30 December 2011

Dear One

In March of 2000 I received completely unexpected a large bright orange envelope in the mail (both the name and address have since changed so hold your hate mail) via Air Mail par avon Royal Mail with an exotic colorful stamp postmarked Reading Mail.

The mind filled with anticipation and wonder. Who would send me such a card from the UK?

No return address.

Upon opening the envelope I found a card of quality stock paper with the message "Why Meditate" from Swami Sivananda. Attached to the card was a red and gold enamel lapel pin with the Sanskrit symbol for "Om". My first thought was "What a nice little treat, I must have lent my name to a nice mailing list".

It wasn't until I turned the card over that I realised the cosmic and spiritual significance of the gift. It was sent from "The Office of George Harrison" rubber stamped in purple ink.

It was only three months after he'd survived the tragic knife attack in his home. I stood in stunned disbelief in my post office, trying the catch my breath amidst the tears beginning to flow.

It was the culmination of a years long one-sided correspondence with a man who was more than a BeaTle to me, more than a musician. It affirmed for me that at least one of my silly letters reached him and made some kind of impression for him to include me in such a kind gesture. I have since heard of one other ardent fan who also received one of these cards.

Sadly, I swiftly lost the Om pin. After wearing it on my person like a sacred talisman one day it disappeared. I cried over its loss, cursed my own carelessness and then decided someone must have needed it more than I.

George Harrison was my first concert in 1974. I was 12. I had to beg my mother and wear her down to let me go.

The clipping I saved from the Rolling Stone concert review article. (Note the Babaji badge on George's shirt.)

But even more significant than that is the gift of bringing me to my guru, Paramahansa Yogananda, which first occurred during the reading of the liner notes of George's song Dear One which George dedicated to Yogananda. And this prompted me to look more deeply into Yogananda's teachings. I read the Autobiography of a Yogi. And soon after my feet were firmly entrenched on this path.

~ Om Guru ~

14 December 2011

" The cave you fear to enter holds the treasure you seek. " ~ Joseph Campbell

01 December 2011

Kundalini ~ SoulCollage®

I am the One who embodies the Kundalini Fire.
I am the Serpentine Power coiled at the base of the spine.
I am the lotus flower plunging its roots deep into the mud bed and blossoming into the radiant Sun.

I give you an open heart center.
I give you self realisation.

I want you to raise the life force by withdrawing consciousness from the senses.
I want you to become inwardly ablaze and awaken from the sleep of delusion.
I want you to seek the inner light.

You will know when the energy moves upward through the triune tunnels of the astral cerebrospinal centers: the base-coccygeal, sacral and lumbar, up through the dorsal heart and cervical throat and the medullary luminosity of the Spiritual Eye into the Sahasrara Crown of the Thousand-Petaled Lotus Sun of Cosmic Consciousness and dissolving into the ineffable bliss of Spirit.


Upon arrival
Ultimate destination
Do not curse the road

29 November 2011

Because I Love You ~ by Terri Plewa

Because I love you
as a friend
or as a lover
as The Friend
or as the Beloved,
I will give you privacy.

We blast so wide open
in LOVE.
There is a violence
in some that comes
after the blast.
A violence that says
“You must stay open to me
all the time.
You must tell me everything.
You must give me everything.”

But no.
This is not love.
This is invasion.
And when Love blasts,
so much shows up.
Maybe we don’t
want to share it all.

Know this,
Dear One,
we are under
no obligation
to share the riches
of our hearts.
We are under
no obligation.
We always have
a right to our privacy.

Love is to say,
you can have the privacy
of your Heart, Dear Love.
It is yours, yours, yours
not mine.
I love you.
I take what you choose
to give.
Each offering
a sacred treasure.

We all need
a place
to hide
You needn’t lock the door
of your heart.

I will not take
the treasures
of your heart
for granted.

I won’t barge in.

~Terri Plewa

Permission to share graciously granted by the author. Please visit her blog.

24 November 2011

20 November 2011

Chocolate childhood memories
Hints of some dark, rich future unknown
Sweet wetness melting languid
It goes down merging within
The child-woman
Touch this softness, pure white
Tactile dream that smells of clean linen
Clothesline, sun-dried
Swaddled in that reverie
The earthy scent of that wood
Where I got lost that summer
The timbre of that caliginous night
Spent alone, like every night
Of this dreamscape calliope
The rush of alchemy
Bittersweet, as life’s melting
I go down
In soft white
Like the sound of snow under boots
Touch this softness that is me
Before it melts into memory.

