in your realm for this duration, for this direction in which you are moving my consciousness. Bless me, Goddess. Give me your strength of purpose and will, serenity within the maelstrom. The future is one moment at a time. The time is always now. Who I am to become will amaze me, I’m sure. Hekate Is My Cellar Door I am in awe I am prostrate in acceptance of such power as you bestow to me by incultation of your love Dynamism resounds in every fiber I breathe you in without resistance My exhalation is the stuff of bliss Tell your sisters to breathe with me. I have been working with an inner image of Hecate, the underworld, ancient, self-empowered goddess of birth/death/life. As I am understanding, her lesson is about becoming one's true self, unafraid of social appropriation because not in need of permission to totally embrace one's own magick. To begin to find this inner core (unless, I suppose, one is lucky enough to have never lost it), one needs to go through, truly feel and accept, all the pain and miseries of one's life, to learn that these are not what life is about, not punishments, though sometimes warnings, but just an interpretation of what is. A very long time ago, on a cold and windy winter night, a friend told me: open up to the cold and feel it, don't resist -- it is really warm. On those nights when I remember and try it, it really is. Hekate's Child Child of Hekate, sweetness and light? Where is the mark of your entombment? Buried prematurely, to strive for growth in dark enclosure striving for a breath of the pompously negligent Sun, of the blushing Moon of the squabbling sons and daughters, of daylight's pleasures. Striving, tenderly twisting around corners aching for an unknown touch. "Tell me, sir, then, how's it going now?" Looking up narrowly from a tepid meal, all at once remembering playfellows on the schoolyard running, out of breath, filled with pride a jolly good game. Always someone begging my attention, but it wasn't really me, just a story to steam off or a butt to joke on. All the silly give and take; only time is taken and that in big hungry chunks of no tomorrows. One long day now the part all groggy waking from fevered napping. It wasn't supposed to be a tomb nestled in Transylvanian bloodlines. It was meant to be a child's cot, freshly laundered cotton lace. But the rats got in, once the cats had been slaughtered. Slowly wakening I strive again to find my footing. Learning to walk was never as easy as forgetting to fly. Caught up in my Hecate role, I feel the power of my soul. Rain and wind and ice and snow I feel you all from here below, and revel in elemental energy. I am the wind, the seas, the fire I am all will and all desire. It is me you love, and me you hate — I am the master of your fate. Yet I am hidden from all sight, beyond the reach or need of light. I have found my peace, my place, my voice. Take heed, O’ mortal, create your choice. Create it every day.

[libramoon2]

nuclear quiet Tremble. Terrible holocaust. Fragments, smoldering ash attest inferno’s horror beyond any concept of fright. Tremble. Desirous destruction engulfs, combusts, devours the night. Ghastly imbroglio to contemplate. Holy emission of erupting sky obscuring, engorging, torching heavens and Earth. Maelstrom behind closed eyes of flesh-rending fire razing, exploding, resplendent in awe filled agony; transcending density into shocks of deadliest tremors. Yes, tremble and think not of that night. Caught in a thread which ravels to end in throat-clutching screams. Send dread escaping, sad streams of molten tears. Endless, enduring, yet rent past all mending. Quiet, so quiet tonight. Kept closed -- quiet tonight. Unable to catch breath; unable to cry; unable to go on -- But, God, I don't die just quail ‘neath flames descending, howl without a sound. Tremble, just tremble -- there's no soul around. second flooding of Megiddo I've got rain. No words. No fancy maledictions. Pounding drips against my inner scream. Out in the valley, obscured by smoky haze, gathering armies. Bright polished armor. Weaponry clean beauteously shines, stars behind dark clouds. No roots to cling to. Flood water rises, drowns fire, air, ability to speak of sorrow. Ashes fall unevenly through seeping valley. Hiroshima Peace Fight for peace Our sacred honor Arrows fly piercing armor Pierce of amor, pride outside all measure Wrath, revenge as pleasure Coiled paranoia bayonet strong Toddlers play, armless, unwary skeletally still Bared secrets slip, burn scars in time Scorching, pinprick holes in heaven's fabric, petrified souls thrust to premature eviction Hellfire ripped from metaphor Immolation scream-echo palpable, texture ascends Daring phantoms, death's brigade wail "Peace!" -- unheeded command because real glory belongs to slaughter Veneration Honoring peace. Honoring essence left behind not blessed in sanctified fields open to air and sunlight, tended to father by father, mother to sacrificed child. Dust denied transcendence to holy loam in presence of love. Lives not given, not shared, but stolen, ripped asunder -- limbs, guts, glory. Shrieking abodeless waifs, wailing abandoned intimates, kin. Screaming bombs, squealing tanks. Arms, throats lacerated. Vision scathed, scarred. For peace, for country, for prosperity. Today, smoke, cinder flecks obscure a longed-for Sun. devotional haiku happy day to die amid man's and planet's ruins reverberant Hell starshine uncontained potent messaging released DNA cackles Japanese songbirds born to nuclear wasteland shriek mass destruction Logic of Evolution Successful progenitors survive to sow seed by force or persuasion or hiding off screen or banding together that more may succeed, and upgrade conditions, enhance the breed. But, for such teams to work well we must learn to respect, honor, and trust; expect to contribute and take and share, accept the caring for and care. In community varied seeds are sown. Thus is a thriving future grown. Or, sibling rankling infests to neighbors as scorn. Barriers proliferate, preparations for war. Who is emboldened by destruction and blood, blowing civilizations back into mud? Are these principled people filled with kindness and joy? Those who can create good; the lacking destroy. Guns, bombs, cruel words, contempt, angry sneers, promotion of pain, preying on fears, paying us naught but unneeded tears and advancement of certain unsavory careers. We can reject their lies, realize the prize. Here! before our eyes. Simple. Easy. Free. Expect, accept, embrace the abundance of Peace.

