)mad magicks( Emerging Visions #20 has emerged

Modern Mania Demands

 

)mad magicks(

 

Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine #20

 

http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com

 

Let Loose

revel in release

Enjoy

and Share

after the Rapture

)mad magicks(  Emerging Visions visionary art 'zine #20 will be emerging late this weekend (after the Rapture)  http://emergingvisions.blogspot.com

 

 

 

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 you find less than fine
daring to share a peace of mind
about kindness more
than Divine

46664

Caging the Beast
"call me after the Rapture" I
post on religious social network
sites.
Have you read Yeats' "Second Coming"?
After the prophecy
After the hard, hard rain
after the rainbow
Call me. We should get together.

ram bull ewe cow (raos)

What is enlightenment but another brain state a place where light and pain converge and realign where signage glows and mind smiles slowly, burning through compost, rusty concepts like goals or dying ...

 

I am a non-duelist. It's not about at-one, but ever expanding diversity.

 

 

Tears, endless tears tiny droplets grief and fear all those wearing days all those dreams despaired running down a lane racing who knows where Electrical crashing and thunder caught lightning aware held in camera's gaze held in nature's snare Natural child Let her go wild Follow her there

 

Enjoy these humble Spring delights Softened days, enchanted nights Son of Spring's amazing heart Take up the beat to play your part

 

Under the Wesak Moon Where the Buddha crossed the quarters, graciously approached liminal wisdom Our Lady Goddess guides We who dance in shadow We who turn the Earth, bless the seed, feel awakened in darkness, feel the turning sacred, consecrated to the between air of transformation where enlightenment, eternal bliss encounter life

 

 

Burst of joy quietly encountered
Fly my eyes into such belief
Where sweet Earth heroically replies
to my pleas for splendorous relief

 

just over the border moving through the periphery pattern-seeking epicenter runs within swirling cosmos fire, flood, cerebral hemorrhage, tsunami herded into healing net

 

The love of love
The hope for blinding light that bathes all cares with caring

 

Morality is about living successfully in a world of others. Thus, it is not about absolutes, but relationships.

 

Relationships never really end, are always open to to reinterpretations, refining of feelings, redefining of motivations and nuances, even long after we have thought them dead and buried.

 

Frozen time
caught on camera
simplified plane
microscope glass

 

 

 

It had not occurred to me that poetry was more valued in other places. It feels sad to me that the American spirit of pragmatic Protestantism should overwhelm the spirit of awed naturalism and adventure I like to associate with the American mythology.

 

I suppose there is something to be said for the lack of common relevancy in many modern poetic practices. Surely, though, there are such effete practitioners everywhere, and many poets here who do communicate more accessibly. Perhaps it has to do with how poetry is taught in public education, or how thoughtful activities seem to attract bullying? Surely, however, there are strong voices in the American public with poetic sensibility and heroic bravery such as in Mexico or Iraq. Is it that they are not considered acceptable fare for tv infotainment? Is it that we have become too accustomed to sound-bite journalism and too nationally attention deficit to take the time to take in more? That's not me, or you here. What are the avenues in these other places that keep poetry an integral part of the mainstream?

 

 

Read, critically and for maximum enjoyment. Listen to the cadences of language of the voices all around. Feel the words gathering and interacting within you. Write. Read what you have said as if a total stranger. Rewrite in the light of greater understanding.
Once your words have said all they can to you, send them to find friends and feedback.

 

Art classes? Use your eyes, hands, heart, mind and discover what the sages knew. Everything you need to create your art is you. Keep refining your vision and expressive techniques. More importantly to sell, though, reach out to make connections through your art.

 

art lives, breathes, touches so surely
in the air, eye, mind of we who come to call

 

On reflection
certainties of youth
acquire a different truth
Re-direction
creates a different view
Reveal feelings new
to introspection
Not what you expected,
different cues
mix into different moods,
more from which to choose

 

The soundbite political philosophy which we take as normative needs to be countered with the long form.

 

 

Nobody should be brutally beaten, nor purposely hurt at all for no good reason. Unfortunately, that is not the prevalent message of our social milieu.

 

How does it respect, improve or protect our freedoms when we deny them to any of us?