(c) 19 November 2011

16 November 2011

No Expectations

Tell me whom you love

Something recycled from the interspace but cozy nevertheless.

The Rose

John Blanchard stood up from the bench, straightened his Army uniform, and studied the crowd of people making their way through Grand Central Station. He looked for the girl whose heart he knew, but whose face he didn't, the girl with the rose.

His interest in her had begun thirteen months before in a Florida library. Taking a book off the shelf he found himself intrigued, not with the words of the book, but with the notes penciled in the margin. The soft handwriting reflected a thoughtful soul and insightful mind. In the front of the book, he discovered the previous owner's name, Miss Hollis Maynell. With time and effort he located her address. She now lived in New York City. He wrote her a letter introducing himself and inviting her to correspond. The next day he was shipped overseas for service in World War II. During the next year and one month the two grew to know each other through the mail. Each letter was a seed falling on a fertile heart. A romance was budding. Blanchard requested a photograph, but she refused. She felt that if he really cared, it wouldn't matter what she looked like. When the day finally came for him to return from Europe, they scheduled their first meeting - 7:00 PM at the Grand Central Station in New York. "You'll recognize me," she wrote, "by the red rose I'll be wearing on my lapel." So at 7:00 he was in the station looking for a girl whose heart he loved, but whose face he'd never seen.

I'll let Mr. Blanchard tell you what happened:
A young woman was coming toward me, her figure long and slim. Her blonde hair lay back in curls from her delicate ears; her eyes were blue as flowers. Her lips and chin had a gentle firmness, and in her pale green suit she was like springtime come alive. I started toward her, entirely forgetting to notice that she was not wearing a rose. As I moved, a small, provocative smile curved her lips. "Going my way, sailor?" she murmured. Almost uncontrollably I made one step closer to her, and then I saw Hollis Maynell. She was standing almost directly behind the girl. A woman well past 40, she had graying hair tucked under a worn hat. She was more than plump, her thick-ankled feet thrust into low-heeled shoes. The girl in the green suit was walking quickly away. I felt as though I was split in two, so keen was my desire to follow her, and yet so deep was my longing for the woman whose spirit had truly companioned me and upheld my own. And there she stood. Her pale, plump face was gentle and sensible, her gray eyes had a warm and kindly twinkle. I did not hesitate. My fingers gripped the small worn blue leather copy of the book that was to identify me to her. This would not be love, but it would be something precious, something perhaps even better than love, a friendship for which I had been and must ever be grateful. I squared my shoulders and saluted and held out the book to the woman, even though while I spoke I felt choked by the bitterness of my disappointment.

"I'm Lieutenant John Blanchard, and you must be Miss Maynell. I am so glad you could meet me; may I take you to dinner?" The woman's face broadened into a tolerant smile. "I don't know what
this is about, son," she answered, "but the young lady in the green suit who just went by, she begged me to wear this rose on my coat. And she said if you were to ask me out to dinner, I should go and tell you that she is waiting for you in the big restaurant across the street. She
said it was some kind of test!"

It's not difficult to understand and admire Miss Maynell's wisdom. The true nature of a heart is seen in its response to the unattractive.

"Tell me whom you love," Houssaye wrote, "And I will tell you who you are."

14 November 2011

Surrender ~ SoulCollage®

sur- means high / above / over
-render means to melt

Essentially surrendering is melting into our higher self.

I am the One who seeks to find surrender.
I am the One who surrenders to this art with exhaustive abandon. I am the One who peacefully surrenders to the mortal fang of the viper as it deals a deathblow to intangible ideas.

I give you endless frustration of trying and failing. I give you the ability to hit rock bottom and to rebound in faith and trust in your higher source.

I want you to realise the futility of spinning your wheels and swimming against the currents. I want you to surrender your expectations of yourself and of others.

You will remember when you finally wake up to the truth that you are in control of nothing other than the moment when you place your trust in the Supreme wisdom of the Divine.

Thy Will be done. ~Matthew 6:10

12 November 2011

La petite mort

je peux toujours me souvenir...

11 November 2011


"We can never obtain peace in the world if we neglect the inner world and don't make peace with ourselves. World peace must develop out of inner peace."

