Work from a few of our associates
Amber moon shadows fall on the watching stones.
Whose passage have touched memories
shrouded in the womb of time.
We have all risen from tht well
and seen gods smile and sigh.
The wind sets the Morrigan free,
to roam in the night of spirts,
to dance as we remember.
Joy Merritt Krystosek
My Inkwell Spills a Pitch Black Pool
Where do I draw the line
Withhold myself from dark matters
Of beating hearts . . .
I see anguish etched into my canvas
Through gouache paint
My inkwell spills a pitch black pool
Over my script my penned depiction
Of life’s churning eddy
Trial and error
The breathless air is hot and humid,
And the mountains cast in a blue haze.
A hawk soars high above the ridge
As birdsong serenades to my delight.
The air is full of smoke and ash
As homes and buildings burn
While Russian missiles cruise above,
Sirens’ sound and people crouch in fear.
It’s here, amongst the boxwood and the oaks
And buildings built of mountain stone well set
Upon this hallowed ground and tranquil place,
Where I connect with Spirit’s grace.
But there amongst the devastation lie
Their homes and loved ones lost forever.
Their spirit never wanes as the relentless
Bear claws his way across their land.
Let those of peace and plenty ne’er complain
When those in need must fight to just survive.
Some thoughts vary
His story changes
Day by day
To suit his mood
And who he tells
Are where his feelings dwell
Morgan Scott Phenix
At bedtime, children decry eternity,
fear gainsaying hope.
Instead, jostling kids’ longing
might nightly open
persistent questions, repeated strains,
tales upon victorious wishes.
Xanadyllic yearning Zen.