Sweeter Late Season Summer Fruit

by pass the easy low hanging impatient first fruits of spring

instead, discern as an eternal joy quietly ripens in a

sweeter higher hidden branch of the Self same tree of life

Style is Eternal

 

"The image of the spiral and sense of an unfolding process occurring

deep within the heart, circling the material of our lives in all its varied layers

 is such a rich imaginative lens through which to navigate the unique journey we are on.

 

At times, it can be incredibly frustrating and repetitive

as we spin around the same themes, without seeming like there is much movement.

 

At other times, we encounter some crack where the light breaks in;

what seemed at first glance to be a mere repetition is somehow different,

revealing a piece of the mystery that we couldn't quite see at an earlier time.

 

The alchemists called this spiral the circulatio or rotatio which was

envisioned as a sacred process,

 a touching and re-touching of the heart, of the material of our lives,

where we circle or rotate around the essential themes that are unique for us,

that form the prima materia of our own personal opus.

 

From an alchemical perspective,

while it may appear that we are no making any progress and stuck,

things are not always what they appear.

 

Even if we no longer grieve the sense of a personal loss,

we may be asked by forces larger than ourselves to grieve for the ancestors,

the ones yet to come, and the earth and her fertility.

 

At some point, perhaps we can no longer discern between our own grief

and that of a galaxy being born and dying.

 

Grieving is not only personal but cultural, historical, and archetypal.

 

As it humbles and purifies, it opens a portal into the mystery.

 

The invitation into that place will be unique for each of us and

regardless of how it appears—sweet, fierce, peaceful, or wrathful—

it the activity of love, of the beloved one

as it appears here,

spinning and twirling out of the stars and

dancing the worlds of time and space into being."

 

Matt Licata
 

Super Blood Moon Eclipse in Leo:

Facing the Shadow

On January 21st, 2019 we have a Super Blood Moon Full Lunar in Eclipse in Leo!

This is INTENSE energy, as we only have supermoons once or twice a year

but to have it also fall on a Full Lunar Eclipse creates a powerful portal of energy.

When a Full Lunar Eclipse occurs, it is completely eclipsed by the Sun,

appearing red like blood.

These are also very prophetic and tend to bring in fated events

that change our destiny.

 

21119 super blood howling wolf moon

Opalescent Eyes

 

begin devour sweet light kali raw

full moon howls as firey baby lilith lights

but the One muse, the One who matters

this moment's magic still, whole, in awe

as her opal eyes not simply let light in

they are in stead

The Vibrant Well of Source

Fly Free Wild Geese

Be The Light House 

“You do not have to be good. / You do not have to walk on your knees / for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting. / You only have to let the soft animal of your body / love what it loves. / Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine. / Meanwhile the world goes on. / Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain / are moving across the landscapes, / over the prairies and the deep trees, / the mountains and the rivers. / Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air, / are heading home again. / Whoever you are, no matter how lonely, / the world offers itself to your imagination, / calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting— / over and over announcing your place / in the family of things.”


To Mary’s beloved readers, we’re very sorry to share this sad news:

Mary Oliver, beloved poet and bard of the natural world, died on January 17 at home in Hobe Sound, Florida. She was 83.

Oliver published her first book, No Voyage, in London in 1963, at the age of twenty-eight.
The author of more than 20 collections, she was cherished by readers, and was the recipient of numerous awards, including the 1984 Pulitzer Prize for American Primitive, and the 1992 National Book Award for New and Selected Poems, Volume One.

She led workshops and held residencies at various colleges and universities, including Bennington College, where she held the Catharine Osgood Foster Chair for Distinguished Teaching until 2001. It was her work as an educator that encouraged her to write the guide to verse, A Poetry Handbook (1994), and she went on to publish many works of prose, including the New York Times bestselling essay collection, Upstream (2016). For her final work, Oliver created a personal lifetime collection, selecting poems from throughout her more than fifty-year career. Devotions was published by Penguin Press in 2017.

Her poetry developed in close communion with the landscapes she knew best, the rivers and creeks of her native Ohio, and, after 1964, the ponds, beech forests, and coastline of her chosen hometown, Provincetown. She spent her final years in Florida, a relocation that brought with it the appearance of mangroves. “I could not be a poet without the natural world,” she wrote. “Someone else could. But not me. For me the door to the woods is the door to the temple.” In the words of the late Lucille Clifton, “She uses the natural world to illuminate the whole world.”

In her attention to the smallest of creatures, and the most fleeting of moments, Oliver’s work reveals the human experience at its most expansive and eternal. She lived poetry as a faith and her singular, clear-eyed understanding of verse’s vitality of purpose began in childhood, and continued all her life. “For poems are not words, after all, but fires for the cold, ropes let down to the lost, something as necessary as bread in the pockets of the hungry.”

