16 July 2014


Lately, my intuition has had hold of the reins. I’m finally learning to listen to the subtle wise impulses. Just a few minutes ago, I decided I needed to walk out to buy seed for the birds, even though I could just as well have waited. On my way back, I saw my friends Colin and Josh, and stopped to visit. I hadn’t seen Josh in a while, and had just been wondering what he was up to. He showed me some recent drawings, which reminded me so clearly of something I saw in a vision that I described it to him. He was interested in learning more, so I promised to post the full description to my blog.

The account that follows is significant for several reasons. One, of course, is that it was detailed and clear, and entirely spontaneous. The gifts I was given are extremely powerful, and I do indeed use them. Most of all, it means so much to me because I was at the lowest point of my life. I was pretty much in the midst of a complete nervous breakdown, and extremely suicidal. I knew I wouldn’t make it without help, so I sought it, and this is how it was given. The spirits one meets in vision are spirits, yes, but the three I met also have real-life counterparts, each of whom is very dear to me, so that was an unusual surprise.


21 December 2013

Winter Solstice

I was worried about yesterday and today, but I took the best care of myself I could, and did trancework all night and was rewarded with very strong visions. By the moment of Solstice, I was ready to get up and open the window and greet the Sun. It was behind clouds, but just as I looked out, it met a small clearing. Through the fog I could see the entire disc, sharply outlined. I then went back to bed and the visions continued. I told [my friend far away] I would be with him, and felt very near him.

The main vision, which I went in and out of because it was long and I am very distractable right now, had several parts. First, I went to a temple where I’ve been before. Previously, I had left my pain body before the altar, in the care of the Shining Ones. I left her lying on the marble steps, but I asked for cushions for her, and they brought a very luxurous bed and placed her on it, with candles burning, and other signs of care. L. [my Muse] was with me. I explained my intent, to remove all trace of suicide ideation, timidity, shame, and other things that make me unable to be active and interact with the world and be happy doing it. With L., I was directed to leave that place. We were soon walking across a lawn toward a forge. A man was working there who had long blonde hair. He greeted me with warm smiles. I thought of Wayland. I left the boards I have used to mentally beat myself with, and the needles and other implements that I picture raining down and dissolving me. That very minute, he broke up the boards and threw them into the fire. He took all the metal to be melted down. I understood that they would be transformed and given back as a power gift. I expecteded something cast from the melted needles, but I couldn’t imagine what it would be. L. and I walked on, but I felt I wanted to give him something in return for what he was doing for me, and instantly I was holding a huge sheaf of red roses. I gave them to him, he accepted happily, and we walked on to let him do his work.

We went toward a small cottage just a little way on, over the lawn and along the treeline of a wood. I knew who lived there, a very old woman who was my friend. I left with her all the shame, especially body-related, and most especially anything sexual or female. Everything that has ever embarrassed me so ‘I thought I would die!’ Again, we left as she set to work.

The third Shining One we visited live in a mandorla-shaped opening in an old tree. This person was so completely androgynous that even the concept of male or female slid right off. They were busy working in a kitchen full of bubbling pots and pans. I knew my pain-issues here would be cooked into something much better, so I left everything that made me not want to go out and be among others—any shyness, shame, lack of self-esteem, autism or whatever makes me anxious and unable to do things others take for granted, just in general whatever the hell else is wrong with me that the others aren’t already taking care of. When I looked right at this person, they turned into a mandorla-shaped window directly into the cosmos, a small section of night sky thick with stars. I wondered if this was [my star] in person, although I had a dream blip in which the stars of [my constellation] assembled before me, and I seem to recall them all as women. Perhaps my mistake? Then they turned back into the first form I saw. This being actually removed the entire top of my skull after I explained what I was hoping for and how bad things have been. They had to dig down very deep, where they found a quantity of black sludge. They scraped it out with an instrument as I lay back and we chatted! The sludge went into the cooking pot. Everything did, that I had left and did not want. I talked about my shame over being attracted to intoxicants, and told them I only want to stop being ashamed and never to hurt myself with them, but I also never want to have to completely forsake beer. They don’t seem to see this as a problem, so I don’t want to either.

We went back to the forge, and it turned out that my gift was a chainmail dress as fine and beautiful as lace or spiderwebs, weightless, invisible to all but spirit people, which I can wear at all times for protection. The smith told me it would protect me better than I could ever protect myself, so leave it to my armor and otherwise let go. I can go among others unguarded; that has been taken care of.