[libramoon2]

dark musings

Twilight at the Dark of the Moon Moving inward. Spiraling into deepest silence. Feel me here, oh my most darling. Here is the free-est flow, river of bliss. Bounty of years of grey resistance, incrementally awakened to swirling shades -- mystic purples, mad magentas, sky-eyed blues. There is ancient music, crescendos to peals. Layered millennial ears, creatures of seas to trees murmur through. Ripples of soundwaves, broker wisdom not yet condensed into words. Romances spun of clay and sand, woven into fashion’s fabrics. Hearty voices join, create regaled mythology. Star-shaped world story reverberates with chill and heat. Nascent strive for enriched clarity that must open ever more widely, a luminous spiral up, out, in, around. Come, brave as you imagine. In that brief eternal interval all of energy coalesces. Dark Magick In the still of the dark of the moon, after the revelry has passed, deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep, we, walking, silently, along the riverbed, breathe in ancient ash of woodsmoke, breathe out long-growing tears to weave ghostly tentacles along our path, take each other's hand up to our heart to pray, to kiss, to whisper, thus casting an eternal spell. Brave New Age I have traveled beyond the waters, acrid, poisoned water, bound and bleeding daughters, wail of senseless slaughter, blinded by the rain. I have walked sands of endless hatred, crumbled stone as hate did, explaining "It was fated." relinquishing the blame. Dark of the night, quiet, unable to lie, I search for the truth of my age in unfathomed sky. Not Heaven, not Home to a rescuing I -- the Mystic's mystery. Hugely greater than a Creator of history. Stars, Galaxies without end Liminal Spaces Twilight, the wee hours, the dark of the moon, liminal spaces, places where magic dwells, crossroads, crises, cusps. There is static on the radio. A song my voice was singing, rhythm of sound takes flight to surround me, a comforter of down to ease my soul. I've been trying to define a taste, a sense of bittersweet and salt. I've been trying to find a trace a footprint in the desert, a sight, a scent, a memory. I've been trying to discern a trace of me, a piece to fit the puzzle, my contribution to the grand design. Seeking in shadows, the space between myth and matter, those places words cannot define. On those insubstantial plains of myst and awe, the stuff of dreams, threshold of wonder, creation is spawned. dark of the Moon, dark of the Sun liminality, intense opening of magical portals -- where do you see your being on the other side? Perhaps what I am finding so profound is indeed simple elementary knowledge to others here. That take on the human narrative is: our entire "reality" is an abstract construct based on what we perceive as the general social narrative into which we are born. Much as some religions refer to a "maya" an illusory story we blend our self-narrative from, or as visionaries, madfolk, psychonauts perceive a vaster reality beyond the veil, we all have the capacity to see through the story and recreate it in an image more suited to our individual pursuits and pleasure. In fact, religion (yoke) is a social construct to better control the flock by self-appointed shepherds who may have a greater picture than apprehended by the masses, or at least a greater instinct for the prerequisites of power over. Ultimately, the more profound power is not power over, but power within, the power to move beyond the socially accepted narrative and write one's own. This is the essence of Magic. We who are part of an ancient tradition of art are always taking up the helm, seeing what was and making our own comments based on our own experiences. However, as to the whining and wallowing, people throughout time have had serious issues to deal with, some similar to what we are going through now, some perhaps less relevant at this time. We had "the bomb" Vietnam, the draft, Agent Orange, CIA, Hoover's FBI, all manner of incredible social changes to acclimate to. You know, I've been marvelling during this just recent "Black History Month" that when I was a teen I was marching for civil rights so that my black friends could live in the kinds of neighborhoods that my white friends took for granted, could get real jobs, could not be lynched with impunity. My gay friends were jailed or worse, incarcerated in mental institutions and given shock treatments, even lobotomies, because they had a mental illness, not a different orientation. My woman friends (I included) were also kept off the job market, or given low-paid service work which included a heavy amount of sexual harassment that had to be endured. We were not allowed often to rent spaces because we didn't have a man, or have our own bank accounts, or heaven forbid we had children due to divorce or out-of-wedlock, we were pariahs and so were our kids. I could go on forever, but hopefully you get the point. We all have our crosses to bear, each individual and each generation. As artists it is our job to take it all in and use these adversities to make our art more relevant, more real, more true to who we are. And, btw, check out some of the earlier psychedelic movement art -- it's certainly not all sweetness and light! The so-called flower-power hippies were more a media artifact than the real thrust of what people were doing and believed. Sodomy, defined by celibate priests who I guess thought we were too good for sex, includes all sexual acts outside of the sacrament of marriage, other than the missionary position, and for any purpose other than procreation. Sodomy is condemned as serious sin in Christian theology of the middle ages and on to well into the 20th century, even into the 21st. Apparently God gave us these intense urges just to test us. I have been experiencing complicated thoughts about the meaning of art, its purpose culturally and personally. For the most part, I've not liked poetry, though often I have found poems that did deeply move me or give me a radically new perspective in a way that other writing forms rarely can equal. I had very recently been going through an internal conflict about writing style. People have criticized my writing for being too difficult to understand when I thought I was being crystal clear. I started working toward using simpler language, but that doesn't seem to be the cure. Now, I am leaning more toward the idea that my job is to express in my own way my own realizations, since that is what I can do that is original and meaningful, to me at least. You can never please or even necessarily communicate with all of the people all of the time. If I am true to my own vision, at least that will be out there for those who do wish to see it. It is important, though, I think, to be clear in the manifestation of that vision rather than obscurant, to give full attention and intention to every word. It cracks me up that the Republicans are touted as pro-free-market conservatives. Real conservatives are conservationists. They understand that there is no free ride from planet Earth, or anyone else. They believe in the creative entrepreneur who has a stake in finding useful and profitable solutions so the buying public will beat a path to that door. Real Republicans, however, seem to be about preserving the territory of sacred special interests. As was suggested on a conservative think tank panel broadcast on C-Span about other issues, probably the best way to come up with real world solutions is to offer a high cash prize to whoever comes up with the best ideas, or at least to offer low-interest financing to get such projects going. I drink them in, your words of lithe and light and falling into meaning. Hot, parched soul that I bring to party through the changing moods and captured essence enrapturing liquid emotion. Capturing brief moments dripping down my throat like song. Blowing through life, into a magical canyon Stygian rain ignites wandering visions Madness unbound by resplendent derision rocks into devastation of lullabies expressed through Lilithian eyes way past the limits of light and reason In a gentle corner, made of more glorious dreams love's candle burns warming celestial clay New worlds orgasmic in grace explore passion.

