Call Call Out Of Your Sleeping

Spirit DANCERS RAW1 besBEST

I write into the caged ribs of the night

So others might see their arrested light

Inscribe amnesia’s void with my moonlit ink stroke

Scrawl wandering into dawns wavering line

Unraveling indoctrination’s that put you under the spell of the dead

Your ghost heart peers through the mask of its uncooked soul

 

Pretending who you are it’s true I can see inside you

Pretense building up defenses but not fast enough

 

Conqueror who fell climbing the center stage

I was the steppingstone that let loose

Understand falling to learn the depths of ascent

 

You the chisel the ax and the hammer

I the scapegoat with no remorse

The seas murmuring consciousness

You the clicking of a trillion beach pebbles

No one can separate us

 

I the tailor made raiment’s for your death song submission

You the buried oracular bones

If you were the sage still born

I was the midwife that carried the wisdom

 

A whorl eternal the fingerprint of a ghost

Before the earth was born

You the modern detective

Who searches for my story

 

In the emissions of exhausted time scattered tribes and cosmologies

 

Narcissistic  neighbors rolling over one another in fear and grandiosity

 

Eradicated names and cultures in cycles of counterfeit power

 

Empire of human dross playing unconscious pawns into cunning siege

 

Manipulating  perceptions of success into your identity mirage

 

I the tired old man digesting all this before I was born

I called and called from the dark tide

Until my other self took me in

 

No longer was I a passing stranger

My way inward was away from the outer predator

Emptying the secular into the law of nature

Primeval vapor swirls through my material body now

A disappearing Qi into my bird like source

 

I know these are not easy words to live through

These out of print words from an invisible source

High cost of shipping words from a dead author

Words that know their own stems

Were torn from the softened earth’s crust

 

May your conscience ferry the bleeding sap trails through the terminus

Clear the long custom lines between us

The suspended black dot under my question mark

Weary in its reflection

 

I see through your transparencies

Uncomfortable thoughts at the end of a long sentence

Fissures of your sublunary world are quickening

Penetrating the withered deity of all horizons

 

With one wing floating on the water

Who will revive her

She who is your other

In the pain body’s eclipse

Malleable porous cells of reality

Call call out of your sleeping

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Wise Elf and the Skeleton Council

Snakey snakey be true BEST

The Wise Elf

 

I came to meet Alfred through the unbridled guidance of two Shetland Pony colleagues

Maybe you have heard of them

Coauthors of Indigenous Earth Wisdom and its Cosmological Intelligence

They gave me a neigh and nod towards the wee hilly copse behind our faded thrift cottage

Where Alfred was leaning against the central rowan tree not yet berried

Alfred’s symbolic surname is Old English for Elf Counsel or Wise Elf

He wasn’t the type to suffer fools lightly as they say

Or so I was warned by my pensive pony companions

Those clever enough to capture his charged runic utterance

Felt they had just magically acquired the relished words of a ghost writers dream

And immediately rushed off to create movie adaptations for the art house circuit

 

Leaping forward over a protracted chimera of time

I vaguely remember Alfred agreeing to mentor me

Mine was a deep purr of a large feline sated

As I felt my indecipherable dreams being fused

To a resurrected narrative titled Alfred’s Store Of Talking Skeletons

A shop where he kept all finely ossified mineral rich bones of humans he thoroughly knew

The alluring secret was that ONLY the unconscious skeletons were ever sold as decoys

They were the thin dimwitted skeletons

Profiled as exotic commodities in limited edition

This was not a con but a paradoxical strategy

That these most expensive remains were aimed at global leaders

A ploy for corrupt powerful people all over the world to buy them as rare artifacts

Store revenues were secretly channeled back into consciousness raising efforts

The locals were horrified by this garish commerce

But this was the most elevated fashion and outrageous trend of our times

Mostly they were bought for their rare vintage hats with large black feathers

And burnished oval beads that twinkled and dangled from cervical vertebrae

Transaction agreements clearly stated NO select parts would be sold for totemic or fetish usage

Buyers were required to purchase the whole corpus

This cut out the more deserving people from having a chance at being hoodwinked

And once these uncanny undercarriages rolled out of the storefront they would refuse to talk

Rumors said they could but even under grave threat all remained silent

Note for the record there was never a protest of buyer’s remorse over this

Just acquiring a skeleton obviously improved ones material and social status in great class leaps

