Hail unto thee from the abodes of the day.

I stand as salutation to the sun. I stand staring.

As the afternoon passes into sunset I find communion with nature; it feels like a pocket of heaven sunk to earth.

I greet the sun, my eyes turn staring and long upon that glowing orb, so bright that it turns my eyes to tears and the sky to purples and pinks around it. If I gaze long enough, with the daring to not look away, I find the sky warps, the clouds flicker between low and high relief and the top of the building where the sun sits, turns white at the edges. And my vision is purple when I look away, spying a plane flying low, and the sky and the plane are tinged a burnt purple as I look directly upon them.

My communion hasn’t even begun. I find the east and gaze into it, feeling air and all things of that element in it. And I feel the west behind me, as I sit, feeling the touch of the sun which sets lingering in my hair. And to the north, I feel the earth, move and shift and yet always always there, like law. And to the south, I find my vision turns to heat, the feeling of sun hot and burning, like on baked sand.

And I feel connected to the elements at the dying of the day.

Then an evening sunset salutation. Meditate and visualize on water, for the west. And intone, “Hail unto thee from the abodes of the day.” And wait until midnight for the next.  And then perhaps best to greet the rocks, wake them with words of welcome and sparks of connection through shamanic vision …

Abruptly the breeze picks up. It’s cold now, and that signals time to go. Finally leave that pocket of heaven. For a time.



I want you to know that I am free.

I wear the shackles willingly.

In fact I put them on myself.


I, who locked this infinite

presence into a devil’s shell,

a wind up toy. Twist twist and

let it dance to the drums,

making merry on a flute

which creates worlds,

don’t let it die,

don’t let it stop,

don’t let it go,

just make it play for eternity

for your prurient entertainment.


If the drums stop

you will die.


And when he comes to wind you up,

the one who doesn’t know you,

but cares so much

about not letting you die,

don’t let him for he can’t break you free,

neither can I.

Only you, little rabbit,

only you can twist tune into rainbow

and ride it high.

And when you die,

you never did,

just the shell turned to stone of man

shape and countenance,

not devil, not pan,

any longer.


And then, he reaches into me,

tears off the scabs from my heart center,

pulls off the shutters,  

pulls open the stained glass

and bades me see.

A tree.

In the middle of me.

She is dry, not enough

wet to the soil, which remains

far too light a hue,

and not enough light,

from divinity.

Clearly the dry brittle tree

Is me.

And so add water, darker soil,

expand the cage,

open the crown

and let in such bright.


And then you’ll see the chains,

they wrap round my wrists in shackles,

On my left: knowledge,

On my right: perception,

And on my ankles,

The right: attachments,

and the left: my soul.

So beautiful I could die to see

Shake them off, they aren’t locked tight,

indeed hang loose and then

I am free.


To know

I know

nothing. Yet.


Bade me back,

rehang the chains.

Shackle me again.



It’s all about vulnerability.

And curiosity.


I am willing. I am eternal. I am free.

ghost talker

i was seeking you.

in the forest i found a well, a deep yawning into the earth, and with trepidations tripping tattoo heartbeats i dove, from hell into hell. perception

i met the white stag at the well wall, where the stone meets the earth and the wall melts away into a passage below, a dip down deep, and i kept a hand upon the animal’s back, fingers fastened in fur, as he did guide the way.

i came down to the river, spirit stag at my side. it was wide and wet, watery. blue and dull gray it churned into darkness of indigo beneath the first feet of it, and i did not dare to wade.

there was not boat to cross it on, and there was a raft-like bridge. it did bounce upon the water like so much as a leaf upon a pond, and it did not feel steady beneath my feet, and it did not feel of the water’s spirit for it did not converse with me, although sister water does indeed enjoy our talks habitually.

across the river there was a stream, it meandered in muted motion to the holes in the cavern, in the rock, where neither did the rocks speak, but neither did they before. however the water drug my gaze; my attention fastened upon that very pinpoint of a passage, it grew, until i could walk through it side by side with my guide, his antlers slightly scraping stone the way through.

the other side was a great expanse, it opened into an islet of greenery; of forest and waterfalls, and a sun which was incongruent with where we were on the physical plane, leading to the conclusion: we were not on the physical plane.

i was seeking you.

you met me at the gate, where the trees stood like boundary and the sea languidly lapped where sand met the roots that dug down deep. you met me, looking like I’d never seen you, and you smiled, holding a fire aloft, as if you needed it to light your way, despite the light like day of the sun.

i followed you. we did not speak. and i wondered if you were quiet because you did not wish to see me or if it was because the beauty of the place would be disturbed by so crude a thing as words were. and at the waterfall my thoughts about this were stolen by the sound of the roar, and i felt the spirit of sister water here, so sweet, as if it were the purest essence of herself that remained, and i realized why you didn’t speak.

there was not call for words. words remain what we do to communicate, in aid of seeking what we seek, which when broken down to ultimate goal, becomes the thing we define as love. here, love, as comprehensible as what i could possibly imagine, and fathoms farther, was already here. and i was not unhappy, nor did i want, nor did i seek, nor did i need. and you were here. and i was with you. and we walked past the waterfall, into the sun’s heat.

brother sun was bare against the sky. it was as if in his nakedness he was more glorious than mere thought could produce in present viewing when above. brother sun was not the harshness of power and light as we saw him, nor the source of the life we enjoyed, not here. here in his nakedness i finally saw him, and it did not hurt to look upon his brilliant form, and it did, for it broke understanding upon the wall of my ignorant way, and i finally realize why i was born under the light, and not under another lamp of totality.

i was seeking you. i remember coming here with a yern in my heart; a sadness collected behind my eyes, and in my dry lips, and behind my throat. i remembered a losing of you. and i remember a mourning. i was seeking you when i came here. and when i found you. there was no joy of a finding because i was never seeking you, i was seeking this.

we waded into the water of a lake. the trickle of the river which had seemed so ominous before did pour in here, and met life in sister water, in this spirit of water which was so personified as pure. in this water i felt lifetimes of health seeping into skin not skin but soul. and i felt myself like a sponge absorb the light of it, with my eyes on you and your skin wet, and your countenance brilliant in its glow. i had never seen you happy until here. i had never seen you smile. i had never watched you glow with health. i had never seen you alive.

i remember you died and i felt your absence. i remember i felt the loss as a part of me. i remember i wanted to find you and assume myself that you were not dead because of me. due to a lack of action of mine; of love withheld. i remember walking down to the river. seeing the shiver of leaves upon the coldness of sister breeze. i remember watching the leaves float on the water as you passed. and i remember seeking you there. until i was seeking you everywhere, and then i was just seeking.

but you are not lost. i, a ghost talker, who believes not in ghosts thought you were and sought you out, to assure myself in selfishness, where you were. but you were not lost and i did not find you. it was never you who needed to be found.

all this time. all this way. all this journey, from the mouth of the earthen well, to the trail of stag prints in sand, i was seeking a thing i’d lost.

it turned out i was seeking, not a ghost, but a lost thing.  it was me.