Harry James Fox
Mar 6, 2015 | 1st pages, Spiritual
Chapter 1
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The Lost World
Blessed be the LORD my strength, which teacheth my hands to war, and my fingers to fight … Psalm 144: 1a KJV
So David prevailed over the Philistine with a sling and with a stone, and smote the Philistine, and slew him; but there was no sword in the hand of David. 1 Samuel 17: 50 KJV
A grove of spears suddenly sprang from clumps of bare willows, keen-edged points flashing in the hard afternoon sun. The blackened shafts were held by a mob of grim-faced men, who sullenly reformed themselves into a long march file. They then resumed their plodding course upstream, following a time-worn trail next to the river.
Swift and cold the river ran, carrying the mountain’s frost in its deep, grey eddies. Down from the frozen canyon, through granite gorges it had come, foam-flecked and savage. Lower, then, through broader valleys it flowed, through stands of leafless aspen and cottonwood to the openness of grey brush and tawny grass. Oblivious to the humans, it shot on, rushing to its own separate destiny.
The sky was brilliant blue and the chill air crisp and clean. A black speck coasted before a gauzy wisp of cloud, then swerved lower, gliding over a juniper-covered knoll. The March wind gusted briefly over the scattered patches of snow, then died.
With a convulsive leap of fright, a young cottontail reacted to a rushing sound and a feel of danger. The redtail hawk, talons spread, flared out of his dive with a shrill cry just before the strike. A thud, a high-pitched shriek, and a quick struggle followed. Then silence returned. Satisfied, the bird lifted his proud head to scan the surrounding valley floor.
His gaze took in the ranks of nearby sage and the more distant saltgrass plain. The shattered seedheads of a nearby clump of wheatgrass nodded lazily. But another movement caught his eye; a dark smudge was moving next to the distant river. He clutched his prey, as his whole being tensed in quivering concentration. His pinions and hackles raised. A minute passed, then two. Then he abruptly relaxed, gazed for a moment at his near surroundings, then dropped his head and began to feed.
Greedily, he filled his crop with hot, sweet flesh and his body with energy. The movement drew further away, toward the blue and white peaks to the east. Metal rang distantly, but the bird disdainfully ignored it. He cared nothing for tax collectors or any other human affairs.
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Clunk! The stone slammed against a fungus-covered stump. Gray slivers flew in a spray, leaving a yellow streak of rotted wood. A slender figure knelt at the edge of a green clearing and selected another smooth stone from a small bed of gravel. A cheap canvas satchel lay flat on the grass next to a carelessly folded cloak. Around him the black pines stood in a circle like silent spectators.
Mahrouyeh Maghzi
Mar 2, 2015 | 1st pages, Featured, Spiritual
A Jungian writer notes:
“In a man’s psyche, the unconscious is experienced as chaotic, filled with violent and irrational processes of generation and destruction. But to a woman’s psyche the unconscious is a fascinating matrix of sacred images and ritual which in their wildly contradictory meanings express the secret unity of all life.”
The above quote was written on the invitation cards sent out to 50 people, inviting them to meet an unknown author who wanted their opinion to decide whether to publish her book The Magic Potion or not!
Introduction
This book is an vision, art and science which has been reduced to a readable form, it is a thought, a good thought, a thought that good thoughts aim at.
This book is a glimpse into the life story of millions of women who were abused by men and yet they tried other men and when they were betrayed by other men they found God in return.
This book is about a woman who pays her debts to humanity by raising her voice on behalf of women in front of 23 men; on behalf of the women who have been suffering for centuries, so that men can also feel woman's pain and suffering and pay their own debt to humanity in order to welcome Light for New Century.
This book is about the godly mothers and women who either nurtured God's manifestations on earth or they advocated their causes, but they suffered the most at the hands of those who were raised by ungodly mothers.
This book is the echo of the voice of the women of past centuries and today, the women who have no voice!
This book is about a woman who breathes her soul's perfume into a few men's souls.
This book is about a woman who gives birth to light in darkness.
This book is about a woman whose fascinating sacred ritual transformed a few men's thoughts about women.
This book is about a woman's secret journey to the sacred skies to find God.
This book is about a woman who cuts her selfish self rough and uneven edges in front of a few men.
This book is about murmuring certitude in a few men's minds and hearts.
This book is the book of the last and current centuries!
So blessed are those who hear the murmured utterance of certitude between two letters, “man-woman,” and they don't doubt!
Blessed are the those who are in love with Light, and Light rests upon their shoulders!
Stephanie Bridgeman & Silver Faeryhawk
Feb 16, 2015 | 1st pages, Spiritual
The Keeper of the Stories
When I was a wee child, I remember loving the times, right after dinner—especially those special twilight-times, right before bed. Those were the times my grandma would sit in her favorite chair and invite me to sit by her on the floor. My eyes would open wide with wonder, as my grandma told me the most magical stories that her grandmother told her—and her grandmother before that—and before that…
I may have been dreaming, while listening to her for what seemed like hours, as she spun tales of magic and faeries and such.