This gave a great counterfeit sense of power to the ego that would diminish over time

Requiring another quick purchase to sustain a modicum of happiness

 

Our living bones we kept to ourselves

These talking skeletons were dignified and wholly reliable

They were powerful and eloquent ancestors that we clung close to in the darkening times

As Alfred’s protégé I sat in the midnight ceremonies with this liminal council

Both eerie and comforting at the same time their very presence changes you

Under tutelage I have recorded some of their rapturous monologue

Alfred had made me the executor of his will disclosing all inclusive rights

“Bring these oracular words to the public” it says “with any editing discretion you find necessary”

“It is time at this critical juncture for earth’s inhabitants to know its own sunset”

 

And as with any ancient but living sacred story

You are meant to see yourself in it for healing and transformation

Let the acoustics of its vowels and consonants slip through your defenses

This story was born long before literary devices like subterfuge

Skeleton parables have their own inherent devices

I have added a short biography for each entity

The following was told to me directly and is completely unedited

So the listener might feel the integrity and visceral immediacy

And carry its energetic surge of retelling light to brighten the darkness

 

As soon as I would rest my fingers on their blanched phalanges

They would tell me what should be known in our world

There dialogue might sound quixotic or enigmatic at times

But I believe this discourse to be very insightful and vital to our survival

I have given the birth names of each skeleton along with their etymological names

Stay loose ponder carefully quietly slowly digest

The reward is spine tingling

 

Althea (The Healer)

“Resurrect my old holy hands

Slide them along your lifeline

Feel the sacred meaning

In each wrinkle of time

I have an old mountain to grow

Slowly slow to make my future ancestors glow”

 

Althea has a posthumous book of riddles titled Day Dreams in a Desert Cave

Out of print now for being written in ancient Sanskrit

It is in fact a map of divinations from the Gnostics

Channeled by Althea during her last year on earth

It resides in a broken vault in the basement of a Brooklyn library

Police Breaking and Entering reports

State Modus of Operandi found inconclusive

No arrests were made

Forensic reports note Arabian Desert sand by the vault door

Facilities manager statement

Claimed the basement “is notoriously haunted”

 

Ivagenos (Yew Tree Born)

“I have ridden the hidden energies

Shell currencies of Africa

Brass bells of ceremonial horses

I have seen the Tree Of Life re-grown

From the mystical mist gardens

Of primordial Buddha’s and Madonna’s”

 

Ivagenos is known for his wild eccentricities

He once quaffed hot white candle wax with us present

Spewed it back into the flame like a circus show

In the midst of the erupted flame

An instructive pagan ritual appeared in the lucent flicker

Until the light went out

He was once an instructor of chaos

At the Massachusetts Institute of Technology

 

Gatteglan (Wise Pure One)

“I have carried invisible baskets of hives and lighting into the crowds of fear

To awaken your souls pattern of being

I have resurrected the multi-faceted crystals of all my un-mined thoughts

I draw out the darkness from burning empty pockets of the dead”

 

Gatteglan worked in the Peace Corps and Red Cross until she got tired of the politics

She then removed herself from the world becoming a recluse

Hiding behind the corrupt façade of democracy and socialism

Gave this wild hermit plenty of time for her formidable creative talent

Paradoxically her reputation grew by default

Her shards and weavings of wisdom were hurled at trespassers

Baffled by her rude genius

Word spread quickly

And as more uninvited approached her humble cottage

She would howl haunting noises in unison with her pet coyote

Eventually she was forgotten about until now

 

Barnabus (Son of Prophecy)

“My testimony has been corrupted by half listeners

The chasm between us is filled with dull knives and hidden serpents

I have gone back to leaning against the window of my vision

The path tilts into boundless design

The rusted chain washes away

My vessel moves through the glass

Into the crisp thin distance

I am like a guest of myself

It’s too late for words about existence

They have all traveled too deep inward”

 

Barnabus was a fully tenured professor an esteemed philosopher of our parallel universe

A deep thinker unmatched in his depths of ponderous thought

He would spend years studying the history of a single word

All the way back to its fragmented primeval utterance

Barnabus had a stint in the Merchant Marines and rode the rails during the depression