"Peace, in the sense of the absence of war, is of little value to someone who is dying of hunger or cold. It will not remove the pain of torture inflicted on a prisoner of conscience. It does not comfort those who have lost their loved ones in floods caused by senseless deforestation in a neighboring country. Peace can only last where human rights are respected, where people are fed, and where individuals and nations are free."

~ The XIVth Dalai Lama

10 November 2011

My dreams of perfection are the bridges that carry me into the realm of pure ideas.
~ Paramahansa Yogananda

04 November 2011


A dream arises
Like mist from a lake at dawn
Departs in silence

02 November 2011

I Kissed Jeff Beck...and I liked it

A few of the more faithful readers of this blog may be aware of my sincere love as well as fanatical obsession with my personal guitar god JEFF BECK! Perhaps, you might even be sick of hearing about it, but I can no longer resist the telling. I've savored the moments privately in my mind for over 24 hours now. Dreamy memories I'll always have.

Halloween night. JEFF BECK! In my home town. How magic is that? Despite my continued semi-unemployment blues we managed, by the grace of the ghost of Les Paul himself, to obtain the coveted tickets to the show this past July. Then the quiet waiting. Stuffing down the anticipation while catching reviews of preceding shows. Halloween talk is in the air. The bewitching hour arrives.

The security at the Wells Fargo Center, still affectionately called the Luther Burbank Center, is often "friendly", and the walk back to the car relatively short, so I opted to try to get the Canon through the door despite their posted policy prohibiting photographic equipment. Success as we sail by the smiling security sentinel. The atmosphere is typically wine country uptight (read $10 plastic flute bubbly - keeping me at a respectable limit of two) with a cutting edge of rock and roll fantasy and Halloween fright.

The opening act, Tyler Bryant, was a cute kid born in the era when parents named their kids Tyler and Emily (read practically a baby) put on a solid solo acoustical set. The kid must be in possession of some gigantic sized balls to share the stage with the legendary likes of JEFF BECK! And he did so entertainingly. Okay on with the show.

I don't have the set list notes and I never remember those things but there were moments I was weeping. Moments of sublime ecstasy. Even though this was my tenth grateful opportunity to see the Guv, he never fails to please or impress. I managed to get a few pictures despite the kindly usher lady tapping my shoulder once and shaking her bony finger at me and across her throat. The pictures will win no awards but there is a certain psychedelic flavour to them that suits my tastes (remember my taste for bubbly, not champagne from France, mind you, which is more to my true tastes, but decent Sonoma County "bubbly") still I post them for your enjoyment and ridicule of my photographic skills.

I call these Blur Wind 1 and 2

Classic JEFF!

Goin' Down

Flaming trails

Nope, that's not a zombie photo bomb, it's Jason Rebello, JEFF's keyboardist.

JEFF with the sexy, Goddess of Funk, bassist Rhonda Smith in witch hat. Which hat? (sorry)

This last photograph, the one in focus with moody spot lighted shadow was taken by my talented husband and date. I think these photographs may also illustrate our (sometimes) differing views on life.

I did however manage to capture a great video of JEFF performing the seraphic Nessun Dorma (translation: None Shall Sleep) one of his encore numbers. (With grateful acknowledgment to all concerned, most especially the maestro himself).

After the show, knowing from previous experience the set up for artists to exit the venue and since there was some mix up at the box office failing to locate my backstage passes, we decided to wait for JEFF to board his tour bus. After about 90 minutes, after having waited out all the other die hard fans and autograph seekers, during which time I saw a flaming comet shooting star fall from the ether, the musicians finally begin to emerge. First, the multi-talented Narada Michael Walden who took the time to say hello and exchange a few pleasantries. Then the vivacious Rhonda Smith, looking way too good and too stylish for this cow town. I think I saw her return our smile as she passed us by.