When Death Comes
When death comes
like the hungry bear in autumn;
when death comes and takes all the bright coins from his purse
to buy me, and snaps the purse shut;
when death comes
like the measle-pox;
when death comes
like an iceberg between the shoulder blades,
I want to step through the door full of curiosity, wondering:
what is it going to be like, that cottage of darkness?
And therefore I look upon everything
as a brotherhood and a sisterhood,
and I look upon time as no more than an idea,
and I consider eternity as another possibility,
and I think of each life as a flower, as common
as a field daisy, and as singular,
and each name a comfortable music in the mouth,
tending, as all music does, toward silence,
and each body a lion of courage, and something
precious to the earth.
When it’s over, I want to say: all my life
I was a bride married to amazement.
I was the bridegroom, taking the world into my arms.
When it’s over, I don't want to wonder
if I have made of my life something particular, and real.
I don’t want to find myself sighing and frightened,
or full of argument.
I don’t want to end up simply having visited this world.

Thank you Mary.
Much love, rest well.

Just, Ride The Land Of Hearts Desire

 

"come take me out of this dull world,
For I would ride with you upon the wind,
Run on the top of the dishevelled tide,
And dance upon the mountains like a flame"

 

WB Yeats

Eternal Echoes.

YOUR TRUE HOME

Each one of us is alone in the world.
It takes great courage to meet the full force of your aloneness.
Most of the activity in society is subconsciously designed to quell the voice crying in the wilderness within you.

The mystic Thomas a Kempis said that when you go out into the world, you return having lost some of yourself.

Until you learn to inhabit your aloneness, the lonely distraction and noise of society will seduce you into false belonging, with which you will only become empty and weary.

When you face your aloneness, something begins to happen.

Gradually, the sense of bleakness changes into a sense of true belonging.

This is a slow and open-ended transition but it is utterly vital in order to come into rhythm with your own individuality.

In a sense this is the endless task of finding your true home within your life.
It is not narcissistic, for as soon as you rest in the house of your own heart, doors and windows begin to open outwards to the world.

No longer on the run from your aloneness, your connections with others become real and creative.

You no longer need to covertly scrape affirmation from others or from projects outside yourself.

This is slow work; it takes years to bring your mind home.

JOHN O'DONOHUE
Excerpt from ETERNAL ECHOES

"The poet wants to drink from the well of origin; to write the poem that has not yet been written. In order to enter this level of originality, the poet must reach beyond the chorus of chattering voices that people the surface of a culture. Furthermore, the poet must reach deeper inward; go deeper than the private hoard of voices down to the root-voice. It is here that individuality has the taste of danger, vitality and vulnerability. Here the creative has the necessity of inevitability; this is the threshold where imagination engages raw, unformed experience. This is the sense you have when you read a true poem. You know it could not be other than it is. Its self and its form are one." JOD

Sorry. Not Sorry.

I May Love You
(and I do, dearly)

But remember
(note to Self)

"I Always Love My
Self,

More"

~ starts

poem from "The Bridge" 2011

You Can Have Mine, Volcanic Choir

 

Never stops rising, mystic river

Comes, bares shared fluid mouths.

The Weave of soft Napes,

The Waft of Kissed Notes

The Wilds of Volcanic Night Choirs.

  

The mystic One magic,

The Eye of A Storm,

The hint of a swollen damp valley,

Come let These Roads and These Rivers,

Big Bends Dear stoney King Lizard

An unUttered Vastness,

Light Us A Way.Home

 

You Can Have Mine Write Now,

Dear Soul,

Languid and Large tastes more sweet flowing lava

This erupted still life saudades

Touch Your Self , Touch The White Open Sky

All join now and lament the death of my dark

A forked tounge of knowledge once in a feathered night.
 

aLone Life, together,
got crazy unsafe in my head and suffered

I once nailed my heart on an altar of silence

Some Times You Just Gotta Stop Caring,

Not Because You Don't

But Because You Can't

Any More.

 

Did you have a good world when you died?

They Arsed?

Did YOU have a good life when we died?

They asked?

 

Please come,

pleased for This Pleasure and Pain

I'm getting out of,  hear, Jesus,

eternal, stoned, nailed,

alive

Where are you going?

To the other side of mourning...

 

Please don't chase the clouds wild caravans.

For Out here on the perimeter there are no stars.

Out here awe is stoned alive,
conceived, cocked, Mary Jane moon,
her light vibrant, immaculate.

Out here,
Her whole soul gripped him like a warm firey hand

As Time disappeared you can have all of mine

This Warm Golden Brown My Volcano Choir

of your slivered awakened streams

By Tony Searl 

"Moon River Triptych" Robert Rickard 

#DesertPresence

I'm Not Political. At All.

Sly sick O'infants

The Toad of Toad hall

A Creepy Crawler on

The Doe Deer Fawns

Flatterer, flunkey keeps

On Truckler.

 

The Groveller turns as

More Doormat wipes

Lickspittle off the NYC

kowtower.

Minions abound
Throwing, stoned,
In DC Comics, White Houses

as every hanger-on sucks leech like

From The Puppet's Poor

Tiny Cocked Up
Lackey Spaniel.

 

Bootlicker, Dickens

lowers his Uriah Heep as

White Yes-men In Black

Brown Nose, arse licking.

Toupee Donald Ducks and Weaves,

lackeys quack, and plays again with him Self,

Covering Bald spots, feeding ego, and The Chicken

Psycho Pants, offers offal like

Trumping suckhole

sycophants.