During the dot com boom he sent gift crates of apples to various CEO’s

They were stolen from Eden

 

Amaterasu (Shining Over Heaven)

I sweep and sweep the pearl black surface of your eyes

Grand Mother Moon your reflection of warmth underneath

The light of rust dark chimneys

 

Amaterasu was an obscure but gifted mythopoetic conjurer

She was a psychopomp for those who died early in life

She never wore a dress and preferred hiking in snowy peaks to look for caves

 

Branogenos (Raven Born)

“Your habitat is not yet gone

My pillaged messages still cling

To the clicking and chattering of trees in the wind

Above the burial grounds

My words will be exhumed signal fires

Furnaces of light

In a world gone cold

I am the perpetual chanting mantras

Resilience of Nature and your nature

The frenetic energy of rebirth

In the hibernating death ode

 

I am the formations of luminescence

In the pigment of your skin

Curl cresting into the universe

In ecstatic abandon

Of words between words never spoken

But thought of and lived in the breath”

 

Branogenos never talked about himself but was mesmerizing in conversation

He projected images of himself that appeared and then left in a flash

Hypnotizing  the unsuspecting

Intent listeners slurred they were drunk on the heavens

 

My new assignment with Alfred was located at a remote inaccessible site

Where all our ancestors go for their most pressing issues

When I myself died Alfred and I served together at said gated outpost

With Alfred being chief council of the dead

We received all newcomers here as well

We were never bored

Always playing pranks on the newly dead

So many of them confused you know

It was a way to get them to lighten up and see clearly

But we were tender too for those who really needed it

Always busy we were helping people return to earth

With new vows and commitments to new spirit allies

We helped them redefine their roles to address unfinished business

We were caring for fish and seaweed too anthropoids’ ferns everything really

All kinds of life forms I spent lifetimes learning their languages

I was captivated by beings from whom no discernible sound or sign was emitted

Like communing whales without sonar singing or body language

These translucent beings carried a spiritual vapor in the breath

Exhaling the essence of novel length information

Transmitting  vivid images of the past present and future invisible to the human eye

 

Anyways space is opening up Alfred and I are soon to retire

And if you are one of the chosen few to have read this far along

You might be interested in applying for work at the outpost

Send alpha brain waves that signal your interest

Without dream or emotional distortion it must be clear

And we will know whether you’re ready for the next step

This type of resume defies fabrication or egoic embellishment

You will also need to triangulate yourself and provide your grid reference

Along with the oldest ancestors name that you know

Include what tree and landscape is your favorite

Then address your mind to the seventh soul organism

We are waiting there

Deadline is sooner than you know

For the Dead Parts of You

Roman-mosaic-know-thyself

Roman Mosaic “Man know thyself”

For the Dead Parts of You

 

Time was wearing an eclipse when it told me

This story is too old for most of you

But “poetry is the resurrection of presences”

More than I can speak of here with this medicine chant

And I’ll tell you many things that you’ll soon forget

But I am instructed to speak of my apprenticeship

And soul travel as a medicine person

 

Don’t stop anywhere at what does he mean

Try explaining yourself to yourself

If it’s easy you have work to do

Enter at the risk of all you know

 

It’s not easy sustaining the life flow

Through veiled gated borders of other worlds

Never mind those neo shamans

Coloring people with fragile healing charms

There are parasitic dark ones

Who would blot out transformation

Cavities in the impossible teeth of a black metal sky

 

There would be many things I would come to know

In the intimate nuances of plural reality

The light and dark journey is for us all

To journey home to our true nature

 

I keep the alliance with the numinous ancestors and genii loci

They keep my speechless heart on the carrying winds

 

I rose with the vultures from the desert floor

My spirit vessel ruptured by the world

Floating on a blue river between clouds that sharpen the horizon

Silhouetting the old mountain bones saints of death

 

I heard sad feint guitar threads remembering

Long gone canyons red with my blood

Rattle and howl of ancestors rose in me

With a slight tearing in the beautiful harvest of awareness

Whatever was cultivated from my life was dismembered

Shoulder of my old crow wing falls

As my tree rings stretch across the empty land

 

A cacophonous kraaa rips the air

I remember raven rearing up

In a twisted wire of smoke

 