[libramoon2]

[evening dionysian]

working title: [evening dionysian]

Dancers dance musicians play Enchanting sylph narrates stories while seductively moving to sinuous back beat, tick of chimes. Occasionally emphasizes subtle percussions with intense expressions, leaps, cunning stumbles, falling to crawl into spellbound speech. Scheherazade myths, archetypal passion escapades, poignant weeps, salient shouts to power. Exquisite meditations on mystic climes, spirit and form. Merry masks, sparkly costumes, paint and glitter as embellishment to the tellings. Theater as intimate ritual. Anything could manifest.

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Pisces murky androgeny Libra emits graceful beauty Scorpio at home in passion Deeply attractive Complicated self-hatred urging service and demeaning. At core strong self-belief expressed intuitively. Stories from the collective well, mystic ether, imbued in earth, exhaled by flames. Centering, sense memory trances exhibits as sinuous performance.

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This world is ending …

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Even happy families share dissonance, complex histories, emotional triggers. Happy families learn to thrive, profound mutual respect as guide, resort to good humor for smoother passage. Why fight, divide strength from where it is better spent? Folk who pull together by choice rejoice in shared communion.

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Outside self-circumscribed worlds Diverse perception of views Sight with wide spectra of hues

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She heard him crying, a lost child in the night. In her prophetic heart she knew only she could comfort him. But she was only a child who was never allowed to be lost. How could she comfort this lost boy when she had no freedom to reach out? Late in quiet dark, after her people, asleep, would not be checking on her, she opened her window and made daring escape. Wandering in the outside dark, she listened for his cries. At first she discerned wind among leaves and branches, small creature forays, clash of metal against pavement, perfumed strains from afar. Then, yes, whimpers, ragged rhythm past exhausted weeping. He was huddled, hidden, on the alley side of a cold brick building. Seeing him, frightened, lost, she did not know what to say. He smelled of rancid sweat and fear. She did not know how to speak. She cried. She emptied herself of every caustic tear, every regret held for guilty ransom, every sadness kept inside so no one would fuss. He looked up at her watery face and asked with amazed concern: “Are you lost, too? Because if we are lost together, really we have found each other. We don’t have to stay scared and alone.” She looked around, realized that in al her blind wandering she had lost her way. She had no idea where they were. She knelt beside him. They smiled and hugged. For that precious while they became beloved kin. Perhaps some special night they’ll meet again.

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Mythy visions to transcribe; thought fragments to form. Myths we live, and how to rewrite them.

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She knows she has awakened. Every effort of her body pinches, aches, demands refuge in self-talk, reason, mental override of pain. Carefully, she measures out tools of destruction, what she must carry in her pack into the city, to her place of destiny. Doing what one can to make sense, have meaning. Life is short, ugly, pointless, unless you get that call. Trying to act cool with familiar friends, laying low, hiding from everything that doesn’t allow relevant existence for dregs like us. Recognition? Commendation? A scrap of real notice? To sacrifice this humorless joke to Godly cause, that’s got to be imbued with meaning, to be holy. How not find zealous courage, so dishonor numbing a drug, one point of focus. All my sins, my impoverishments, inadequacies, forgiven in ultimate atonement. God can love me. I am made pure in His sight. A tool, a weapon, no matter how lowly, bestowed sacred purpose in this great fight. My parents, my kin, vindicated, their suffering denied nobility avenged. Cleansed in adventure’s icy plunge, only ever young in throes of romance, a chance for breathless rush of brief immortality.