Now, I'm starting to get a little excited. I see him through the glass. He's walking towards me talking to his entourage about whether he will ride on the bus or in the van. JEFF says he's 'on the bus'. I interject, "Can I get on the bus?" JEFF turns to look at me and smiles and says "Sure", in his inimitable impish sort of way. I take his arm and we stroll toward the bus under the stars and moonlight. I hand him an envelope of stories and such I'd written for him. He teased "It's not going to blow up is it?" I reply "Of course not!" and reminded him of the story I told him when we met before about Roy Buchanan which sparked a brief look of recognition from him. Such a sweet and humble and affable man in a rascally roguish rock and roll way. I hugged him and I kissed his scruffy cheek. My only regret is that I did not get a photograph of us together. The moment passed so quickly. I didn't want to bother him more than necessary. But I have the memories of strolling in the moonlight together, and looking him in the eye, beyond the sunglass rock and roll veneer, right in his eyes and told him that I love him. And that is worth more than everything.

28 October 2011

She Let Go ~ Ernest Holmes

She let go. Without a thought or a word, she let go.

She let go of the fear. She let go of the judgments. She let go of the confluence of opinions swarming around her head. She let go of the committee of indecision within her. She let go of all the 'right' reasons. Wholly and completely, without hesitation or worry, she just let go.

She didn't ask anyone for advice. She didn't read a book on how to let go... She didn't search the scriptures. She just let go. She let go of all of the memories that held her back. She let go of all of the anxiety that kept her from moving forward. She let go of the planning and all of the calculations about how to do it just right.

She didn't promise to let go. She didn't journal about it. She didn't write the projected date in her Day-Timer. She made no public announcement and put no ad in the paper. She didn't check the weather report or read her daily horoscope. She just let go.

She didn't analyze whether she should let go. She didn't call her friends to discuss the matter. She didn't do a five-step Spiritual Mind Treatment. She didn't call the prayer line. She didn't utter one word. She just let go.

No one was around when it happened. There was no applause or congratulations. No one thanked her or praised her. No one noticed a thing. Like a leaf falling from a tree, she just let go.

There was no effort. There was no struggle. It wasn't good and it wasn't bad. It was what it was, and it is just that.

In the space of letting go, she let it all be. A small smile came over her face. A light breeze blew through her. And the sun and the moon shone forevermore."

- Ernest Holmes

27 October 2011

Scorpio Rising ~ SoulCollage®

I am the One with Scorpio on the rise.
I am the One who chose the hour of birth to represent the I AM.
I am the One who is wary and doesn't trust easily in others.
I am the One who is discreet and can keep a secret.
I am the One who is loyal and suffers deeply when that loyalty is betrayed.

I give you the ability to protect yourself with venomous defenses.
I give an awareness of Shadow in yourself and in others.
I give you the power of inner transformation and regeneration.

I want you to still the muddied waters of your deeply intense emotions.
I want you to cautiously reveal yourself through the mask of personality to a chosen few.
I want you to recognize the healing powers of your Shakti.

You will remember when you no longer hide from yourself.
You will remember when the personification of power becomes about empowering others.
You will remember when you gather the disparate parts of Self - the jealous one, the rascally one, the heartfelt one, the enthusiastic one - into a picture of complete wholeness.

22 October 2011

Going Home...

They say you can never go home again and I say that's mostly true, if home is a physical place. But if home is the people you love, those who take you in no matter what, if you have that you can always go home again.

I recently was blessed with the opportunity to do just that and visited my dad, who turned 70 this year and whom I had not seen for twenty years, ten of which we did not speak or write. These are a few of the stories I harvested on my recent visit, back home to the heart land of Ohio.

* * * * *.* * * * *

My grandfather Zelman Marion Lewis was born in 1903 in Marion Ohio in the same farmhouse that I visited as a child and young girl and later as a young woman with my own children. That makes five generations on one plot of land, that means home to me.

Zelman, “Grandpa Z”, as I would have called him had he lived past my first birthday, was the grandson of John Lewis and Ann Evans, who left their native homeland of Wales to escape the harsh life of work in the coal mines. Turning left at Liverpool they arrived in America and settled in Ohio.

Zelman was the son of a farmer, Albert, and a former beauty contest winner, Mary. A Victorian era photographic portrait of my great-grandmother Mary hung in that farmhouse and depicts a captivating dark haired, young woman with soft features, save for dramatically dark eyebrows. She appears to be a petite woman with a tiny waist that is dwarfed by the burgeoning bustle skirt behind her. She stands besides a chair appointed with rope fringe and needlepoint cushion. (Perhaps, this photo was another prize from the beauty contest? From which she won a finely beaded purse, which remained in the family.) I imagine it may have been quite a shock for such a refined looking woman to take up housekeeping and child rearing in the green valleys of Ohio.