Gravity of dark matter pulling through the throat rattle

Black holes across the continent

Over wrinkled maps of time

Tassels from the long drum of the moon

Uttered in tender shreds of dawn

“Your thinnest tender branches

Have been on the longest journey

For the dead parts of you to wake up”

 

The sun was wearing a hood

Dusting the ash off its pouch of sighs

Burning shadows made beautiful

In their reflection of you

 

Amnesiac prayers had lost their necessary relationship

Moon had no motion or sound in its womb

Disguised in her many changing faces

Around the cerulean blue curvature of the earth

I fell apart to see the distance between us

Like storm clouds we separated and joined again

To know the difference of a soft turtle sky

To remember when the sun leaves the moon turns on

 

I had to learn our primal animal speech again

Stalactite dripping tongue

Releasing soul essence from the soft cave

A scattered herd of feelings rekindle

Fossilized fire shining with its far vision

Eyes of sad diffused light return from the distance within

Turning bee hive bright in the hollow bones and porous image

 

I am the black mamba fire serpent

A brujo psychopomp who wears silver wolf hair

Horns flaming from the skull in silver shrub

 

In a quickening story

The bees ride the wolf in me

A soul traveler with honey magic

To carry me through reincarnation

Many days changing my many ways

In these dream running heights

 

From our shattered world

I can make the corn grow through my chest

Into the coyote darkness with their quiet sickle moon secrets

I am watched from the foothills

As mountain shadows return to sky

Whispers of animals speak of my care full footsteps

Hummingbirds feed on the sugar of these thoughts

I am of the ancient corn people who still feed the sacred

I put the deer mask on to comb the future and the past

Watch cacti skeletons quickening in the stillness

I rattle the old wind bone chimes swaying the evergreens

Following the bend in the wood

Land spirits press into cholla shade and silences

Ancient footpaths buried beneath reveal their stories

A wild nebula beauty of memory grows inside

New leaf and berry language

Nuclear burning centers of massive stars

Lift and break our thought merchants

On the overflowing page of deaths poem

Into blank canvass between human and spirit form

 

Any moment I can be a ravaged glyph returned to you

A faded hand print still working its way through you

Footsteps of runic tracks through your restless dream

My cooing soft animals scurry over your bones

Under the night shawl of your sighs needs and colliding clouds

My intoned summons disappear into your pulse

 

This far inland the sea cries in you

You of holy brine of blood and watershed

Mend your soul in my deep green well

 

I scratch my deer head into the earth

I rattle my shaman stones

In the star shined puddle

Pull you inward into this drowning spell

Fall through this muddy mirror

Always open before your knocking

Knocking on you before you open

With the invisible door ajar

My bear skull watches

The movement of your spirit

 

I am inside you when you turn your thoughts my way

When you sense the other within

Ripening the berry of the dormant heart

All things bloom when we pay attention

For Those Who Fish in the Deep

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For those who fish in the deep drift

Waves crest over the frozen headlands

Folding in on themselves

Breaking into foam traces

Of a place we called home

Invisible and forgotten deluge

Votive ships into the Leviathan

Odyssey’s lost names of deities

And songs of beauty

Are shadow rivulets thinning

Disappearing into the all

 

I turn to see sun needles on my frozen footprints

Moving backwards with eyes longing forward

Like stars they sway in a black womb blanket

Motioning in the tide dead birds and seals cry

From the crack and smoke of a hunters dream

Deer still running in the otherworld from parole

Grating sand against sheep bones and oyster shells

 

I stopped looking in the sea caves and tangled lost nets for my people

Among shallow surfaces I found smoke in their blood and stolen pearl

Animated dead of this world still rising in ice towers

While our emergence from this creation myth recedes

Collecting smoky tones of pumice in the gnarled wind

 

The ancient umber womb of memory is remembering few us

Moving forward in retreat the inaudible hum of our story

Gathers spirits who comb the earth for what has kept us apart

 

Who are they

So different and so like us

Mystery of our empathic relationship to them

Weaving us together in the visionary bright world

This our final authentic struggle to consecrate our lives

Salvage and bless the earth

 

Between here and their world is our estranged stranger to stranger

Neighbor paces everyday to fill the empty space inside and out

Wears the garb of a fallen people pretending victory

Strangers rending the earth’s mantle through their shadow

Turn in your unconscious iron words for the plant kingdom

Wrap their rust in the leaf hollow of the soul

Crowds of souls who have abandoned their lives

For the platitude of rote paradigms

Delusional hearts in the mirror without center

 

