Tuesday, July 7, 2015

belated - Kala Snowflower

I just oh so late learned of Kala/ Ix'chel Neve's passing
My heart is drowning in tears
My eyes search for her blessing


Nuit Report: weekly astrology Feb 27-Mar 6: Full Moon in Virgo. Matters of "Ultimate Concern".

I dedicate this Nuit Report to the memory of Ix'chel Neve. A bright beacon of Love and Light in this world, who continues to open hearts and inspire even as she has transitioned to the other side. A free spirit, poet, and Sister who's openness and shared experience has been unutterably beautiful. We have collectively received a great gift in her, just by her existence on this plane, and she will be terribly missed by many. 

This week we have several aspects and events that invite us to strongly consider matters of “Ultimate Concern”. Venus makes strong contacts with the ongoing (and culminating) Uranus-Pluto square. We are called to ask ourselves what it is that we truly value—what will matter in the end when we question the meaning of our lives? Do we live in a manner that aligns us with what we truly hold with love, beauty, and value? 

The Full Moon at 14 degrees Virgo conjuncts Black Moon Lilith thurs March 5. This asks us to become integrated (or into integrity) with our passion, instincts and sexuality, connecting it with our sense of spirituality, love, and intelligence. We are invited to be more whole, more free. Why are we alive? If today was the last day, what would you most want to make sure that you did? Said? Felt? Loved? Experienced? 

“Do not be afraid.
The God is passionate.
The Goddess compassionate.
In Death prepare to live again
Come Spring."

excerpt from "Change"
Ix'chel Jaguar, October 2014. (C. 2014 , Michelle Neve)”
Michelle wrote poetry for over 40 years starting at the age of 7. She left 17 books in digital form spanning the years from 1997-2014 (as well as more in handwritten form). Here are selections from some her many poems. As of this writing her books are being edited and will be self-published in the early summer."

Kala Joy reading Poetry at Beards of Valenccio - Aug 2013
Published on Mar 4, 2015
Kala Joy Neve (aka Ix'chel Jaguar) reading her own poetry at the Beards of Valenccio Art Salon on Aug 16, 2013. The 3 pieces she reads are In the Center, Wasp Dreams, and Cancer.

Directions from dreamtime:

Go to the same address
then down 1,000 stories.

Going back to the Beginning
before the beginning
when Nothing had a name

but everything had voices
for singing,

stumble upon a boy
alone in the forest
playing guitar
revealing such intimacies
you can only
watch sideways
hidden among leaves
as the music
takes you into
his whole.

Then run
deeper and through a violet door
between pine and stripped oak
and enter a gingerbread house
of lovers no longer in cages
where at birth they were welcomed
by a witch so hungry to eat
sweet innocence
but children can be tricky
so for thirty years
she's been slow cooking
on the flame
and the children are grown now
yet linger among the cookie crumbs,
holding hands, awaiting
the main course
and dancing circles
around the oven.

Then open the door slowly
and enter through
the hot embers,
clinging to your robes,
your conical hat burning away.
Skin and fat bubble
and burst, juices flow,
basted in your blood
made savory.
Through particalized eyes
watch as the Children
of Light wipe you from
their lips with kisses.

Back again
to the beginning.

There was a flute
and a mermaid playing
and her lover praising
her Beauty.
And everyone took turns
sitting on a golden ball
that bloomed petals
while each Buddha beamed
and miles away
a single voice
balanced on a precipice
not realizing
he was smiling
as he fell over the edge
scattering coins.
(c) Kala Snowflower



(for Kala Snowflower)
Magical child, the world awaits you.
Not just this place,
any world you care to grace,
relate to, turn your lovely face to.
“We love you”
sing the winds, the seas,
the creatures large and small.
“We love you always”
Swing of exultation into the night;
you turn it to charming revelry.
Play that haunting melody.
It moves you
into a chance to name your trance,
to name us all
as we, before your eyes,
the skies will dance for you,
will open wide their hearts of stars.
Sparkling through the dark,
Shining into day.
You play.
All of creation joins voice to your song,
creating worlds of joy.

Friday, July 3, 2015

meandering around June 2015

Love bequeathed from when that passion,
that energy
defined me.