She’d whisper, “My dear child; I am ‘The Keeper of the Stories’ which have been passed down from the beginning of time. These are the most ancient and sacred stories ever told.”
She continued her story as I stared at her in amazement…
“It is my special duty to tell you this secret: ‘The Keeper’ has always been chosen by the grandma of the family on the mother’s side. Then that chosen one would be the one to choose the firstborn granddaughter. Dearest child, it has been done this way for centuries.” At first, I thought it was all a big joke… I felt that I wasn’t anything special since we were so poor.
I cried, “But, grandma, how can that be? I thought that only rich people get to be ‘the keepers’ of anything?!”
My grandmother smiled, and her eyes twinkled. I could swear I saw the faeries dancing in her eyes as she spoke…
“Dear one, the greatest riches are not to be found in the bank, but in the hearts and memories of our ancestors. It is your sacred duty to keep these stories alive. Hold them in your heart—then pass them on to all those who are ‘meant’ to hear.”
My grandmother’s stories were amazing—surrounding an era, when the world was alive with angels, faeries, and otherworldly beings.
So, I come to you now, sharing olden time recipes and fresh wishes—intertwined with ‘time-before-time’ tales. I was told these tales at the knee of my grandma, who was the greatest ‘Keeper of Stories'.
And, if you are reading these words here, then you have been ‘the chosen one’ to hear…
Welcome to the Enchanted Myst
Stumbling out of the cold darkness, led by the warmth of the light ahead… This is where the weary soul may be embraced by faeries, angels, and otherworld kin—maybe you’ll get lucky and see them. As the veils part, between the physical and spiritual worlds, that’s when the magic begins. Within the enchanted mysts, there are mysterious creatures afoot. They have pledged their lives: to serve and guide fellow travelers—those like you, who quest for knowledge.
Once you reach this otherworldly place, you will be renewed. Then you will be filled with radiant love from the magical starlight that fills this misty realm—whether you see mystical creatures or not. When you stay on the path, questing for the truth, only then will you will be wrapped in the enchanted mysts of all time…
Right now, is when your righteous journey begins as you walk through the myst, and into “The Valley of Enchantment.” Your true destiny awaits you, as you open the pages within this wee book…
M. Flanagan
Dec 18, 2014 | 1st pages, Spiritual
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Flames are all that can be seen. A fire, burning steadily.
But this is not some raging inferno. These are calm flames,
flickering gently, urgently… quietly but steadily consuming the wood.
The flames fascinate, draw the observer into their strange landscape: a transient world, real but changing moment by moment.
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The Xoi San man's eyes reflect the flickering fire-world, his thoughts deep in the fireglow, dreamily traversing the peaceful mindway between wakefulness and sleep. As he draws a deep contented breath his sleeping son stirs against his thigh. The fine Kalahari sand shapes itself to the child's body where he lies curled up against his father, who sits with one leg folded underneath him and the other stretched towards the fire. The young child's eyes with the long lashes remain shut, but the wooly head moves to find a comfortable spot, cushioned in the nook between his father's thigh and bare ribs. The child's face is slightly upturned, the soft features framed by the hairline.
The father smiles, lightly and lovingly touches the tight little coils of hair on his sleeping son's head.
The boy's mother, seated nearby, shifts closer, bends down and kisses their son's face as he sleeps. Something is arched protectively over the family, possibly a part of their shelter, tinged the color of the flickering fire.
The scene recedes into the distance, becomes a glowing dot in a dark African continent… on a world slowly turning out of darkness, a glow of new light only just becoming discernible along its curved edge. The world's southern seas glisten and flow by in the part-light till the continental mass of Australia can be made out. Closer now, through the vast desert landscapes… closer still. An Aboriginal couple are silhouetted against a sky freshly tinged with first light. Dark eyes, usually suspicious of strangers, are now soft with affection as they wonderingly take in the details of each other's faces, the shapely contours, the soft cascade and curly wisps of fine black hair. Here, too, there is some sort of protectively arched vegetation… soft-looking.
Again the scene recedes into the distance and the world tilts, northeastern shores coming into view. An Asian family is just sitting down to breakfast in a modern high-tech home. Again there is the arched form of some kind of material just hinted at by the rays of the early sun slanting in through the window. Some kind of soft textured fabric perhaps?
“Who are you? Where are you?
“Of what persuasion? Political, faith, culture…
“What if…? What if you are known and loved? Known in every aspect of your being and experience… and loved.”
Susan Golden
Dec 18, 2014 | 1st pages, Literary, Spiritual
This collection of poems is written to inspire thought.
They are intended to raise awareness, and focus on issues that must change in order to achieve a free and enlightened world.