To see inside ourselves is to really see each other for the first time

Rekindling our ancient shapes from the tear salted sea

I hear the deer sound in fallen snow

Plumes in the black absence of swan

Crows on black wire rant of trees gone missing

Skeleton moons in the thousand branches

Breaking light through deaths door

 

When there is no one around

There is my extinct creature I talk to

With rainy wind for a voice

It says there are enough birds for every seed

It speaks in parables of emptiness and everything

 

It says there are few who see

The otherworld through the polarities

And suddenly there’s no distance

The moons memory of our skin in her membrane

The nature of nature is birthed

from the figureheads of prows

Showering celestial cosmology

Flowing through our blood platelets

Black holes and supernova beckon

Flickering through the light

Of heart thought

 

Sometimes the original language can’t be translated

But we all should know it and once did

Slowly softly I’m letting it all in

I’m trying to tell you about it now

Through layered scatterings of diffused light

Cloud shadow on cloud adding chaos to direction

 

I know the way I talk to you makes me merge with your hunger

Quickens your senses while you wait for your bread

With the gold ring hidden inside

Bring your healing words to the humus

To the animal shadows and shallow roots

We must cultivate the earth inside us

As bears turn to clay in the cloudless rain

Hedge animals wait to cross open space unseen

 

I am the watcher through the vintage window

With green eyes whiskers mood of winter fire

I witness the becoming in the churning sky

Feral wind through my eyes

I know we have to steep in this unknowing time to know

And push into the holy weight of our lives

With a sea of conjuring words

And ritual healing knife

 

To stitch and repeat the greater fabric making

Is to change us into fitter forms

Shell of shining abyss

Burning stone

Immortal rain

Deer Goddess bursting green from the inside out

Edges of me made of pine and wild grasses

Red deer of the flaming earth

With all horned branches

Let me crouch inside you

With my animal body

With my sleepless lunar eyes

And delicate words

To the other within you

 

This is how it was and is

Before the first story of time

To live close with paradox

Lighting the cold

Through the long glacial era

With holy clown suture and trickster antidote

For the growing things of the soul

 

Feeling the silent breeze of your awareness

Across the gulf of winter emptiness

I draw near with strangers and night birds

Hands of poetry painted on cave walls

Waving you on

Animal sounds

Drawing your thoughts inward

 

Love is known by the pollinators

Those who have signed the ancient contract

To the deep and elevated places

They know that everything is undone

For the making purpose

If you don’t sow inside this garden

The seeds inside you will rot

 

Sometimes we have to turn our life inside out

Find another way around

To the whole in the middle of things

And find things that make us a child

Of many worlds

They Join different parts of us

Flint firing our spirit alive

Soaring birds in the clear sky

Know and feel how this can feel

 

This conversation is bigger than you and I

It is the celestial memory of spells

Smelted in power circles of the ancestors

The underbelly of times mist veiling the easy route

Birthed from the lost and found maker

Says we never left so stay close

The altar of my being lies every where

In your small fingers reaching

For a new branch of life

Scrying the movement of the spheres

Beneath the shimmering lake of your eyes

 

Watch the butterfly change the color of the way I think

Rest you in here with your love

Listen to the old songs buried beneath the earth

Each word a rune scattered map

To return home through your true nature

These songs wait for your soul to sing

To the solitary pine and shadowed flower

For the elders piercing dream instruction

Tilt your ears to the lantern of wandering stars

 

Terra Firma Stella Mare

Raise your spirit fathers

To the sun dancers

Shadow eaters

Death healers

Complete your turn in the underworld

With your ancient soul names

Cloud nomad

Spirit horse rider

Bird whisperer

Wind grappler

The burning dead parts of you

Are the temporal worlds leavings

Emptying out seeking new form

 

Death is a flowering time

When I am dead my words will remain

Attached to tender branches

When you dip underneath and feel them

Their poetry will live inside your skin

If you know what this means

You are moving the dream along

You are already closer to home

 