Dark urban streets
Yes, lamplight
Garish commercial lights
Traffic lights, head, tail,
mechanical commands.
But here, outside clear designation,
lightless, solitary, unnoticed.
Brave circuitous walk, forward
in quest of inspiration or fantastic
Fun as sparkly spirit, chaotic amusement
within any mystery,
forbidden challenge.
Subways, bridges, city bones upon which
to drum, to explore
rhythm and blues.
Magic shimmers dimension upon dimension
without pause for delineation – so our eyes
must compensate, strain for context to ears’
No flowers border soft frames of
child reminiscence.
Birds of prey, strong of eyes and claws,
fly in battle formation.
Damp birth at sunrise,
smell of fog, haze of summer.
Glass breaks, cuts, shouts
awareness.  Sand endures,
silently aware.

Clear, imprecise imagery
Surreal in context, part
of a grander scenario.


Our physical dependencies require
interaction with our environment --
no option to survive inert, alone.

We can profoundly love
creatures of other species;
hate and vilify creatures of our own
divisive minds.


truth is not narrow
it is infinite
the narrow way
is fear's, or merely a tunnel
on the way to truth

Turning together
attention spun
whole of cloth woven in
pretty patterns we approve,
jump in like rainbow puddles.
Humanity is cruelty.
Enforcing God's Grand Plan.
Which God demands?
Such brutal sacrifice
to prove to continue, to
command.  Mechanized paradise.
Steps locked in painful numbing.
Dance rather than flail or
be damned.


merry meet, merry relation as query of council.
shamanic revelry dance into clarity, ecstasy of
dazzle, delight, derive concordance
within, all through, waves and particular memes,
oracular voices sift dreams, demands, most valued wishes.
drunk, spirit soused, sodden with song’s soar and dive,
ever reviving,
all-ways finds thriving a reach to release.
soft warm rays, rain of lotus petal purity enriches
fragrant earth.
notice, dustmote whispers, sleek new leaves, scents sublime.
there is more fortune than fear, more leisure than pain.
breath of gaiety, pleasure’s refrain lifts eyes, minds, hands.
Listen.  Hear our sound measures.  Reverberate serene eternal
Touch grace
Crave and Be Blessed
Crave and wander, invoking hallow’s spell


Obdurate iteration blinks
light to dark; dark to light.
Well past numb regard; far too familiar
(overplayed) to take seriously.
Explore the joke, jocular exercise of mind
and heart within aghast backdrop.

Ever eternally, some elegant precipice
just at the edge of view

Purposeless circumstance
wears and weakens
eclipse’s focus


to self-explain.
No, not War of all within all.
Not blind crawl for tactile sight.
Rising, tentative, toward expected
light, bit of coded color by breeze
of odor, by siren sound, pain to distract,
puzzles to attract,
thunder to scatter.
Self-explain raindrop rainbows,
magical shine surrounds,
persistence of promise to
Ignorant destiny, porous well
absorbs atmospheric poisons to seep,
leech, become sacred secrets hidden
tunneling sand.  Revered through ages,
weaknesses disguised as imperatives
to succeed.

We hate those we learn to disrespect
every day.

When the pain of others gives you too much
suffering to enjoy.

That simple feral core.
Is it yours as well?
Called id, shadow, hell
or more than fearful mortal coil,
Sensual essence, what is.
Cellmates teach by example, survive
tricks of trade, consensual filing down.
Grasp fair gossip – useful lies, sly advice;
naught to trust but all contribute truth.
So much to persuade this tide of youth,
that stealthy commerce, dependent on
confidant guesses, crafting assurance.

Religion is made of givens – science of mights.

How say this feeling?
Unreality, hypnosis memory,
numb tingle not of body nor mind.
Descending on breeze of dark dissolve,
no thing dependable
for consciousness to cling.
Always wandering fantasies outside
my window frame, awed in transit,
without resistance,
sans value.  Blind air open
to interpretation, to shady willow,
gargoyle gate.

Song of Sun and Earth
Driving beat of nature’s grand


fine, be a "hawk"
go to war with the other hawks
in a hawk war stadium
kill each other off
to cheering crowds
all the blood and glory you so
badly crave


people who like fear can find plenty to amuse them
people who like hate can find plenty to amuse them
fear and hate are not issues, merely distracting amusements
Make Peace The Issue
find your way

do we?
live like undead slaves?
do we only move as directed,
never dance freely in a whirling wind
never touch finger to foreign finger for
a thrill of acceptance?
never sing from music assimilated within
from all the painful days swirled among
excitement of release?
do we not breathe and inhale odors
strange and calling to arcane desire?
do we not express, even if in catechized
do we not wander, unsure but willing to
be amazed?
do we not wonder if a chance not taken
would return and ask again if we are ready
or wonder if we can become that well
of wishes swimming merrily, bubbling up
to burst, disperse, revise, make us wiser
in our ascent?