When we returned to Grandmother’s, she had transformed what I left with her into a lens about six inches across, round, and made of thin, delicate layers of what looked like clear, clean ice on the verge of melting. It was prismatic around the edges. When I look through that, I will see things in their perfected, purified form, especially myself. There is no need for anything to be cleansed. I can let go of all judgment, criticism, blame, etc. because what I see through the lens will render those things meaningless. Everything is already pure.

At the hollow tree, my gift was a black diamond bigger than my fist. All of my personal darkness had been placed under the pressure of the stars this Shining One was made of until it was altered completely. I don’t yet fully understand how to use this as a tool, but even though it is solid black, it is brilliant, and the angles of the facets cast rainbows like a prism. It is protective of me, and can be carried in my heart if I feel troubled about anything, but it is more. Those rainbows are connected to the rainbow bridge, and of course the brilliant facets and shining points remind me of the Net of Indra yet again. I have much more to learn about this being, but I already know they are why I am drawn to androgynous or gender-variant people.

After all this, I was concerned that I hadn’t thanked them enough, so we went back to all three and I told them how grateful I was. We then returned to the temple, where the pain-body was sweaty and feverish, but being tended very closely by healing temple spirits. Ever since I sort of distanced or separated myself from her, I have been able to see her as a valiant but desperately weary person who has worked very, very hard and is entirely deserving of empathy and compassion—but not necessary to identify with anymore. This is the moment of transformation, the one I have been awaiting. If I can just let her go, leave her in the temple while I move forward without the old limitations (which I could also see, as coming from inside, and as removable objects), I can have the brilliant, happy future I can almost see.


Yes, it was real, it worked, and it is still working.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , | Leave a comment

Almost As If…

15 July 2014

Almost As If…

If you’ve read several entries here, you already know that I am anticipating the sad end of a loved one far away. He was diagnosed with brain cancer just about a year ago, and given a prognosis of 15-22 months remaining. Treatment did not go well, so his time may be shorter. I hear nothing now, just check online once in a while when I start to feel something change. We were so closely connected that I am sure I will hear from him when he reaches the end of his time here.

He was the one I told about my relationships with wild birds. That is why it seems compelling and meangingful that I have had such an intense experience with them lately, and one in particular. Tiger (he told me that’s his name, because he is so brave) first came to my window a month or so ago with his family of nest. He was brand-new, and had his first solid meal with me. He was so clever and curious that he distinguished himself from the other birds right away. He chose to become my friend, and spent a lot of time outside my window cheeping for my attention. When I offered all the birds my hands full of grain, he would cozy up, make himself at home in the palm of one of them, and then monopolize the food supply in the other. The shyer, less trusting birds became envious of his ability to stuff his face while they just watched, so they began to imitate him. My small band of pigeons that would feed from my hand but not otherwise accept touch will now climb all over me, sit or stand in my hands, and let me slip a hand underneath them and hold them. This is important: They are prey animals, and the predators they fear most are raptors who seize them from above. They have little instinct to watch out for threats from below, and when they are feeding, they are in a bit of a trance and not as wary as usual. That means, when they come to me because they are in trouble, I can pick them up and examine and help them. Example: My town has lately been beset by yarn-bombers. Their work is fun and colorful and the humans are enjoying it, but birds have been coming to me with yarn tangled around their ankles and toes. This is a serious problem, and can be life-threatening. One of my birds came to me with this problem about a week ago. Then, he couldn’t quite let me hold him and remove the yarn. Yesterday, he came to the window and held out his still bound–up foot and shook it several times to show me how much it was bothering him. Then, because he has seen me with Tiger, he let me feed him, hold him, and trim the fibers away. He spent the next half-hour or so on my window-ledge just to let me know he was grateful.

Tiger is my dear special friend among the birds now, and he is in trouble. On Sunday, he was with the band in the morning, came right to me, and ate greedily. Yesterday, Monday, he did not come with the others for their morning feed. I looked around outside, and he was huddled with his feathers puffed out, all by himself, in a far corner of the roof. He came to me when I called him, and let me hold and stroke him, but when I offered him food, he only pretended to eat. He pecked at my hand, but he never opened his beak. Today, he acted the same way. He is a runt, I realize; we’ve been friends for about a month, and in that time, the babies who showed up when he did have all grown and matured, and he still looks the same. I’ve asked myself, Did he know this all along, and decide that his best chance lay in being adopted and becoming a housepet? He acted as though that was his purpose. When it didn’t happen, did he just decide to give up?