Traveling  in the circadian rhythm of internal planets

In the crossroads of sword and ghost flower and poem

I walk through this fifth season towards you

Up ahead I see an illuminated stone

Another place in the shape of a hill

There’s a bright cave without a name

Sky shale tree roots in the clouds

Holy places abandoned and brought back alive

Through the bleeding dawn

This high and deep moment

In wordless language

We use to know

 

This Thing That Is Becoming Us

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There are broken things all around us

The earth shakes moving her arms around

All who did not love her

 

I had all I could take

In times roman numeral

Winding drone of clocks

Heavy ponderous handed

Black and white marks

Across the battery of my breath

 

You lied to me

Held me close and killed me slow

All the evening skies

That were once my own

 

I mask myself for the death inside

The old ghost of being

Each time I come across another truth

It pencils me in for a short time

Making life from the dead parts of me

 

A longing ghost I would bend the barb wire

Back to where it came from

Enough room to bend my way out

What keeps me in what keeps me out

All the things we have not mastered here

 

With our shaped voices neither here nor there

Driftwood bodies lost in the deep sea

Of memory and storm

Vermillion scrap heap of captains

Capsized in the blood

 

Some try to swim the umbilical

Back to the mother

Unravel the latitudes of mind

Blanched continents adrift

In tide pools of consciousness

Lapping waves pulse in the wrist

 

One word from her

Is a glacier of beauty

Passing through our membrane

A scent of summer croon

In a healing drone of bees

 

One word from her

Is a sonorous last cry

Lost language of our earth

A shadow across our breath

 

One word can furnish us a flower for  a swift life

Or a long oak belly down in the clay

Fertile wounds for the bones

Of all who did not weep

One word can change us into

A robin headed sapling in spring rain

 

Are we to become the words themselves

The prism of her singular thought

All things we ever forgot

The outside of the inner experience

The inside of the outer

 

There’s no going back

Until we finish

This thing that is becoming us

 

Pilots inside the deity

Riding the surge of plasmic thoughts

Moving the universe in complex laws

 

I see she wears crop circle tattoos

Beneath her robe of stars in every direction

Her voice fills the atmosphere

 

I am the mask you want to remove

And I am behind it

The shadow of your world

When you stop growing

 

The moments are in the making

In this foraging for the light

Beneath your feet and claws

Gathering starlight from the stone ribs of the earth

 

My medicine stories pass through the strata

In a river of indigenous tongues

With soul honed visions incubating an egg

In the ancestors gloam

 

They call us to be full orbs of the night

Climbing the Kiva ladder

In driving rain to blue sky manna

 

I’ve taken to holding the seeds

Of the evergreen forest in my thoughts

Hieroglyphs in my pen

For the uncharted sea of the divine

I slipped off this black jetty boulder

Swimming back through the amnesia

Reading the words in the diary of my soul

 

May we meet on the shores here

And know each other by all our eyes have seen

Blessed by the feathers of our speech

May we recognize this passage in time

To catch each other in the darkness

By our reaching light

 

In the middle of everything I hold your hand

Left behind in petroglyphs

Tattoos of the ancient soul of the land

 

Speak to us in ancient forest sounds

Spreading seed

Rain talking

A word in each drop

Spreading cloud light

Through the ground

The space of sound

The sound of space

Breaking surface silver fish

In the slow splintered sun

Shimmering dreams

In the home we left behind

A small scattering of prayer

Drumming on the mountain of stellar worlds

The Altaring Needs

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The Altaring Needs

An  altar is where we commune  with  the past, present and future – in the timeless now.

The altar acts as a lightning rod attracting the ancestors and the spirit world “all our relations” into a sacred space we have built with mindfulness.

It is a place for offerings, honoring, thanks and prayer.   We approach with respect to the mystery and its infinite dynamics.  A commitment to a spiritual life brings many initiations and winds of change that can be very challenging.  Ones spiritual journey deepens into the souls needs and ancestral lineage. It digs up buried depths of potential and unconscious worldly or ancestral patterns.  Our shadows are brought to light, for fight or flight, or healing integration.  Being spiritual means being in service this is a paradox for many, with much of the western mindset of quick gain, quick mastery and self promotion.

Objects  placed in and around the altar are related in some way to the earth, our ancestors and spirit world with its helpers..