How does one act an age?
Expressive movement seed to tree
old tree creaking in midnight wind
mountain craggy and abiding
stars in transition -- novitiation.
Or soliloquy, interweaving dialog between
montage of generations?
Maybe we act out one age or another
Daughter  Sister  Mother  in relation.
Or still against a whirl of dust and cloud
act not aloud; feel internally ebb/flow eternity
act of evocation


Justification for application of pain
Clamor for humiliation

Images that stay.  Music that accompanies
a day’s melange of duties.
Reminisced fragrance of roses,
variegated reds, outside, below,
some neighbor’s garden.

Abundant hate for all,
exceptions few, on occasion,
who amuse for the moment,
or over and over.

People exhausted – too much,
everyday never stops
no time to feel ... real.
Apocalypse, final judgment,
let it arrive, may none survive
to uncleanse the earth, death of
procreation, provocation to inflict
No sin, no power of remorse.
No predetermined course.
Responsibility a form of guilt.
And the guilty must pay, retribution.
Ruined life to ruined life until generations
Couldn’t we be friendlier, reach out in peace?
And risk ridicule, rejection, painful oppression
under gun, stealthy eyes.


As in unprotected wild, darling of parasites,
insidious predators within.
Siphoning lifeforce for a livelihood.
Eating pitilessly, weakening, diseased so no
noble foe dare deign to coup de grace.
Spat upon as spoiled goods despite
or because of inability to self-defend,
ignorance of innocence.
Slut without inebriance of sin.
Send from us, condemn harlots of fate.
Hate starts here
-- fear of contagion.

Poetry is part of the pattern of who I am.

And the sky.
And the breeze
wrinkling the trees.
And the red-pink-blue of sunset, so late
these endless evenings.  Spring, they say.
Dreams of younger days.
Terrified because no safe world awaits,
gives continuity.
A girl reminiscent of lilacs.
Sweet, subtle, succulent,
velvet and blue like secret sky scape.
Her awed adoration feels true.  A symbol
of innocence strutting so valiant, so brave.
Never to know or be known a moment more.
Awakening forever such sweet sorrow.
From what might have been if dreams could be covers
for transposition, doorways that might be forever closed
from that opening path beyond.
Apprehended by vision so vivid.
Breath and bone hold séance, decide how to align.
The background sounds, worries stuffed down to allow
flights of sanity to perform.
Ground to stand when ephemeral wings fail,
dissolve to clay.
“Who are you?” the stranger peers with glassy eye.
Hurry on, heedless of direction.  Bemused feet waver,
push off, rise.
And the sky.

Serene pool, mountain clear.
Seated on sun-warmed, age-smoothed stone,
pure in replete wonder.
Seeking silence, purposeful wander through sacred
woodland allowed within civilized structured plan.
Moving consciously alone, to find quiet refuge.
Hidden, beyond foliage thicket, ambrosial vision,
blithe flowing river.
Immerse, swim, be --

Friday, June 19, 2015

Summer Love?