 

 

Not only do we blame the victim, charge the victim, and generally disrespect the victim, our legal system is all about the perp; the victim gets victimized and the "people" get their entertainment.

 

 

Instead of "sharing the pain" why don't we share the pleasures of a country we can all take part in and be proud of?

 

It is so much more profitable to lock people up and let them rot than to educate or provide services to help them make a living.

 

 

Though corporations may be legal people, they are not moral people. Like the institutions of bureaucracy, money, mass media blitz, the corporation allows the people who work behind it to distance themselves from the realities of interpersonal living. "It was the fictitious person who did all that crap. I am just a humble, even horrified, servant."

 

 

What is the "Conservative" rationale or plan? Is it to destroy the US in order to make putting in their regime possible, some kind of uber-capitalist corporate state? I keep asking why if we need to have debt to pay for governmental programs we don't just sell it to Americans who will then reap the interest, pay the taxes, and keep the whole enterprise solvent? No one even replies. All this catastrophizing might be useful if it led to actually going through the budget, having every agency go through their budgets, and discover what is working as a matter of cost/benefit analysis. However, that does not seem to be happening. Rather, it is all political noisemaking.  It has obviously never been about the money, as such. It is about defining a culture which is bolstered with "appropriate" expenditure.

 

 

Let the Circus reign
Let the Great Orators
cast their voices
like molten gold
to flow and burn us all

 

Yet we now have Republican presidential candidate Gary Johnson who seems to be willing to look at the whole budget in terms of cost/benefit analysis without screaming, crying "socialism" or otherwise acting like a spoiled child -- could the political climate be changing into a more grown-up reaction to electorate anger?

It's past time to give up on Keynes and Smith and all the rest of the economic theorists and start thinking rationally about what actually works.

 

The problem with capitalism is not so much the capital as the ism. People combine their social visions and come up with some theory about distribution of resources because here they are for us to exploit (didn't the Bible tell us so?). Then, the theory displaces actual involvement in the real processes of life on planet. Don't get me started (well, not right now) on money and how the toady wizards of the powerful change math into manna. Point being, fine, people get together around an idea they believe will garner a good market share. This does not mean they have to discount the real costs of doing business, to the real resources. If we could allow ourselves the awareness to enjoy a market-based economy based on eco-friendly principles and win-win dynamics, why not?

 

 

Apart from being meanspirited and uninspiring, the Randian philosophy is too narrow to be useful to those it lauds. Giving the stipulation that the self is the seat of pleasure, that we live best by selfishness, they miss the fact that anything they want, any lifestyle they enjoy, any ability to engage in pleasurable projects, is dependent on the healthful participation of each and every member of the whole society and the histories on which it is based. No man is an island, not because it would be immoral, but because it would be impossible.

 

 

It's not so much that the road to hell is paved with good intentions, as the road to purgatory is paved with inattention.

 

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 you find me
less than fine
for daring to share
a piece of mind
more about kindness
than Divine

 

 

 

One of my serious concerns with all these knee-jerk security measures is the plight of people with various mental/emotional sensitivities getting bullied beyond their ability to cope.

 

 

 

You know (of course you know, you'be been around a block or three) that it doesn't actually matter whether guns are safe or sane or personal property or dangerous or crazy or a threat to society. We have guns. We have people with different opinions about who should have them, how they should be used, what constitutes freedom. It's an ongoing discussion, as it ought to be in a democracy.

 

 

 

Moving through
each day older
wearing, weary, worn
from the day we're born
we choose
meek, or getting bolder
greeting another morn
meeting another walker
on the road
for conversation
until the turn

 

 

 

 

Look at the monkeys jumping up and down and shrieking at their oh so funny crap lying in the mud. Apparently the joke reflects the intellect of those who enjoy flinging mud.

 

You know what else is free speech? Calling idiots out on their idiocy rather than letting them think they are right

 

The only thing necessary for idiots to take over our world is sensible people saying nothing.

 

mutants for nukes!

 

 

 

Sorry is not the word for living
Take heart beyond simple forgiving
Take time to recognize the beautiful,
the fruit that's full of sun and rain and soil
Much better than respecting sorrow,
Discover joy to fill tomorrow

 

 

 

Searching the skies for eternity 
Opening upward, onward, out of words 
Yet still bound 
Sentience of form persists 
Feel the glory, 
the honor, 
the fear 
over eons emerge 
as bliss

 

 

 

Keep dreaming
It is all there is
to make of life
a wondrous dream

 

If you are not a Christian, the Christian mythology is just another mythology.