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. question everything accept or reject with clear awareness and flexibility

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. purity of essence is to will one thing

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. She didn’t like her skin. So hard to blend in. She didn’t like her body, jutting awkwardly, too bulky, not compliant to conscious control. She ached to let her spirit free from matter’s burden, to ooze out onto open air. Her envisioned wish took her to aerial glee, and no more. “What would I see, outside of eyes, no biological boundaries?” Her attention, turned to this yearn for omniscient sight, was caught, held strong and seduced. Ever present, ever expanding through every crevice of her consciousness, she became inured to matter’s inadequacies. She desired entirely. No one could reach her, though no one tried. She trance-walked through her duties and habits with none to notice any lack of aliveness, lack of any impish spark within her eyes. Self-consumed, obsessed, absorbed in apotheosis, physical possibilities no longer matter. Her spirit no longer held to this room, this body. Blind to her unseeing world, enraptured in unfiltered light, colors far beyond our rainbow.

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. A brave and learned man hired out to guide a motley assortment through a narrow, rocky passage to a settlement in need of laborers. At this time, he was a stranger to settlers and these prospective immigrants. He had an idea of joining their project, but felt nag of doubt enough to only commit as far as hiring out for specified work and pay. This Job – this man who gave his name as Job – was curious, clever, aloof because caught up in thoughts complex, calculating, critical, cynical, contemplative, entertaining. He spoke as necessary for terse communication. He listened as if a subtle etching of rain on sand. He sucked in sounds and all their meaning to nourish his chattering brain. Though his behavior, demeanor, presentment appeared distancing, others tended to respect his leadership, his abilities. Even those who mocked or boisterously complained in private camaraderie in which he did not join agreed that he bested them at coming through. After their passaging, safely gathered at the settlement, words and gestures of gratitude lauded upon him were spontaneous and sincere. As settlers and new arrivals met together to discuss their common project, ask questions, give opinions, figure out teams and chores, Job continued his passage. Busy in their plans and adaptations, no one noticed him disappear.

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. Capture my imagination Take me for a ride self-discipline, acknowledge without judging

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Philip, he so tired, exhausted, can’t bear the nattering. Silly people, spew of soft-heart advice. Stupidly happy people, smug in their hugs and white smiles. Philip recedes into deep, dark hate – so mired and convoluted spirals down his mind. Lethargic impulses, held back, kicked down, pounded to weakness as he grew in twists and turns. “Don’t look at me.” He hears his silence scream. Horrid beast snarls, whimpers. Philip aches to hide from his own mind, beastly child whining, cringing around cutting steel for comfort. Snappy, happy babblers burst like saliva balloons, insult, annoy. “Don’t speak to me. Don’t daintily pretend you understand; oh so precious extended hands, limpid eyes question, judge, sentence to demented status. “I am fine, or will be when you all leave me alone. Ignore my retreat into secure solitary recrimination, whip lash of vengeful sin. You know you don’t really want to be let in, to feel the wrath I am. Scatter, you flesh-covered delusions who choose to disturb my sleep, my darling nightmares’ stomping victory. You clearly don’t need my input to be complete. Complete fools – go do your better things. Enjoy your day. I’ve no more to say, to share.” Aloud? Allowed? He allows himself to voice complaint aloud. And the folk crowd ebbs out beyond his self-fixed point. “Express your truth,” he silently affirms. People may listen.

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Imbibe trance Fall into story Record intimately

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Become one story Imbibe trance intimately Record while falling

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face shifter. story spinner. dervish zeitgeist possessed. defined by shades, by shadows, by negation.

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Sammy scary loco crazy. They say he got the paranoid schizophrenia. What he got is commandos tracking his thoughts, grinning. Party of demons who been with him, telling him what to do, clever talk when he needs to answer some fool. He’s got my nightmares, but can’t shake them awake. No one wants to listen to me or him when we say what’s real. They want us to be kids, whatever that is. They want us to make them feel alive in their self-comforting fantasies about responsibilities. What is Sammy responsible for or to? Because he suffers disability, because he can’t break through Hell’s circles, flames of purity. I walked from Hell. My mind still burns. I am strong, a born survivor. He survives as he can. Is that weakness, or alternative dimensions habitated? I am amazing, mobile, continuing, sensibly explaining, harmoniously relating, conversing like a pro. I struggle. I hurt, it feels unbearably. I work until I want to scream, become explosive screaming. I stifle, call up mania to work on. Efforts only I applaud – amazing me! Nothing spectacular to entice the jaded they. Sammy is spectacular. I am seriously amazing. I won’t let them blind me.