A later photograph shows the family in front of that familiar farmhouse at the turn of the century. Mary, who by now has brought forth four boys and a girl, still has a same small frame and tiny waist, her skirt now a much more practical floor length sans bustle. Her hair is still soft but lighter, perhaps greyer. The patriarch Albert stands nearby. His dark hair and graying temples match the dark three-piece suit her wears looking Easter Sunday formal. Zelman, the youngest, is dressed in a toddler’s smock, and appears fair-haired. He stands near his mother and sister Goldie. The older bothers, Dale, Dennis and Royal Glen appear to separate themselves slightly. Indoor furniture, several chairs, a settee, are set about the yard which makes me think it may have been late spring or summer. A good looking bicycle rests against a tree. A bull terrier reclines with a steady gaze in the forefront.

An even later photograph shows Z as a young man standing with a baseball glove in hand and ball cap turned reverse (catcher?) wearing a white cotton shirt long sleeves rolled up to expose Popeye-like forearms, bow-tie askew with dark vest and pants. He has the wide-legged stance of a charismatic leader. The other young men, one of whom is brother Dale, all have baseball gloves and one poses with a bat. It is a classic photo of my grandfather who loved baseball and instilled that love in his children as he would later sit around the radio with them listening to the baseball games.

My dad described my grandfather as a college graduate (not a common feat for Ohio farm boys in those days), an avid reader, and a lover of books and of storytelling. He loved to take his children on walks in the woods behind the farmhouse and describe things in nature to them while teaching them proper names of plants and birds, something that I have my own memories of my dad doing with me.

That such a man would later court and marry a woman fifteen years his junior, the daughter of coal-miners and moon-shiners from the hills (yeah, I said it) of Kentucky and bring her back to that farmhouse in Ohio and raise two girls and two boys. Grandma Sibyl, who always bragged of her “injun blood”, played guitar and told a good ghost story with a Scorpio Sun for a kicker. She named her first-born son, my dad, Ronnie Zelman Lewis, after Ronnie Reagan, her favourite actor. She had nothing but gall when he added politician to his acting credits, adding insult to injury by switching to the GOP seriously offending my liberal grandmother and her Democratic principles.

My dad is a small man, barely a half-inch taller than I am at 5’5. Now 70, he still bears those intense dark eyebrows of his grandmother but his hair is no longer dark and is a soft shade of grey, where it still grows. He has a thoughtful attitude and a wicked sense of humour. He loves to tell a joke. A truly fastidious Virgo, he irons his own cotton shirts P E R F E C T L Y. A live-alone bachelor who maintains a (nearly) spotless home, warmly appointed with everything in its proper place.

We had a great time reminiscing and attempting to fill in all the missing holes of our separate lives. We watched a lot of sports on the tele, mostly baseball, though he claims basketball is now his favourite sport and is unhappy with the current status of negotiations and player lockout. He chided me for my inexplicable love of the Yankees and the Padres. Teasingly disowning me for such foibles. We watched political satire (he faithfully records The Colbert Show and John Stewart’s Daily Show). And this is where we are most alike. Our philosophy on such things as politics, peace and justice has always been 99% exactly matched. So much of his beliefs inform my own. Not to mention our mutual love of words and birds and walks. As I told him in the airport, as I was leaving, hopefully not for another 20 years this time, that even though I am 49 years old I still feel like his little girl. The only thing wrong with that is that there just never was enough, enough time, enough of him. I doubt there could be. But I love him for everything he is… to me.

more to come...

21 October 2011

Hummingbird by Karmym

Karmym is a self-taught artist. He says "I try to integrate the yoga spirit into all my art. Yoga is experiencing the unity of body, mind and spirit. It is a way of living."

See more of his work here

I love this colorful bird.

16 October 2011

"Strength does not come from physical capacity. It comes from indomitable will"
~Mahatma Gandhi

(photo shows Paramahansa Yogananda reading a note just handed to him by Gandhi who was observing a day of silence.)