 

I watched a PBS show on The Jesus Prayer. The text of the prayer, which insists that the supplicant is a sinner in need of mercy, and the general context of the ancient monasteries and practices brought me to a realization. These people are living with a paradigm of a steady state Kingdom of God in which God's will is meant to be followed to insure safety. My understanding, though, is that we inhabit an expanding universe, that God has set us free upon this planet with free will to learn and interact with ongoing Creation.

 

 

Feelings are communications from your self. Feel them through and let them tell you their story. Better, dance them into a beautiful fantasy, expressing their power and grace.

Pagan Pride

Ritual

Ritual gives form to meaning
(every wiseman's son doth know).
Every act from which we're gleaning,
Every sack that we must sow
Gives rise to tides that make us wise;
Gives humor chance for binding wounds.
Does good these ancient weary eyes
To dance abandoned round the moon.



I Have All-ways Been

Magic is not part of me.
It is every molecule,
holding together higher intent.
Tracking the winding trail
stars and moonlight exhale potency
spells, incantations, hidden divinations
flicker in malleable materiality.
Living Earth, patiently moves through rotations,
inhales stardust.
In darkness, creation recycles.
Magic is all.



Dark Magick

In the still of the dark of the moon
after the revelrie has passed on
deep, deep into the frozen fields of dreamless sleep
we, walking, silently, along the riverbed
breathing in ancient ash of woodsmoke
breathing out long-growing tears
to weave ghostly tentacles
along our path
take each others' hand up to our heart
to pray, to kiss, to whisper
thus casting an eternal spell.



metaphysicians

Boldly we go where so many have gone before
Each informed by our unique set and setting.
Some perform alchemy, mixing metaphors
upon a marble altar.
Telling sooth, or constantly mapping the stars,
we orate ancient fantasies,
often reclothed to fit the current fashion.
There are werecreatures, energy vampires,
Lions and Tigers and Bears,
Insects infected with rare, lethal archetypes
-- angry demons mating with our own cells
To destroy us.
There are lethal conspiracies of demon-men,
Bent on self-destruction of their/our whole half-species.
Warships, projectiles of evil
invade our consciousnesses, destroying our dreams.
There are armies of the night, marching,
conscripting our young, our heartland, our hierophants.
We watch, and scribble notes, often indecipherable.
We chant like banshees, chattering primates,
impressed with our own noise.
Sometimes we forget for a bit, slip out of the script;
We awaken to find ourselves singing;
Creating heavenly music.




Crossing the Threshold

At the crossroads at midnight
my lady did swear
that she must be alone
to face up to her demons

"Please understand that I must
be aware of just who I am
and where I've come from."

I sat by the bridge
as she set forth her flames,
her sorceror's lore, her alchemic runes
So she'd know who to honor, to break
and to blame
what she'd been made for,
her journey, her tools.

At the crossroads, past midnight,
just before dawn
my lady thrice nodded and
stamped out her flames.
She beckened I join her out on starry meadow
to kiss and rejoyce
and reveal our true names.


Enchanting
(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"

Singing and dancing long into the night,

you turn it into day.

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 night,
Shining into day.

You play.

All of creation rejoices to your song,
creating worlds of joy.




Hekate's Child

Child of Hekate,
sweetness and light?
Where is the mark
of your entombment?
Buried prematurely,
to strive for growth
in dark enclosure
striving for a breath
of the pompously negligent
Sun,
of the blushing Moon
of the squabbling sons and daughters,
of daylight's pleasures.
Striving, tenderly
twisting around corners
aching for an unknown touch.

"Tell me, sir, then, how's it going now?"
Looking up narrowly from a tepid meal,
all at once remembering
playfellows on the schoolyard
running, out of breath,
filled with pride
a jolly good game.
Always someone begging
my attention,
but it wasn't really me,
just a story to steam off
or a butt to joke on.
All the silly give and take;
only time is taken
and that in big hungry chunks
of no tomorrows.