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. They walk in and out of patterns, broad swath of night. No designated home; no one has to accept them. They walk. Dust, dirt, soot, effluvia collect, protect in the sense of repel. In safe dark none encounter to harass. Those alive by day buried in bed. They walk without notice or plan. This is their closest approach to sleep, hypnotic glide through distance. Landscape undifferentiated by visible presentation. Footsteps feel clearly what comes under, it seems by instinct — or possibly familiarity. They walk on perhaps forever with no where to stop. Pit stops. Beg for food or find leavings. Play merry fool, eyes gleaming, lips voice hands form expressive grand soliloquies, hoped fee implied (implored). Sustenance they afford varies by mood of kindness, unswayed by desperation. Exhaustion only dulls, removes any attractive shine. As air blows colder, nights freeze over, they seem to dissolve into neverwere. Empty shadow, haunted tingle bereft of cause. “They were never us, nothing like us.” Unspoken song bears rhythms of walking unseen.

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She awoke in a body, young, womanly, driving consciousness on hold somewhere like dreamless sleep. It was her occasional brief invasion to feel in touch with mortal concerns. She is to be a bride, again. Foolish, innocent yet of so many regrets and betrayals to come. She is ready to exult in the veil and it symbolic lift. Happy to perform, darling of her audience of familiars. Happy day, swept clean of trepidations, of all yesterdays and their burdensome effluvia. Today is always hers. These ceremonies, traditional duties and pleasures, bind her to cults, cultures, accumulated lore and intuition. Not creature, but weaver – still she is inseparable from the story. Today she again assumes bridehood. Tonight, awash in festivities, again she removes her spell of possession. This new bride returns to a familiar world, changed. No longer civil child nor spiritual supplicant, she has ascended. People see her differently, treat her with more deference, more distance even as they proclaim her their precious chosen intimate, ply her with cherished secrets as if her allegiance would add value. Her bearing carries an air, an enhanced spirit, a subtle awareness, unspoken by any inner voicing. Language is a human art.

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Gathered on picnic table benches behind the home, hot in sunshine. Karen explains, fact by fact, how Gus became her inseparable soul. They beam together. He gives consoling hand to shoulder as she grieves children left with their father, her ex’s condemnation, stern paternal assertion of power. Saving his kin from this unrepentant whore. Karen cries, again – unrehearsed habit. She carries sadness; leaks occur. Gus hardly speaks. His troubled eyes, weary stance, gentle pull and pass of their pint bottle as he glances with deep countenance to each face around is eloquent conversation. Sweat smells, condensed alcohol, burnt tobacco, drying shit from local dogs, passing fumes from the road out front, all permeate, help set the mood. They treat the stranger in their midst as a friend of long acquaintance, just another straggly member of a morphing crew. “Ain’t we all strangers of long acquaintance – everybody a wrapping of layers, appearing in colored bits along our drowsy companionship. Strange friends, welcome distractions, smoky mirrors that let us see as we discern.” Bonnie and Denise giggle at Big Dan’s pedantic speech. They solicit contributions for their liquor store expedition. Enough gets thrown in to make it a go. Go, girls. We’ll be waiting, celebrating what we can because here we are.

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #43

A strangely dressed, obviously old, yet regally postured woman appears on the balcony of the City Council Building, arms outstretched as if in benediction. Calmly, serenely, she faces the uproarious crowd surrounding from below. Caela breathes deeply inward, accessing that bright core she has built from all the loving wisdom discovered throughout her life. "You can be healed." Her simple statement echoing, reverberating throughout the crowd. Everyone within range of her electronically enhanced and broadcast voice feels profound resonance. Every one of them feels tender, loving presence reaching deeply into their secret, festering wounds, bathing their pain in beautiful soothing light. Caela, smiling inwardly in joyful communion with the forest daughter entwining her consciousness, responds to each and every pause of wonder. She sends soothing musical visions with her words. "There is no shame in pain. There is no cure to be found in blame, regardless of accuracy. There are so very many ways to be wounded, deeply injured, horribly scarred. Our natural desire would be to heal, end the siren signal of pain, the suffering of what has been hidden rather than made whole. It is natural for hurting children to offer up their tears and fright and indignation at their wounding to parents who will make them well again. Hiding, making dark secrets of unhealed wounds, is not our natural recourse. We have mislearned, incorporated guilts and shames where openness to nurture was meant to be. Sharing our pain, our stories of wounding, our attempts to regain wholeness, with caring family and friends is meant to make us stronger, individually and together. Go deeply into your greatest, most intractable, pain too intense to touch numbing wound. Listen, intently, to its story. Succor it as you would your dearest child. Then to the next, and the next, until all your despicable woundings are adored offspring of a closely loving family. Share your family tales with the people you see every day. I give you all permission to allow this vulnerability. You are not about fear or anger or intractability. You are alive, growing, changing, learning. Learn to share who you are, really. Magical synergy can give us all everything we have yearned for, felt missing in our lives, individually and together. I don't know when, why, how it began. The social structure meant to house and contain us, safe, snug, happy children growing to become strong, joyful, nurturing families, instead becomes a prison. Structure meant to be loyal friend and servant becomes heartless master, imposing order without thoughtful consciousness, sane flexibility, wise encouragement of playfully creative boisterousness which might lead to inconvenience, mistakes, disorder. We can always pull ourselves together to clean up an inadvertent mess, correct mistakes, make amends, share discoveries. This is gregarious human life's natural course of education. Rote memorization of rules, that is but an exercise in discipline. It is not learning. We feel a need for rules to create a safe structure; but the rules are but tools, not the project itself. What is our project but full, true, glorious experiences of life for each and every? To be full and real, we know there will be pain and wounding as well as love, useful work, private contemplations, fun, frolic, humor, loss, death, sorrow. What we do not need to include is hopeless despair, empty loneliness, unwarranted guilt or shame or restriction of opportunities for restitution and true forgiveness. It's not that we need to avoid breakage, but that we all need to learn the arts of repair, reconciliation, growth that heals and enhances us all. I am here to help you. I offer you the benefit of what I have learned. I am creating a school of healing where you will always be welcome. We will offer you our knowledge of healing techniques, therapy sessions, consultations and training. You may decide for yourself, and redecide at any point, of what offerings you desire to partake. Those who can will be expected to pay for our services in order to keep our operating budget in operation. Those without funds will not be turned away. We expect that what we teach will then be shared, expanding the resource of knowledge, healers, trainers, interactive healing groups. Very simple. Nothing hidden. Though our offerings may only be able to accommodate limited numbers at first, quickly enough we will grow. You, everyone who so chooses, will help to grow us, together. Ultimately, we will all learn from each other. Together we will be able to figure this out, this living thing. We will learn to live with the clarity and wisdom we create for ourselves. We can learn to embrace the bountiful gifts and wisdom of this planet that is our home. We can learn the blessings of interdependency, of give and take based on honor and respect. We can revel in the enlightenment that reveals each of our own self-interests gets better served when we truly, deeply, wisely know that we are all in this together. Can you sacrifice your despair on the altar of such a realization? We can together will a manifestation, of true possibilities. I offer not a vision of idealized perfection; but a readily obtainable viable answer. Guiding a flow of unblocked healthy energy toward the beauty of balanced fully realized lives -- this is a mission I gladly accept. Oh, my beloveds, think clearly about what you have to lose, and gain. Feel the compassion, the challenge, the call. Take what I freely offer out of my own great need for connection. We are family, a living interactive system, able together to achieve so much greater happiness and well-being. You can heal." Thus will it be.