The elements of wood, air/wind, water, fire, earth and metal with their many literal and symbolic forms – are great energetic ambassadors to host in ones sacred space.  The elements are used around the world  by indigenous peoples in their spiritual/healing work.  Plants and animals too are used  – literally as in bone, feather, fur, claw,  or in symbolic form.  The elements always interact with each other in nature, and they are the organic foundational basis of life.  All living energetic forms are in interdependent relationship to us in some degree or another.  We all come from the same source  We are related..

What is put into the alter with sincerity, integrity, consistency –  is what we get back in return.

The altars presence brings mindfulness of the bigger picture.

It is a place for ritual.  To clear ourselves, to meditate and journey.

It’s good that we are fully present  and sincere when we talk and pray out loud at the altar.  That we give our full visceral expression to the otherworld.  Spoken memorized prayer and in the moment dialogue are equally good.  It is enough some days just to give a quiet acknowledgement.

The altar is a bridge to the otherworld.  The more you infuse it with your energy, with prayer, offerings, ritual and mindfulness the more the otherworld crosses over.  One builds relationship this way.  Ones expectations can get in the way – quiet, authentic, integral practice comes with its own rewards.  It is inner-work and inner reward.  Confidence of belief is a vital bridge builder.  Build a true living altar, alive with ones giving energy,  and the spirit world will come and inhabit your space.  Relationship is everything and  it is the same in the spirit world, students of life, we  apprentice  and slowly gather  experience  that is meant to be turned into wisdom.   When the inner alchemy starts it’s reshaping  – so will the outer life reshape.  All realities are inside us as much as they are outside us.  Many get caught up in the phenomena that only inflates the spiritual ego and this is a trap.  In the end, the holy clown and coyote trickster will have its day.

What facets of life do we love most in the temporal secular as well as the spiritual?  These are the elements placed in the altar.  Ones passion is what one feels a deeper connection to.  That’s where we start, no matter how small it may seem, it is the thread to follow until bigger things arrive.  The natural world is our home and thus it implies we respect our own nest, it’s where we gather our sustenance so taking from nature daily demands responsible mindfulness.  The animate natural world is conscious ancient wisdom, our respect should be second nature.  Taking our nest for granted is foolish.  Nature is beauty, nature is teacher, nature is healer, nature is our mirror.  This again is all reflected in our altar.

Consider all life beneath our feet, all life in the atmosphere, and beyond teeming infinite.  The microcosm and macrocosm on an infinite quantum level.  This is the big picture we address, by doing so we can see our day to day life with a more clear perception.

The altar is where we interface with a consecrated space, on-going, changing, open to random impulse, emotional callings, quiet introspection.  Each piece on the alter is given energy by you, with your intentions, by your feelings of personal relationship with it.  With your designations and naming and placement.  It is a place of petition and praise.

The alter is your place of healing, grounding and centering.  Restoration from the dysfunctions of modern life.

One can implement sound, (rattles, bells, whistles) color, texture, smell of burning sage, sweetgrass, incense.  Create an appealing aesthetic to enrich the senses.  It is through senses we derive insight.  The altar is a larger medicine bag, it represents ones power relationship as well as ones earnest yearnings.  It’s a way to learn about our self and feel a deeper connection to life.  Daily attendance builds the energy of your altar and makes you stronger.  It benefits your ancestors and keeps your personal cosmology alive and dynamic.  One is fortified by interacting with the altar – it brings home purpose and meaning in a world without center.

Things change on your altar, objects are handled, assigned, talked to, removed, replaced, added too.  It’s both the micro and macro of your evolving inner world as it relates with the outer.

There is a story behind each piece on our altar.  Life is a story.  We learn best through our personal story and the story of others.  All the these stories whether embraced or discarded alter our life path.

Anything handmade by you that has personal depth association, or any gifts given to you with depth of personal meaning are potent artifacts for the altar.  Natural material is always best, including candles of beeswax.

One builds and develops over time  – one’s own personal cosmology.  The story of our mythological lives involves  paying close empathic attention to life’s subtle nuances.  This is how we gather spiritual insight and wisdom.  Returning to the altar is returning to an old friend, picking up where we last dropped off or starting something new.  At the altar we commune with our guides, allies, teachers, healers and protectors.  As with daily life what we put into relationships is what we get in return – seen or unseen, one develops vital bonds.