Human Nature
Raging winds.
Cataclysmic connections.
A wild ride through ever disintegrating times.
Can we assimilate where we've been?
Ancient footfalls inexorably emerging into
battering rams, explosions, fiery projectiles,
grief, despair, immolation, utter destruction.
Can we feel the pull into the maelstrom,
powers rip our being into basic components,
the essence of nature?
Perhaps there was/is/will be
a time of peaceful reflection,
hoped for abundance,
shared joy and laughter,
ecstatic attainment
moving higher through an upward spiral,
feeling so good, so free, feeling so loved.
Perhaps it is just here, around an unseen corner,
ever available to those who can perceive,
let go of misperception and it's
pull of hate, push of shame.
Perhaps the only solace is in stolen moments,
the vibrant taste of summer wine,
the innocent joy of uncomplicated affection,
the pure sensuality of passionate dance.
Perhaps these will tell us,
if and when we stop to listen,
will lead us to the promised land.
Soft Summer night.
Far drift of stars; open carless road.
Kicking up bits of stone and dust.
I could be anyone.
I could start here.
What is beginning?
Aware of the first rays,
conscious aloneness.
Summer is harsh on
fragile skin, newly opened eyes.
They catch on eager forays,
studies in elucidation;
simple truth hidden in rules,
squalid mine-like cages, punishing
rewards that bind and itch.
Beginnings are not the point.
They are portals, not the
mystic river,
the sand so burning insubstantial,
the forest enchanted in
eider and lace.
Beginnings never warn of battle
flame or drunken dares.
They only promise vague
adventure, valiant possibilities.
A brief eternity before dawn,
supplicating the night sky for
solace, this soft moment before 
an unmarked road
to ride along home.
Rainbow Shop
And she sold me rainbows
shining gaily 'cross the window
windchimes in light.
And she smiled me daisies
and bursting bright blooms of summer.
And she told me, maybe,
if you're looking in
the right direction,
a miracle may grace your sight.
And I beam,
into the day.
Song of Sun and Earth
Driving beat of nature’s grand
Call for the cheer that carries carefree souls. 
Stars far from here guide our craft home. 
We've made our career a matter of energy. 
Sing of Summer surf, held close to mystery. 
Undersea caves cradle chests of gems, shining like starlight.
Beautiful child, enrapt in wonder
cradles a ball of ladybug colors
swaying to music, smiling to play
growing through summer's most perfect day
Singing to the Chorus
Getting warmer.
Days numbered by barbarians.
Travelers rush in to conquer.
Taken to a longer view,
tumbling through the ages ~
Sundials exchange for
binary spiders click-clock,
tabulating the enormous summary,
what has gone before.
The reality of childhood, striving creatures
pull upward from bootie straps,
scrambling for a place in the pile
near enough to top
that derision, pouring downward,
obliges them to only the fiercest of Lords.
Merry tots spend fallen pocket-change of
dollars flowing upward.
Old games reign under the big top.
Solemn children throw glass stones from circus stands,
bet on which clown will full face as disaster.
Speak in tongues of evil, o' my children.
Church Fathers swear to the blackened sky;
cold, withered Mums hope for a crust
of noblesse oblige.
Evil is the providence of Satan,
cloven-hoofed, prancing in the circle's
centerpoint, playing the pipes of Pan.
Oceans of blood boil.
Leading edges swelter, crisp into
In Summerland children play, frolic to
rollicking drums and reeds.
Naked under beaming Moon and starlight laughter,
merrily we act out tales well-loved by All.