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #42

Jorel has been enjoying getting caught up in Caela's vision as she spins it out for him. He sees the potential of this fine university of healing arts, including the healing to be found through fine and performance expressive arts, touch, movement, meditations, creative play and experiments in communications, even more spiraling out beyond his imagining. A too good to be true fantasy, of course; but he allows himself a momentary luxury of getting caught up in the beauty. "My dear Healer," deciding it is well past time to inject reality back into their conversation, Jorel adopts a tone of impatient irony. "I am certain I would be glad to accede to your demands. Just tell me, how am I to spirit your charges away in the face of that?" With an angry flourish, he points to the mob, seemingly just shy of storming the barricade around the building and taking them all by force. "Have we a deal, then?" Caela responds lightly, as if they've not a care beyond their civilized negotiations. "You do your part, Councilor. Leave the rest to me. Watch and learn why I know my plan will succeed for all of us. But first, one more favor, please. I will appreciate your arranging for electronic amplification of my voice, and for my live simultaneous broadcast over your communications channels to reach everyone tuned in. I know you will find a way to sneak the others out safely while the focus is on me." Jorel is aghast. "I'm sure it is quite noble for you to sacrifice yourself to save these children," he begins, ready to plead. She is extraordinary. Perhaps they can figure out some way to ... "No need to fear for me, Jorel. Just watch. Listen. And do as we have agreed. We are agreed?" A quality of her voice, her will, commands his full attention. He quickly, authoritatively, arranges for the broadcast and amplification equipment, and transport for both contingents of Lukin's extended family.

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #41

"I believe you have recently closed and taken control of a school to the north and west, far enough beyond the centers of population to afford privacy. There is enough land for a buffering zone, gardens, basic self-sufficiency." Unsure where this might be going, Jorel concedes her information. "The Harmony Academy. Several of your people were shareholders in the enterprise. Some as well were prominent faculty. The people had been hearing unsavory rumors about goings on there. Some of your social experiments, group sex, occult ceremonies, dangerous ideas being spread. We arrested several of the major shareholder/instigators. The property is in the hands of the City Council until we auction it off." "Yes!" Caela seems almost glowing. "A dangerous idea -- but danger can be a challenging doorway to glorious adventure, or the price of a longed for treasure. Sell me this school. I will pay whatever price you ask, over time from my profits. I will start a school to teach our people how to find their precious abilities, along with immediately practical healing techniques." Jorel is intrigued, more by her thrilling energy than her words, her proposition. The Chief Councilor in him smells trouble, but it has more the feeling of a reflexive defense than a real threat. It's not about a financial arrangement. He has no doubt this witch woman will make good. He fears her power. Yet, somehow, it is a good fear, a call to challenge to his self-image as a brave man. Or was that the witchery? Was she playing on his sympathies, bewitching his mind, dissolving his strong-willed resolve? "How would this school help with the immediate situation? Are you going to single-handed convert us all? What could you teach us that would be to our advantage? I am sure you could turn a fine profit and pay your way, benefit the city coffers in return for our protection. Though I am also sure we could not guarantee your safety at any price. What are you offering these people?" He gestures grandly toward the ever greater unrest of the ever larger crowd just outside this governmental edifice. "How will you pay them for your life?" "With theirs, of course." She laughs, briefly, out of irrepressible mirth. "I am a healer. I have learned long, well and wisely so many methods, so many ways of being ill and injured, how to recover, become a new whole, stronger, better prepared to go forward, healthier, more completely alive. But I have no need to take the whole task upon my self. I can easily train those willing to learn to assist me, more easily at first those who have already developed the sensitivities more natural to we witchfolk. Over time, with longer training, we will be able to expand our pool of potential healers and trainers from graduates of our school, no matter which of our clans they have been born of. Really, it is simple. Together we can make it be. Let us be partners, allies in a wonderful enterprise. Please, now, arrange for these children waiting for their verdict, and their chaperone, in the next room, to be taken to the school grounds. Make arrangements also for their parents, now held in your prison, to join them there. They can get started putting the place in order for our clientele. Eventually our children can learn together, and from each other, what we need to know to be a successful people together."