He was outside an hour or so ago, and ran to me when I called him. He is weaker, and weighs almost nothing. A baby bird cannot go long without food, and he has barely eaten in two days. The other birds can see how worried I am about him, and watch us together with very serious eyes. We have all learned so much about each other in the time Tiger has been with us. They will all be healthier in the future because he showed them there is nothing to fear in being touched, and one has already taken the lesson to heart and benefitted. I’ve provided medical assistance before, but this level of trust has to be maintained, and only a bird can really provide the breakthrough moment.

As above, so below. My world is so filled with visible parallels right now. It’s almost as if….

14 July 2014


You’re Bound to Let Me Know

I knew the sturdy limb would break if all night sat there, cold and hard.
Love lay at the heart of it, but it was shattered by the starred
rebellion up above as all the sky sang hymns of mortal praise,
and someone who was not my Lord took home the laurels. Someone lays
his hands on me, but he is not the one my skin says Welcome to.
Someone sings me songs that raise the very roof, but he’s not who
is visited from clear high vales of shining far white palisades,
a lover who once caught my eye from shadows round a place of shades,
who once strode forward, bold and glad, then failed to shake my hand, and hid,
a ghost who knew quite well the place I came from, yet there—no one did.
No one ever came from where or who I am before, till you.
Let the words run all a-rush, then sink down dead, alive, and true.
In another instant, wild cascades will reel out dawn and dark.
Look up nightly north, northwest. You’ll see us rise. You’ll feel our spark.

When the limb is healed, the plaster cast is cut away, and—pale
as very death, and yet quite living—Raise and fly life on, white sail!
When the morning comes, a little bird I fed today might well
be dead. I hope he makes it. Death is lovely, though. True love will tell.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Independence Day

15 July 2014

Independence Day

This seems to be the place where I come to miss my friend. I was just looking back through my recent lyrics, intending to post something new. Instead, I started with the one next in line after my last post, and it came flooding back to me so strongly that it has to be the one. I am thinking of my dear one’s deliverance, as there is really nothing more to hope for for him.

Curiously, my own world is flourishing. I am working very hard at something I love, my rain harp designs, and seeing more potential there every day. Others see it too, and are very supportive. It offers the possibility of being independent and mobile. The one hitch is that I still want a partner to do this with. Every aspect of it is well within my abilities; I just want someone to provide a little back-up when I am feeling discouraged or lazy. And ideas! Another set of eyes to see the answer to a problem when it goes invisible to me. It would also help if they appreciated my literary presence. It’s very spooky at times.

Now I’m looking at the poem I chose to post, and realizing that the spooky part begins right with the title. It is a line from a much earlier poem, long before I had a computer, so the paper file is the only place it exists, and I haven’t seen it in years. I’ve never forgotten the shock that came with this line—full-on gooseflesh, shudders, horripilation by the square yard. I was pretty sure at the time that the apport was me:

4 July 2014


Have You Ever Loved This Apported Creature?

She wanted to sing out again, as she will, of all she would do, if mere strength would suffice.
There you lie, small in one bed, though’s there plenty enough to fill acres and fields and sail twice
round the horn of the Moon, then race back on a rafter from off the top peak of the Mountain on Hy—
when long ago, forests and floodplains lay there, and we loved one another, and knew how to die
in gentle and manifold ways, hand-in-hand, fingers twined, softness breathing itself through our skins.
Let all the young ones chant love stories now, but ours is alive, and it scarcely begins
before at least half of its partners goes living a far ways away, calling home on and on,
fearing that no one is there who will listen, but knows—really knows—not one soul’s ever gone
out of listening range. We initiate contact, which might have been done long ago, truth be told,
then maintain the line—so what if dirt hates it. We’re live human beings; our wings cannot fold
because we’re not birds; we are vivid with angels, and everyone else—stands apart and the same.
I just don’t know who you are sometimes, really; you’re beautiful; so is pure absence of blame.
Wanting to sing, she can never die easy, but she can assist you if death’s called you nigh.
Up in the rafters, one swift little glance—let’s loft away, love, on a spiralling sigh.
Apported I was, from the place I called home. I knew it as rapture—ongoing—and bliss.
You have dealt such a strong blow to my long sense of home. If I’m leaving, I’m leaving you this.

Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Oh, Here

3 July 2014

Oh, Here

It’s all so close, everything tender and subtle, between-the-worlds. Work is what keeps me here, in the vale of beautiful nature; with you on either and neither side.  Here is quite a lot of it:

1 July 2014


On Your Long Journey

The way I whirl about in rain, the drops go flying every-way,
whilst I stand naked, silent, seeming motionless. The Moon’s display
has brought this on; I’ve come to stand, framed by the mirror on the door
through which you soon will come to pass because you want this meeting more
than any crossroads-joining you have ever sought to have or hold.
I am still a longing learner, but—for you I’ve grown so bold,
I lean upon a set of pinions borne by death’s own wind so wild,
I feel it spiral over oceans deeper than unreconciled
commitments, broken; love, disgraced; desire, not unfilled, but scorned.
Whirling round with drops of rain where love so real cannot be mourned,
fly every way there is to where you’ll wake up yet again, and be
a light of silent, kind devotion; motionless, yet more than free.

Your long journey, all my soul remembers, happened long before.
We’re not always on the lone sad side, my love; we own this door.

2 July 2014


The Turning Point

It thoroughly worsened a sad situation when you were in trouble and nobody came,
but ghosts who were laughing walked by, wrapped in linens of white overwritten—with some body’s name.
That was my face in the paper the morning you read it; I’m here now, laid out, dead and gone.
Oh, but I won’t be forgotten, my dearest one; hear what I sing and then wail my song on.
Hands are held out to you now, two in number, well-matched as are you with their bearer. The span
of their fingers is magic made manifest, even in vain. When they touch you, the soul of the man—
is lyric, electrical, known in the blood, bone, and fiber of you who are listening. Who
you have been and forever will be to this being of beauty is only impossibly true
to the very idea that sprang from the brow of a god who was hot with the terrible fires
we passed through to reach this conclusion, this temperament married through flame to the one that inspires
the future. The one shown to both of us, nightly, nightlong, seems so distant, and yet—passing soon
we’ll glow with the light of forever all through us, by right of the spark of a turning-point Moon.

3 July 2014


Impossibly Real

It woke on its own, and it went out awander. I knew I had seen a sad ghost waft on by
the moment I opened my eyes, but a slow sense of terrible dread fell in layers, and I
lay trapped under them, feeling the oncoming sorrow and loss of live blood through their weave and their weight.
Then the next mad dreams beset me. They came at me headlong, and nightlong, live terrible freight
conveying the strange fertile essence of futures to come amidst pictures of death eating life.
I have to follow, you know, where song leads me, and you were my song; you were song’s strong midwife,
and I was a creature who lay where your nursing was most beneficial, as healing came fast.
Now all is woken, and no one is needful; half-life is one with its real life at last.
In the near distance, the lowing of doves, and the bleating of sheep, and the soft wind that sighs
with rain in the morning, but full Moonlight shining this moment through beautiful, transparent skies.
Woken—how hard it must be to imagine, from where, starting out, all is blood in one field.
I don’t know how to lie—down—but I know how to wait in the place where we’ll rise up, revealed.
Over your sweet face too soon, the white sheet of discreet recognition that life is not here.
I shall not shine in your eyes till you seek me, but I know you will—love impossibly clear.



Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , | Leave a comment

New Spring

1 July 2014

New Spring

I’ve made allusions to the friend of mine who is ill and dying and whom I will not see again. I will see  him again, though; that is the part difficult to share. We are both intuitive, and he is especially deeply trained. We are both poets, and have spent our lives developing our awareness of all that is subtle. He will only be closer to me after he passes.

He wanted me to pray for his deliverance months ago, but I could not. What has become of us in the meantime? I never want to say too much; it belongs in the realm of prayer and song.