13 October 2011

Too Sweet

Late summer blossoms float
Upon the surface of your pomegranate wine
And pour out like words
Onto the lips of another autumn
The taste of that dark fruit lingers
Yet not to pass again
In just this same slant of light
Of an Artemis Huntress Moon
Should under the crushing weight
Of broken barking boughs
These golden apples fall
Silent as an offering
Within this soft, sable night
Carrying the too sweet scent
Of yesterday’s transcendent dream
Passion suppression detrimental
Restoration of faith required
Shape shifting serpent arise the eagle
Brought low in order to be exalted
Emptied in order to be filled
With the radiant sun of spiritual love
Prana rises in the spinal core
She is the secret church
Containing hidden truths
Listen to that small voice
That speaks through the veil
“The only way out of this labyrinth of darkness
is by the inner light of self-illumination.”

(c) 2011

08 October 2011

26 September 2011

I Will Be A Hummingbird

Wangari Maathai, the first African woman to receive the Nobel Peace Prize, passed on yesterday at the age of 71. Among her many great contributions, she left us this creative and inspirational video. Her singing spirit flies with the hummingbirds.

20 September 2011


Sitting, mindful
Upon an aerie of observation
Contemplating the unseen
Brooding over fragile
Eggs of possibility

Sitting, not in judgment
Not rushing to change
Sitting in the shade
Of a more favorable sun
Rotating like musical chairs

Sitting in meditation
At the blue lotus feet
Of my Divine Mother
Chanting the sonorous murmur
Of a heart’s secret yearning

Sitting, sitting shiva
Silent, woeful lamentation
Mourning the death of ego
Rending the heavy shroud of sadness
To rise from these ashes of burnt offerings

© 2011

(artwork: Knowledge by Alex Grey)

17 September 2011

~ Sunshine ~

I sold my soul for a one night stand
I followed Alice into wonder land
I ate the mushroom and I dance with the queen
Yeah we danced in between all the lines

I followed daylight right into the dark
Took to the hatter like a walk in the park
But then I met her yeah she felt so right
No child of the night yeah was she

They call her sunshine
The kind that everybody knows
Yeah yeah
She's finer than a painted rose
yeah yeah

Her kind of love is what I adore
What kind of trouble am I in for
My kind of heaven lies in hells back door
And I got more than I need

Cause I need sunshine
The kind that everybody knows
Yeah yeah
My sunshine she's finer than a painted rose
Yeah yeah sunshine yeah

I got the karma but it don't come free
I chased that rabbit up her bodhi tree
That caterpillar's tryin to cop a plea
But the smoke ain't got nothing on me

I got to have my sunshine
The kind that everybody knows
Yeah yeah
My Sunshine
She's finer than a painted rose

Sunshine the kind that everybody knows
My sunshine she's finer than a painted rose
yeah yeah
Sunshine yeah!!

15 September 2011


I am the One who is your inner male. The One. The Animus of Jung.
I am the One that knows you to your beautiful, wicked core.
I hold the sacred symbol treasure map and the keys to that locked door.

I give you the rainbow bridge between your conscious and subconscious mind. I give you the armour needed to fight the good fight.

I want you to honour your innate reasoning abilities. I want you to have the courage to express your beliefs. I want you to follow your dream guides like a brave warrior stalks the mighty buffalo, and like the noble knight searches tirelessly for the Holy Grail.

You will remember when you lift yourself up to resist inertia and fear. You will remember when you recognize the security you so desperately seek from The Other can only be found in yourself.

Thank you

I want to thank all of the followers of this blog, both new and not so new. Besides myself, YOU are the only reason I do this. As you may know, I have refused to post ads on this blog, so there is really no purpose to it other than my own creative expression. And the fact that you would be even mildly interested in these trivialities humbles me beyond measure. Thank you for your comments and encouragement. I am so pleased to be sharing this journey with you.

13 September 2011


The Pisces Moon skitters across
A black slickery sky
Dousing my hallucinatory dreams
In wet, hot perfumed ambergris

Confront this inner darkness
And liberate the mask of ego
Allow the disparate forces
To come together
In the natural harmony
Of an equinox balance
Toward that Libra Sun

Releasing my heavenward arrows of aspiration

For if I am to focus the mind
I must face my fears

Fear of failure

Fear of isolation

While an alabaster heart
Pours out emotional desires that
Only frustrate the dance of two lovers
At their alchemical wedding

So look carefully at choices
As we don our intuitive wings
Thrusting the Ace of Swords
Into the air of analytical mind
Remember where it falls

This blinding truth eclipses all other lies
When one path is chosen
Another dies.