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #40

Her senses and contexts expanded by what she has learned, accepted, assimilated through her interchanges, gifts now shared with the forest, Caela feels the wounds these people carry, incubate, spread. "Here and now." Her eyes move from the disturbance escalating outside, lock onto Jorel's. "Those abilities within us that you fear, that you covet, keeping you caught up in the belief that we witchfolk are a superior enemy to be shunned and destroyed, that gift is already yours as well. You can learn to find it within you, to access, develop, use your own innate abilities. You can be set free of this mistaken need for hatred which drains your energies, takes from you what you could be." "But how? Even saying you might be right about some latent witch genetics in some of us, that would just be more divisive. Even those of us with the potential for this so-called gift would have no idea how to make use of it. If they did learn, they would just be more of you, no longer to be trusted." Jorel's attention, divided between that enthralled to the witch's spellbinding charisma and the sure threat of the outside mob scene, is not grasping how to reconcile the two. "Not some, not witchblood. Human blood. Our people came of yours. What we have is but amplified genetically. The right kind of training could build these abilities from potential within all of you as well." "If you could get them to take your training, even if what you say were true. They would rather tear you apart then ever look upon you as their human kin. You are not their kin, nor for that matter mine. You are as alien to us in your own way as the natural lifeforms of our adopted home. What do you intend? To simply walk among those angry mobs and break them to your will with a smile?" Caela smiles broadly. Jorel sneers, not knowing what to make of her, feeling mocked. "No, I am not mocking you. I do respect your words, your experience, your sincere desire to avoid rampant violence." Jorel is mollified. He really does like this witch woman, wishes she could, they could, resolve this mess he knows is partially of his making. But if the instigations of his political maneuverings were all that was in their way they would not have such an intractable problem. He had only manipulated a deeply held antipathy, not brought it into being. "I am sorry." He admits his culpability while regretting the futility of his power. He does not understand why she still smiles, obviously, gently, as a collaborator rather than the opposition.

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #39

"Your people believe they want us gone. Whatever the reasons, these are palpable intentions. They are inflamed, and need careful tending lest they explode. This would harm them, and you, more than we would feel it in the situations we are already in." Her voice and manner so sweetly calm. Images merely illustrative, not as inflammatory as what they represent. This is merely prologue. Sandwiches and energy drinks are brought in by an aide, for those in the antechamber and the two in the main room. Apparently energy will be needed both for waiting and for negotiations. The aide silently disappears, on to other duties, perhaps speculations. "Yes, those festering people in the streets, living out their day to days, waiting impatiently for justice, if that is all they think they can get. They don't know we're here yet, do they? Under the auspices of their representative in chief, eating sandwiches and leisurely chatting or sitting quietly in an antechamber awaiting the possibility of freedom. Are we your enemies?" He could feel implicit threat, but softly gloved because this threat could cut both ways. Delicacy in the balance of shifting forces is not a theoretical concept, but obvious sensation. The thorny, twisty problem is clearly delineated. "If you but think, you know, at this point of our social history our biologies have mixed so that many of our people are not one thing or the other. In the natural course, this will continue. We are not enemies, but kinfolk. We are human beings upon this planet foreign to our origins, but now the only home we know. All of us are aliens together, making this world our home. We are natural allies, tribesmen, sharing our individual wealth of skills and personal resources in common enterprise, as our ancestor colonists meant us to be." "That's all very nice and philosophical." Jorel has found his voice. "We have an immediate situation to deal with here, as you yourself point out. It certainly isn't gong to help quell the fears of the masses to tell them you people have infiltrated their very DNA. They won't know who to trust. That could create widespread panic less controllable than what we have now. What can you tell me, witch, that I can use?" Outside the window of the Chief Councilor's chambers, a crowd can be seen slowly gathering, gaining in numbers and loudness, on the street below. They do not appear to be in a mood of celebration. Their voices are angry. Their words indistinct, but their faces look more pinched and resigned then empowered. This is not a crowd expressing healthy anger against injustice, or grievances for which they expect redress. This is the face of a desperate response to long felt helplessness, ill-use, built out of a poverty of trust, foundations crumbling. Caela feels their surging waves of murky emotion. Disgust, fear, raw rage, harsh bitter brittleness, ready to break. What has done this to a people whose legacy was meant to be freedoms and opportunities far beyond what would have been left to them by the human confusion, pollution, insanity their ancestors had thought left behind on Earth?