One long day
now the part all groggy
waking from fevered napping.
It wasn't supposed to be a tomb
nestled in Transylvanian bloodlines.
It was meant to be a child's cot,
freshly laundered cotton lace.
But the rats got in,
once the cats had been slaughtered.

Slowly wakening
I strive again to find my footing.
Learning to walk
was never as easy
as forgetting to fly.



Manifestation Ritual

Create the vision.
Move into it.
Live there.
Feel it growing through you.
Play with it,
in a wide range of perspectives.
Delight in it.
Laugh, dance, weep.
Sing out loud.
Sing softly as a lullaby.
Now, slowly or quickly or however it feels right,
create a stairway.
Name each stair.
Give each a folder of possibilities,
more and more complete, concrete, living.
Live out the life of your stairway,
allowing it to lead you to the promises
you would have made yourself and your vision
as you became lovers entwined.



Straw Sky

Straw sky
Westerly
Moonless, Sunless, Starless
Leaveless trees point gnarly fingers
to the heavens
deepening into darkness

Frayed and tattered dreams
Lucid praying
A feeling beyond touch
Beyond fear or sadness
A feeling unlike hope
Without reason
Formless
Yet delineated
Like constellations.

I make motions with my hands,
Move my skin into contact
With ineffable realms,
Move with the oozing miasma
Creating signs in faint luminescence.
Bit by bit they encompass
the night's horizon.

But there is more.
It comes to me in dribs and drabs,
Droning, encircling, swooping in and out.
I organize a study chamber
Pull out maps and rulers,
Set my quill to taking notes.
Images engaged in excited conversation
Pull me in to their heady company.

I can feel the sky breaking around me,
Bits of colored prisms falling.
Make a wish.



Raising Hell

Not true sacred magick.
Cynical sleight of hand
turns sweat and dreams,
lives of desperation
into neat bundles of greed.
But the pain burns through
not content to be twisted
into fast cars, high-stakes games,
brilliant careers in glad-handing.
It wants its payment.
False wizards of arrogant charm
play with chthonic forces
more angry and deadly than flame.
Unaware of the cursed seeds
they cultivate,
strangling life force from below.
Unsupervised children
playing with matches,
grizzled and gray as some may appear,
laugh at the bright spectacle
as homes burn.
The balance is always paid.
Magick is never free.
Will the lesson ever sink in?
Be careful what you conjure.



Singing to the Chorus

Getting warmer
Days numbered by travelers,
barbarians rushing in to conquest.
Taken in longer view,
tumbling through the ages ~
Sundials exchanged for
binary spiders click-clocking,
tabulating the enormous sum,
only a summary of things gone before.
The reality of childhood, striving creatures,
pulling upward from bootie straps,
scrambling for a place in the pile
near enough to the top
that derision, pouring downward,
obliges them to only the fiercest of Lords.
Merrily spent the pocket-change of
dollars flowing upward.
Old games reign under the big top.
Solemn children in the circus stands
betting on which clown will fall.
They speak to you of evil, o' my children,
Church Fathers swearing to the sky;
cold, withered Mums hoping for a crust
of noblesse oblige.
Evil is the providence of Satan,
cloven-hoofed, dancing in circle's
centerpoint, playing the pipes of Pan.
Oceans of blood boil
Leading edges swelter, crisp into
conflagration.
In Summerland children play, dance to
rollicking pipery.
Naked under beaming Moon and starlight,
they act out tales well-loved by All.

Listen to the heart of bliss.

Lie on open sand, smelling vibrance

under oceanic starlit sky

Breeze breathes eternity, opening

inward to see intricately

expansive poetry --

thought in magnificent splendor.

All art is magical; all magic is art.

Yet they are not the same, and part

of a grander landscape.

gypsy hand

Too brite days
midnights that refuse to
abide dark and secret
when empty phrases chant
to fairytale Moons
I tell myself
This is no ordinary room
This is no fleeting flittering life
This is a magical passageway
sparkling like mica, like miracles
 
Quiet traces
luminescent impression
a trailing kite tail binds
silent whimpers, sojourning whispers,
tears shining behind mime smiles
 
Crone's gnarled fingers, play
to spite agony
simulate touch
beyond ache
Crouched scarred shadow
I cast silhouette of metamagic gypsy
hand
offering