Friday, June 5, 2015


So You Say You Want a Revelation?
Disappointed mystic exile John,
eager to besiege his jailors
rendering unto Caesar
tales of woe and destruction
of Biblical proportion:
"The burning bush told me.  I swear it's true."
Beware the ides, the armies of Megiddo,
the smoke and mirrors,
the mushroom clouds
invading our memories.
"I send you these frantic missives,
Oh my Christian soldiers.
Do not stray from Yahweh.
Look what He has done to His
soul-begotten Son,
in a fit of divinity."
I believe Jesus made it his mission,
gave every effort and sacrifice,
to save his mortal family
from mad jealous wrath of Dad.
His words clear, actions legend.
So sad that sheep easily forget,
falling under the evil eye
of any would-be butcher
slavering to grow strong on
the currency of blood.
There are beasts, and Beasts
numbering in legions.
Days end, begin, end again.
Murdering souls in the Name
of the Redeemer.  Oh, the Rapture!
Any sane Judgment would leave us
drowning in bitter tears.
I am begging:
Open your eyes, minds, hearts.
Open and learn.
True revelation awaits in every leaf and vein,
in every newborn cry
revealing pain
is meant to be a message
of active compassion,
to nurture a future
kinder than the past.
Breaking bred
born from boiling seas.
Holy Beast rampages, rises beneath
broken surface;
exhales snarling flame,
riotous burning blame,
wreaks tidal waves that never quench
roil of fire.
All our desires embroil, enslave
in thrall of poison spit.
We can't allow comfort, nor encourage
scored hearts to heal,
not while we steal your ire
to fatten rich nests.
Believe your cause excessively blessed.
Believe you are doing your best
to be as Creation demands.
Believe you are worthless
beyond condemnation
unless you are taking the stand
prescribed and admired.
If you aspire to anything higher
you must carry the brand
on your forehead or hand,
must be willing to kill
in the name of fealty,
to fulfill the prophecy.
to feed the Beast.
Jesus died for somebody's sins, but not mine.
Jesus cried, and somebody grinned -- don't whine.
Jesus smiled his love on the least,
scattered his manna that the lowly might feast.
All you remember is that slavering Beast;
so remind me why it’s vital to deny
those who promote a peace of mind
based on revering kindness above
Could Christian Fundamentalism be the dread AntiChrist,
and greedy Wall Street his ravenous Beast?
Could the Second Coming be prides of young
claiming back the streets?
Could Prophecies feared and hoped
to bring Sinners to their knees
to lift innocents into just reward
by Blessed Hero's noble sword
avenging faithful meek --
Could that parade be before us,
just not the scene surmised,
preached to prove the righteous right?
Has the final fight foretold been taking form,
storm clouds positioned for hard rains to fall,
untidy time of transition whence soothsayers call,
alarm bells chime?
Is the end of this trial of dependence nigh?
Can we break the Jesus code, create, rewrite
Apocalypse as our own golden age, reign
of Peace?
What World Is This?
Not preordained, not programmed.
Ties that bound cut to slivers,
what will emerge?
No millennial beast slouches here.
Only speed of light delimits.
Earth’s bowl sky holds only air,
not certain destiny.
Perhaps, if we allow release from
baseless blindness
a state of grace may find us.
Independent of holy demons
or royal decree,
fate can be self-reliant.
Beyond grasp of power arrogated
to God or mortal master,
each well-examined self
is a force of nature.
From shadows shy wood nymph watches warily,
ready to bolt rather than chance being seen.
She knows her universe straddles change, craves balance.
Hubris claimed humans cry for trial by combat
sacred?  profane?   narrations between?
What world is this
in swaddling clothes
at the break of days?
So many unpleasant faces
ruin a beautiful view.
Angry reds instead of cool blues,
calm ease.
Too many bruises
scream to be free
of burden
of skin and blood.
Tribute to the Muses,
pleasing balm of misery,
that I be allowed
their resplendent disgrace.
child in crumpled corner silently sings
to hold tears, tongue, repent, appease.
Songs of laughing eyes a’float in kindness --
happy fantasy to pretend to reminisce.
Where does it start?
A life, a mind, a set of states of being?
Innocence, vulnerability, not having
practice of precepts that frame awareness.
Why she yells, unmasks her ugly face;
why he shakes and strikes and blubbers.
Contorted eyes, cheeks, mouth
loud to invoke terror.
Violation, violent broken boundaries;
monstrous, fearsome,
because grotesque beyond comfort.
So unthinkable
we call it myth, delusion.
Iconic target for hatred.
A twisted face to pin on evil tales, to
spit out sobbing poisons, paint in shades
lies that harden into revelations,
legends, the stuff of nightmares
and deflected shame.
Memory’s child, forced to hopeless obliviation long before
a chance for clarity, sense of agency,
for a self to determine.
A child wants the safety of hearth and tribe,
of happy fairytales, everyone well fed and
tucked to bed, caressed in love that hugs away
the slavering beast.
A child wants, a busy mother wants,
a charming serpent, cowering servant, honest merchant
wants. Voice of sympathy, soothing harmony,
innocent pleasure.
No room to complain.
You enjoy when offered reasonably clean and unspoiled
food to fill that screaming hole of hunger.
Irregular shelter where maybe you can sleep, escape
all the pain and wailing indignity.
Sing for your supper; patrons toss coins to amuse,
rapacious, their cultured appetites.
A darkened Church (candles saved for opulent ritual
-- none may steal this God’s fire), blood bond, sacrifice.
Taste of copper and iron.
We are of the Earth, Her mighty Sun, of
tides and moonbeams and molten seas.
Not love --
chemistry, explosions, immortal fire.
I have wandered, blundered forth as a leaf in the wind,
as a pebble scoured by erratic waves, as
a child of Man loosened from mortality.
If there are stories I could tell my mind
to feel safety in dreaming, to feel
a possibility of home,
I have yet to find them.
Still, I listen for a voice to believe, for a song
that might feel like hope,
or finality.
Shell-shocked from this war of all against all.
Live where you belong:  right here; right now.
Here’s to the weary.
Here’s to the fun.
Here’s to the berry that makes us all young.
Here’s to the rulers.
Here’s to the fools.
Here’s to the toilers and tellers of truths.
Here’s to the end of another decline.
Here’s to the best of our time.
Caging the Beast
"call me after the Rapture" I
post on religious social network
Have you read Yeats' "Second Coming"?
After the prophecy
After the hard, hard rain
after the rainbow

Call me.  We should get together.