The altar is the axis mundi, it is the four sacred directions – our indigenous spiritual blueprint for addressing the divine.  The mystery has no static answer, truth changes, our linear time and space continuum is the causality of illusion.  Knowing this we respect the perennial unknown and are less likely to pontificate.   A spiritual ego creates subtle delusions sabotaging  authenticity.

The  word altar, how close it is to alter, with same amount of same letters, just  one vowel change  – the altar can indeed alter consciousness, acting as an amplifier to ones ritual practice.   It is a potent tool to have around, and its why many cultures have portable altars for healing, divination, offerings etc…  At the very least if an object has earned a place on our altar (but is small enough to wear or be carried by pocket or pouch) we can carry our “medicine” or power with us.  The physical presence acts as a constant reminder and is a good way to travel.

At night lying in bed, just before sleep,  we can address  our intentions and give thanks to our cosmology before entering dreamtime.  Often it’s the best way our guides can get through and convey….

The Feathered Serpent

Snakey snakey be true BEST

Feathered Serpent

 

I use to be attached to myself like everyone else

That’s the way of this worlds masked delusions

Insatiable hunger of skeletons living above our body

Far from the green bones of the mother

 

I am beholden to the spirits of the primordial deep

A bear of hidden soul mending urges

A stag reflecting on the beauty of long sounding desire

Coyotes quivering energy on the living room floor

Often I am the human story of combustion

Exhaust fumes of primal murmurings

Until we begin tracking the masked dawn

Learning how to burn and not be consumed

Be consumed but not burn

 

My incantations are somewhere in a book now

Or in a swaying pine

They sing to themselves when one listens

Riding the currents of the earth needs

The underworld time deposits and erratic platelets

I am a feathered serpent that hears the still waters

Of your glass continent shifting

Ink of your soul leaking out

Along a thin line of thought

Forest paper that has disappeared

Whittled down to threadbare reflection

Walking through the mirror of the thousand selves

The conditioned gravity of infinite thoughts

Wield and yield their shadows and potent dragons

From the brine of the wound

To the coast of meditation

 

Tributaries of amnesia always hitting the bluff

Forced to tumble around

Become more distant

Spreading seafloor

Until nothing

A snow shelled tree

An impassable swamp

To the other side of us

That knows the sacred contract

Of bridging realities

 

You cannot see the beginning or end of it all

It could be a period at the end of a sentence

Ask how will you close the book

Without giving over to the ghost

Of vanishing perception

Part of us slowly disintegrates

Every time we elude our mirror

The seismic stanza breaks

Worn to the spine of artifice

 

The wind breathes and the wind speaks to itself

The listening weathered leaf propels the period

Of the minute insect across this telluric poem

The story keeps moving without success

Without complaint without being seen

The deity’s breath

In the cave of your being

Dripping its primordial sap

Into the vein of the last season

 

I built a hut for the deep sanctum of silence

Shared nest building heals the divide between us

I live inside the eyes of a serpent winding

Along the earth’s long steady road

Teeming spirits in unfiltered senses

Animal tracks tracking the mountain dolmens voice

Leading to places we all should know

As bat I deliver flowers to a dead friend

Get up the hill I shout into the creaking dark pines

Their charcoal blues of perforated dreams

Flit from branch to branch tiers

Spirit clouds shape the moon shadows

I walk through their feeling dimensions

Ant carries it all on its back

I step reverent carefully

Over frost and broken sticks

Shedding my skin in a wave just right until death

 

Everywhere can feel like home

In the worlds hypnotic mist pools

Until divergent tropes move into memory

Tapping  nuances of the holy

The mind can get to talking all syllables at once

Wild courts of the underground  attend and heed

Voices from the crystal air keep gathering

 

My small hand by Quetzalcoatl’s vast eyes

Her feathers would like to be stroked

By my needs of beauty bonding

The way I feed my feathered serpent

Helps me beyond my personal design

Keeps me out of the zoo of individuals

With my own wings growing I can see

The avian eyes of rose colored moons

Moving through the myriad worlds

Each blink is a new life we’ve been waiting for

 

We use to have bird hands like yours

A dorsal surface for the most sensitive currents

We use to have subterranean tails for the vibrating terrain

Fins on our voices to navigate the divine terrestrial lair

Maybe we still have the craft

To change the worlds darkening tide

From the inside out

Exhales of everything I have done

With so little left over

And everything just begun