© 2011

11 September 2011

07 September 2011


Golden sky morning
Quiet time meditation
Peace fulfill my day

30 August 2011

The promise of April has melted
Simmering in the exquisite empty
Of an August forlorn in despair.
Effusive emotions erupting
Slow rolling magma of desire
Scorching fertile ground
Under a blaze of quiet recoil
Where seeds of passion restrained
Linger in recondite stance
Awaiting the recrudescent dawn
Of an eternal spring.

(c) 2011

22 August 2011

Scamp ~ SoulCollage®

I am the One who is a scamp. I am the One who writes herself into starring roles of your deepest fantasies. I am the One who wants to play.

I am the perfect paramour, the succinctly successful succubus, and the tantalizing tempestuous temptress singing your siren song. I dance through your reverie with childlike chimera and a toying trompe l’oeil.

I want you to want me.

I give you the illusion of attaining your dearest heart’s desire. I give you the illusion it exists outside of yourself.

You will remember when you temper your temerity and realise you are the dream that you seek.

21 August 2011

Pluto in Virgo ~ Soul Collage®

I am the One with Pluto in Virgo and I am part of a generation.
I am the One who is a product of the sexual revolution, the civil rights revolution, and the environmental revolution. I am the One who destroys outdated systems, whether you like it or not. I am the One who is God of the Underworld, and of things unseen.

I give you the ability look deeply within. I give you the ability to transform yourself, like a butterfly. I give you the penetrating intensity to see into what is not working and the passion to set things right.

I want you to use your power for good.

My Pluto in Virgo is a sharp-dressed man but he will cause worlds to collide in my little life just to teach me a much-needed lesson. Bullshit egos and fancy ideas will take you so far but if your shit ain’t straight that motherfucker will cut you.

19 August 2011

07 August 2011

Rabindranath Tagore, 7 May 1861 ~ 7 August 1941

I know the day will come
When my sight of this world shall be lost.
Life will take its leave in silence
Drawing the last curtain before my eyes.
Yet stars will still shine at night.
And mornings rise as before.
And hours will still leave like sea waves.
Casting up pleasures and pains.
When I think of this end of my moments
The barrier of the moment breaks,
And I see by the light of death
Your world with its careless treasures.
Rare is its lowliest seat.
Things that I have longed for in vain,
And things that I got -- let them pass.
Let me but truly possess
The things that I ever spurned and overlooked.

Unending Love ~ Rabindranath Tagore

I seem to have loved you in numberless forms, numberless times…
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
My spellbound heart has made and remade the necklace of songs,
That you take as a gift, wear round your neck in your many forms,
In life after life, in age after age, forever.
Whenever I hear old chronicles of love, it’s age old pain,
It’s ancient tale of being apart or together.
As I stare on and on into the past, in the end you emerge,
Clad in the light of a pole-star, piercing the darkness of time.
You become an image of what is remembered forever.
You and I have floated here on the stream that brings from the fount.
At the heart of time, love of one for another.
We have played along side millions of lovers,
Shared in the same shy sweetness of meeting,
the distressful tears of farewell,
Old love but in shapes that renew and renew forever.

04 August 2011


This is where I want to be
This is the fragrance I’ve been seeking
All my life
This is the touch
The breeze on the cheek
The look
The blush
The rush
Within my heart
Carrying me beyond
Everything I’ve ever known
Beyond all reason
Only a finger trickle of awakening
Along my spine

Why should I follow
The parade of your lovely followers
Or dance to your flute songs
When I have a garden at my feet
A celestial choir in my heart
Dance... Frolick...
You eager nymphs of Dionysus
Keep the blood, piss and pus
Keep the spit and sweat
The fucking cum
Flowing through the back alleyways, bus stops and bath houses
You beggars of praise
Suckle your broken dreams
At the breasts of idolatry.

This. This this that defies all
Logic and description
All glaring sideways glances
This. Which requires
Full attention of heart
This Apollo Sun of Truth
This is home.

© 2011

03 August 2011

...sunset on the Thames from the the Village Green...

02 August 2011

And we ourselves shall be loved for a while and forgotten.
But the love will have been enough;
All those impulses of love return to the love that made them.
Even memory is not necessary for love.
There is a land of the living,
and a land of the dead
And the bridge is love,
The only survival
The only meaning.

~ Thorton Wilder

(Japanese Footbridge by Claude Monet)