Fading Autumn Days

This could hardly be newer. I’m not giving my self time to decide if I should post it or not!

16 September 2014


Fade Out of You

By mountains all covered with will o’ the wisps, and little fey clouds that just shine where they like,
why will you stare with such mournful regard where the sky is yet glowing, like flowers, each spike
a live flame that will only bloom harder and longer the moment the Sun passes out of near sight?
Turn me my head till it spies in the distance the nearest, now oncoming true lunar light—
Why will my staring at you make such strange mad impressions arise out of very deep streams?
Now when I watch with most holy regard for the waters that know me, I dream your death-dreams:
Hands, they are everywhere; hands filled with flowers, birds, then they open; hands reach out for you,
and skies filled with star-cloud formations whose rapt conversations appear as long lines drenched with dew
that reach back and forth, as they all sing your praises; these ancient songs then rush swiftly to me,
opening stars in the mind of their hearer as words all align in a space I can see,
and touch with my hands as I strain to record it so faithfully, I cannot lose it again.
Mountains before me, all covered with fey living lights, will I live past the next drenching rain?

When things settle down a bit, I’ll tell the story behind this. Oh, yes, there is one.

In the meantime, I’m Sealed.

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From the Foundry

11 September 2014


First Founder of My Line

When I can lie with my eyes wide awake, and know I am praying, I know what I’ll say:
this was a vertical pool of cold pavement in which I lay down; in which no one can stay
for long without losing all reason—all reason for knowing, or loving, or being alive.
If I can’t so dance beside you, a little alight, may I tender the light I mid-wive,
the one who, from so far inside me the glances of angels beheld us as stars—must remain,
though all the world lies down in ashes, and flood-waters sadly reject what was left of the grain
that might have withstood it. It wants me to tell you, you know I can’t use the world-telephone here,
the lines are all down and all wet, but the magic of knowing this woman means—signal reads clear.
Here’s what she voices us back: Call awaited; while signal comes sometimes, all sound is not lost.
This is just winter onsetting, and frost on the leaves, and—a strange morning fog of unfrost.
Those were my eyes that were fixed on the ceiling, and now they’re intent on the sea they still find
nearly everywhere we are engaged, their inspirer, and meaningful one who first brought them, designed.
Back of that magical meeting of memories, knowledges, whole fields of knowledge, vast lore
I will never know how to make use of, one moment reminds me of every love I’ve loved before.
Someone must question and someone must answer before it can ever find live flesh again,
but stars flow like mountains of geysers of ash just like—rain. From a grey forest sky. Soft, kind rain.

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Excuses, Excuses

13 August 2014

Excuses, Excuses

This time, I have a pretty good reason for being so slack around here. I discovered a literary journal that impressed me sufficiently that I began to consider it. The literary world in general is not attractive to me, and I have not sought to find a place in it—until perhaps now. More formal verse is being published these days, so the zeitgeist is finally with me. We shall see. As I was making up my mind, I did not want to post anything here that I might wish to submit there. Now that I have made my selection, I would like to share a recent piece of work.

After this, it will be a while before I post again as I will be traveling.

Happy Summer to us all!

1 August 2014



If there really never came a trace of warning, why should we
be sad as we await the words that lead to mourning? Couldn’t he
have told us long before it happened, this will hurt, and very much?
I am going home alone, I really am. The cold wet touch
of what has meant me harm forever sought out my slight neck. I walked
a solid, hard half-mile before I glanced back once. I’d long been stalked;
I knew who stared behind me as my footsteps grew in length and weight.
No one lay beside me when I stayed up late. God knows my fate
is delicate, and complicated. Leaves will yellow, fall, and lie
strewn all about the feet I mean to leave myself. Pale pages, die,
but glow forever after I am just an inverse-shadow. Why
console the lonely, old, recording angel who is soul at fly?
Remember who we used to be, when uses made so much of her—
She died, she closed her eyes, she made her way back home, and—Don’t confer.
Each of us is broken; when we draw out first, we fly home fast,
and then we circle round again. It’s home, it’s us; it’s home at last.

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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.

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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.

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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.

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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.



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