They are simple, easy to read poems, that buck against intense subjects, such as religious and cultural fundamentalism, hypocrisy, abusive relationships, and terrorism.
Some represent those thoughts of insecurity that we all experience, or the persecution, by others.
My hope is that through my verses, I can encourage women to find their voice, and eventually, their equal place in the world, as well as promoting positive change.
Despite emphasis on cultural awareness and sensitivity in the Western professional world, women are still under-empowered, and under-valued. In many cultures they are oppressed, and abuse is rife.
This is the first in a series of “Verses for a voice”
They are muses, portrayed with child-like or cartoon illustrations, to offer archetypal appeal, and a poignant visual perspective. The intention is to attract those who would not normally read poetry.
In addition, I have added audio files to offer the option of listening to my own rendition.
I invite both men and women to read my verses. See below for a sample.
The realization that your nation doesn't represent you as one voice
The provocation that your imagination is deception not your choice
Can't think of an explanation except deceit of a nation
Seems like pseudo- treason to apply reason
911 destruction inspires new construction
oppose nemesis with brave genesis
When the moon of compassion
rises up female fashion
and woman stands to be counted
among st the ashes of wisdom
then the Statue of Liberty
will have a new identity
So rise women of all corners
bring reassurance to our mourners
We give birth to something greater
than our War Lords and their Maters
Revolution
Evolution
Constitution
It is coming
It is coming
The Moon of Compassion is available on iTunes here or listen on Soundcloud.
Stefan Emunds
Dec 9, 2014 | 1st pages, Literary, Spiritual
My name is George Mykal Ferluci and I’m forty-five years old. I grew up as an orphan. I neither know where I’m from, nor who my parents are. At the tender age of six months, I was discovered one rainy night on the doorstep of an orphanage in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.
All I had was a brass necklace hanging from my neck. Fixed to it was a white pebble with my name carved into it. I think Ferluci is Italian – at least it sounds like it. I have found other people with that name, but theirs are usually spelled Ferlucci – double c. My middle name, Mykal, is definitely not Italian. Somebody once remarked that it sounds Eastern European, but I couldn’t find further clues.
I have started this diary because something strange happened to me yesterday. It wasn’t really an incident; rather, I have seen something alien and scary that has forced me to re-evaluate my entire life.
It happened yesterday afternoon as I was sitting on my porch facing the front lawn. My porch serves as a bit of a refuge. My mind is sensitive and needs to relax regularly from the noises of everyday activities. After completing my morning duties, I usually have a peaceful moment or two there. I own a beautiful bench – simple, of thick fir wood, smoothened over the years by my holy butt. Somehow, the bench and I have grown together; it reminds me of a loyal pet, welcoming me happily when I sit down.
It was late afternoon and sunny. Although the sun was already descending, its glow could still warm my bones and brighten my nerves. The afternoon air was clear and colors brilliant. My eyes took comfort in the green grass, marveled at opulent white clouds crawling through the sky, nodded at the motley tints of cars parked along the alley, to finally settle on the street’s smooth grey that presented an impartial background for shadows displaying their fanciful shapes. Some elderly people were enjoying a stroll, smiles here and there, happy words bouncing from neighbor to neighbor, and children’s laughter delighting the scene – it was a beautiful day.
I felt on top of the world – on my little porch – enjoying the splendid panorama, contentedly recapitulating my life, and wondering what was still to come. I love my life: it has been simple, safe, and orderly. But my vocation satisfied me the most. My profession has been meaningful and every extra effort visible and appreciated.
My future seemed equally promising – like a smooth path winding down gently into a green valley. I didn’t worry about what is to come; maybe I would have to adjust my direction once in a while, jump a few more hurdles, dodge an attack or two, and that would be it. Life begins at forty and I was right in the middle of it – that’s how I thought, but – oh my God – how wrong was I.
I almost felt happy that afternoon, which is difficult for a man like me. My basic temperament is melancholic, and I tend to take things too seriously. On top of that I have to deal with human issues on a daily basis – the dark side of mankind, as I like to call it: compulsions, paranoia, addictions, psychoses, abuses and even crimes. You cannot imagine what people have confessed to me over the years. In the early days, my work kept me up at night, but I have learned to keep a distance from people, their flaws, and challenges. However, I still struggle to de-stress from the dreary side of my work, and that’s where my porch comes in.
As relaxing as my porch is, I never manage to unwind completely. My mind is always on the jump. People look at me and say that I think too much, and I have to agree – thinking is my second nature. I contemplate about everything – even about the French fries I eat. If I make an effort I can let go for half an hour or so, but then my mind inevitably returns to its reminiscences. Sometimes it feels like an addiction.
Yesterday, my mind was mulling over a good dozen things at the same time, upsetting my afternoon recreation. At one point it got so bad that – for the first time in my life – I got tired of it.
