A certain incantation of beauty is thrust into the eye of desire, leaving one hapless and inept with longing, on the brink of insanity in body and mind and at the same time transcendent into the spiritual void of the Divine. Continue reading The Madman and the Moon Princess
In the city of my birth,
On the third floor of Beckham’s Book Shop,
Surrounded by stacks of books I can only dream of reading every title,
Falling asleep on this worn out couch,
The musty smell making me dizzy.
They call it ‘the city that time forgot’ and continues to forget as we saw with Katrina,
Or the ‘crescent city’ for the bend in the river which Bienville saw as strategic,
Many nights I walked that same bend along the railroad tracks by the river’s edge,
Drinking hot beer procured from the abandoned Jax Brewery,
Oblivious to the rich history I was born into.
Wandering these streets of the French Quarters,
Past the painters, fortune tellers and street musicians trying to make a dollar,
I find myself in St. Louis Cathedral staring at the stained glass,
The pipe organ playing Bach while someone is blowing a horn in Pirates Alley,
Both melding into a complexed whole, as candles from the altar, burn our sins away.
So many nights strolling down Bourbon Street in a haze,
How many ghosts have crossed my path this night,
Dripping in the humid air of summer is like breathing thru syrup,
Or the damp cold of winter cutting you to the bone.
Growing up we’d take the Algiers Ferry across the river to the West Bank,
When night falls on a full moon you can see the city’s horizon shimmering on the water,
I think we only leave home so we can love it all the more.
It is then I understand this longing I feel for my city by the river,
You never really get over it, just strike an uneven peace between the heart
*Photo courtesy of Pixabay
Joseph of Arimathea took from the Vessel a host made in the likeness of bread. As he raised it aloft there descended from above a figure like to a child, whose countenance glowed and blazed as bright as fire; and he entered into the bread, which quite distinctly took on human form before the eyes of those assembled there. When Joseph has stood for some while holding his burden up to view, he replaced it in the Holy Vessel. -The Quest for the Holy Grail, trans. Pauline Matarasso Continue reading Mysticism Of The Grail
“I would hurl words into this darkness and wait for an echo, and if an echo sounded, no matter how faintly, I would send other words to tell, to march, to fight, to create a sense of hunger for life that gnaws in us all,” -Richard Wright
In an old damp cave or a treasure chest under the sea, scattered amongst pages, worn out pencils and to-do list, I’ve collected fragments of writing without a home, with no prospects in sight. These words are to the point and do not own any lavish pretenses of grandeur. They simply speak their truth as directly as possible, such as the truth a child will convey out of sheer innocence. Continue reading Echo’s In The Dark- Words
Soaring high, the Hawk invites us to step outside the boundaries of life, to free ourselves of preconceived limitations, to welcome change in our lives through awareness and mindfulness.
The noble Eagle soars thru canyons and mountains, lakes and rivers in quiet determination to honor his Eagle nature. But that’s not the way it’s always been. Mythology tells the story of Yucatangee the Talker before there was ever an Eagle. Yucatangee talked constantly, so much so that the bear, the wolf, and other animals couldn’t hear themselves or each other and couldn’t feel the elements like the wind, the rain, nor see the sun, the moon, the stars. Thus they were lost as to their true nature. For we can only realize our true nature through our commonality with each other and connection to the natural world. Continue reading The Eagle and the Hawk
My mind sets sail on calm oceans to cross the hemisphere
where stories are kept and told in quarter tones to the wind. Continue reading Hemisphere
“If you get the inside right, the outside will fall into place.”
When I wrote ‘Private Tremors of the Frozen Man’, I introduced a litany of symptoms prevalent to Parkinson’s disease that most people didn’t know or realized were just as prominent as a tremor in the hand. As time goes on, I discover new symptoms, some I experience and other I may or may not ever play host to. All in all, it’s an education for me and a vicarious one for you, the reader. As I’ve often said, when I was diagnosed back in October of 2012, I didn’t know anything about Parkinson’s except for the handshakes. Now I can see someone on the street and pretty much can tell if they have Parkinson’s or not. Continue reading The Frozen Man- Go to the Mirror
“The fire is lit, a sacred long pipe is passed around connecting us to our forebearers, while the flickering light of the campfire creates shadows that dance onto the trees and stars.”
We happen upon a cabin from antiquity next to a pond, nestled deep within a thicket made to specifications out of fallen trees. Sitting upon its rustic porch at night amidst the visual of fireflies, we listen intently to all it has witnessed, as this rustic castle dispels all thoughts of the mundane with stories of fairy circles, dryads (tree spirits) and haunted groves, awakening our imaginations. Continue reading Thoreau’s Ghost
Just a short distance and I am amongst the trees,
I perceive the shadow of Thoreau and John Muir,
as I enter the realm of Gawain and the Green Man,
While the leaves from winters passed announce my arrival,
amidst the lower brush and decaying branches.
The ancient Greek word ‘psyche’, is defined as ‘soul’ and it’s also the Greek word for butterfly. The idea of transition playing heavily in their mythology… first, a moth literally transforms into a butterfly, a physical event from youth to adulthood. And second, the soul’s carried by the butterfly which eventually seeks passage into the underworld… the transition from life to death, a metaphysical event. However, we know that we are born, die and are born again each day into our authentic self and the butterfly and its attributes are the perfect metaphor for change. Continue reading Papillon