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #38

The Chief Councilor was not a simple soldier. He was not a follower, but a leader practiced in the ways of power. He was a senior politician, used to tricks, manipulations, maneouverings, his opponents' and his own. This was not a man easily trifled with or stared down. This was a man who could be persuaded, only if he could be made to clearly see his own advantage. Caela could do that. She could show him in clear imagery and well placed words exactly what he had to gain, and what losses he would no longer need to fear or calculate. Caela was not a politician, had never seen herself as a leader, or a follower. She knew the human mind. She understood the inner workings of will and desire. Power may think itself an irresistible force. When it meets calm acceptance, wrapped in well-reasoned, irrefutable logic, power can become a sheepish child happy to find common ground, if that power is backed by intelligence. The Chief Councilor is an intelligent man. He can acknowledge Caela's wisdom, in his own self-interest. In this case, how fortunate, it is enlightened self-interest, a win-win-win for himself, his constituents, and Caela's. Toriv and the children sit in the anteroom while the principles palaver. They do not feel assured of their fate. Fear, though, mingles with hope, a most potent cocktail keeping them still, locked in their long moments of anticipation. In the Chief Councilor's chambers, something akin to a miracle seems to him to be taking place. Even before she spoke, this strange, primitively dressed old woman has pulled from him his total attention. He feels he would not be able to turn from her nor tune out one iota of her message even should he be able to form such a desire. So much more than compelling, this is the most immediately real experience he has ever known. "I am Caela, of the witchfolk." Her words enter his mind accompanied with rich imagery, a gestalt of intent and comprehension. "You do not need to be told of my journey, nor my history. You need to know that together we can come back from this mess between our people. We can all gain from each other, and become the one people we are meant to be. Someday, after the immediate wounds have healed, scarred over, my people, the exiles, or your people of this city, or both, will make inroads into the land between. Those of the witchfolk here are few and dwindling. They have shown serious concern to improve their numbers through social experiments designed to increase procreation. I know you have noted and were nervous about this. But my point, they are dwindling. You could round them up or let them be. They would all but disappear over time. Yet the time bomb still exists to your South. I tell you this to let you know I come not as an outside agitator nor advocate for others. I have a stake in this outcome. My agenda is open to you. By the time the people I have been a part of reunite with these of the city, the rift needs to have been healed. The reuniting must come as separated kin coming together in celebration." Caela's imagery, more than convincing of her conviction, flows, eloquent. Chief Councilor Jorel (proudly named for his spaceship captain ancestor), finds himself to be fascinated, eagerly awaiting what may come next sparking from her intelligence to his.

[libramoon2]

Caela’s Story #37

Caela and Lukin touch hand into hand, facing each into shining open eyes, hug solemnly. The children feel as secure as any mother's love could provide. Toriv as well feels that love, allowing himself the relief, the luxury of relinquishing a responsibility he had no idea how to fulfill. None doubted, assured in Caela's confidence, that no harm would now befall them. The knock at the door was no shock, no surprise. Neither were the officially uniformed pair of large brutes whose entrance their knocking barely preceded. They were the ones not so much shocked or surprised as amazed and disarmed by an old woman from the other side of the deep woods. At Caela's instigation, she, Toriv and the children were escorted to the official vehicle brought for their transport to an interrogation area. "You mean to take these children, and the man who has harbored them, to someone with more authority than you for their questioning and incarceration, yes?" Caela had quietly, patiently suggested, clearly eyeing the soldiers. They could but nod, confused. "Take us all to the supreme commander of your government. We have negotiations to begin." She commanded them as surely as any of those officers they had been trained to obey with alacrity, without question. Also, there was some strange subtly commanding desire they could feel overtaking any objection before it could form in their minds. It did not feel strange at all to do as this unknown woman said. It only felt strange to have any idea to the contrary. Off they all go to see the Chief Councilor, head of the city's governmental body. On the way, Caela is able to collaborate with Lukin in forming a link of communication with Merin in his cell at the prison compound. He and the rest of the adult members of Sira's extended family are being held, their jailors believe incommunicado, out of sight out of mind of those of the city's populace enraged against them. Unthinking rage, used so easily in political rallying, is not always so easily controlled. None of Sira's political enemies had ever intended harm to the children. They thought the outrage would die down once the maligned adults had been apprehended, sent into perdition for punishment of their insinuated crimes. Yet the people were calling to extinguish this evil subspecies, as they imagined the witchpeople to be, from their lives, utterly, completely, finally. These people had for so long been unhappy, silently or uproariously building up angers over the miseries they felt visited upon their lives from some unnamed foe. Having found a name, they now must vanquish those of that brand. To their rage, it was all quite simple. Anger can be a potent force for action. Once devolved to impotent rage, it is bereft of the solidity of reason and can only, when released, destroy. Merin, glad for the distraction maybe even more than the hope of aid, fills Caela in on the pertinent history, the players, the games, the scores and strategies, cultural myths, background conditions, that she had missed while living her life on the other side of the woods. He is promised a detailed history of Caela's community once the crisis has passed and there is time for the less immediate.