30 June 2014


Soon, My Dear

Light in my head, and light on my feet, I know I will wander this wide world and more—
then lay me down under the last source of heat our courses searched hard for, and then I’ll adore
the one who’s been falling and rising forever, but always in view of my slightly-sealed eyes.
All that you are just keeps shining and shining, so strongly, the strength in it has to be wise,
for if it is other—I can’t take you with me; old walls will fall down, but as swiftly our own;
great trees will find themselves stricken and die, and no one will live in their shadow full-grown—
and I will awaken amid sheets of flame where the water all round me is caustic and thin,
I cannot escape, it comes lapping and lapping, and everyone knows the next world will begin
the instant this weird, scarcely known one transposes its angles of vision and tricks of real light,
and we wake up again and remember just where and with whom we spent part if not all of last night.
Brilliant, the shining behind my sealed eyelids, but brilliant again, as they’re wide open here,
and you are beside me and real, if not present as yet; you soon will be, miraculous dear.
Falling and rising, the far-seer’s membrane of dreams, dead and living, the screen of sought signs
brought home to be treasured and lived with—but first, we must willingly cross out old life-or-death lines.



Posted in Uncategorized | Leave a comment

My Rain Harper

28 June 2014

My Rain Harper

When the name ‘Rain Harp’ first came to me, I thought of my friend B’ee. He not only plays real harps, he also makes them. He lives in Germany most of the time now, and I rarely see him, but he was just in town. We went for a walk today, prior to his leaving. I gave him a small Rain Harp, and we caught up with each other’s lives. I hadn’t seen him since February 2013, and so much has happened since then. On my part, the news is seemingly entirely sad, and yet that cannot be, because if B’ee is still my friend, the world is good.

He won’t mind if I share a little more about who he is:
Birch Book
In Gowan Ring

27 June 2014


Written New Spring Leaves

Unfold these fine little fans—made by fingers so small, they’re still lovingly half-trapped within.
Wonder at length at the knowledge they hold fast within them, the mind in and over their skin,
the fierce tiny veins pushing upstream the very particular life-force their future requires,
and—much more than all of this—love yet to come, although we will mark it with funeral fires.
Tomorrow, my love, will not dawn. Please don’t brace for it; maybe it’s life’s own last breath, maybe not;
it cannot be known like a lowered red curtain, but neither of us was enamoured with thought
over spirited music, and neither would give over singing to hear a dull sermon preached flat.
I’m quite alone for the moment, but even if I were in heaven—I’d leave even that—
open, you know, it will always—but always—fly open—and there you will be, hat in hand.
My door’s a little but colorful bit of wild paper, fine-folded, brought out from a land
I wanted to see in my dreams because someone I loved and who loved me lived there, and I did.
Now I shall fall asleep, maybe forever, but not till I’ve done something sense might forbid,
but love more than anything else wants to consecrate—that’s what I know, and you well know it too.
Small little fans made of air—lovely weather—and songs written there where they first formed and grew.


Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , , | Leave a comment


24 June 2014


Little blog, I’m trying. Encouraging news reached me today, from an old friend valued but not yet mentioned, and for that I’m going to get all brave and crazy and post this poem I finished about five seconds ago. It’s not about him or anyone I could name, really; they always turn out in the end to have an agenda of their own, but it is one always kind in nature. Thank the very source itself for that, for swiftness is how it comes through, in a place of flow where continued motion is all.

24 June 2014


Stranger, Welcome Home

There will have been the rain-swollen warm season, then there right after—low mists filled with cold.
Mine is the glorious gain of the message the magic of autumn will ply you with; fold
all our hand-lettered leaves in a pale vellum envelope, write very simply upon it again,
then lay it aside and call home the long wandering lover who’s fallen on fields of no rain,
but can’t weep enough for the courage it cost her to go there at all. And she did it; she did.
Now you will understand truly, forever, the reason she loved well, but loved and then hid.
In a particular arc of clear Moonlight, shadows are cast that come straight to the point.
When any number are marked as they come so together, we know it means love will annoint
its successor within the next moment—in fact, you’ve already felt at the back of your mind
who it is, and you, aye, you—you’ve always been prescient, and this time you’re right, and the stars have aligned
with the dimmest of senses we still retain use of, as littlest shining afar reaches eyes
that seek for it willingly, often, and hoping for even a glimpse of a truth beyond lies.
Night after night while the seasons wheel round, I lie down and wake up alone, though I sleep
with the strongest of far-sighted beautiful gods, the one who brings love-songs impossibly deep
from out of sea waters so crystalline, lenses they are, yet when he dives for magical air,
I write down what I cannot see as he sings me it, far far away, yet so forceful and fair.
We have worked long, long and hard, yet it all comes to nothing because we are weightless with change.
When we’re both dead, all our shifting of weight will change places. There—humans are real, and we’re strange.



Posted in Uncategorized | Tagged , , , , , , | Leave a comment