Transcendental Meditation

Jyotish astrologer

David Hawthorne

Western astrology

Western astrologer Pam Gregory


Kira Rosner

Poetry and environmental advocacy

Scott Starbuck

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Three Poets Read Poems

Creating Light on Cape May
                              for Kumu A'o   with gratitud
So the days have knitted themselves together

like a fishnet hand knotted
and cast out in in private lagoon
Days were snagged
and held together as if one
That’s what happens if
you don’t sleep for days
You bubble up like the old buoys of sea glass
lassoed together by a roped cord
It’s been a blur of rental units
lists of moving companies
sofas in
consignment shops
I pass lacquered desks
the color of high gloss butterscotch
and mirrors 12-feet in height
next to
1920's vanities
Vanity is what you lose
when you’re looking for a place
Where do mermaids go
when they are stranded on land?
A friend of mine seems
to know
She pulls a lamp of celadon glass
next to a Moroccan table
and pillows of each shade of green
from sea foam
to teal
with suggestions
of silver
She seems to know how one can live without water
on land
what’s needed
to make that work
How high does that table need to be?
she asks
whipping out her tape measure
Later she finds an elegant table
in the shape of a hanging trumpet flower
with cutouts as delicate
and  porous
as honeycombs
She places it at the head of the bed
near the window
so when you sleep
an orchid grows above you
as if a stairway
to the gods and heaven
All this feeds blood back into my veins
as I return to blue
My head lifts higher as I walk
away from the desert
and dry heat
back into the ocean
It’s a way
she’s built stone by stone
a way for someone from the sea
to live in air
to live this way on land
As she drives away
I see a corner of her own
blue colored sleeve
and behind her
the air moves
like white water
entwined with aquamarine
as she recedes back into her own ocean
ripples trailing behind in her wake

ome sounds are holy

moving us like the golden section

of a shell

we are captured

yet free at the same time


how do these young musicians stay tethered to the ground

when they are playing so?


having transcended the discipline of study

into the ecstatic embodiment of sound


layer upon layer builds

a stratum of tempo and notes

risking such vulnerability

for at any moment their technique could fail

but they remain fixed on moving this great armada of music

onward through the souls of themselves

and all those present


aren't we all changed after this?

choosing to live another life

now charged with Being

to be grander, sweeter, fuller,

more cognizant of the intricate pieces

that hold together the world

as if by listening

we have drunk from the transcendent

and in an alchemy

changed forever

never again to be small




an ocean of tears

lies in me

and sometimes new waves



today the language

admonishes women

or the wounded

“don’t be a victim”


they forbid the emotions

born from violence


violence creates waves and

waves and waves

and waves

that never reach a shore


at least for me


so I submerge


I close my eyes and drift

like the young girl

in Whale Rider

or the corseted woman

in The Piano


the protagonist embraces

the mother ocean who

accepts her just as she is

who listens to her will

even if it has atrophied

from neglect or misuse and

because someone listens, choice remains

so we may unwind the rope on our ankle

we may cease to embrace the descending


and we may allow ourselves the rise

to the surface

but only as slowly

as we can bear



Paris Jessie

Disc Flowers

Have I been searching?

Tilting only others on divine petal

while wilting, plucking at my own body


A whorl of pistils

separation has intervened

I am feuding for fusion

hoping hope is received peacefully

at my stigmas

my fingertips

Unlearning false actions

no other shall determine my worth

or not

no judgement there

for when it comes to my beauties

there is no adequate


to tolerate my intricacies

hands not soft enough

wide enough

to catch even droplet of my galaxy

pressed between my lips


in the crevices of my mouth

rise as blades of grass

calling home to sun

Divinely orchestrated

do not tamper with magical marks

once placed intentionally

for they will each serve their purpose

soon enough

do not piece through what is not broken

open clouded parts of you

as flower and a bee

searching to rendezvous

for this is where light

pours in and lives

let me peel back and arch

like outer crescent moon

connected to Orion’s belt

visible, for all the world

the celestial equator feeds me

the night sky

I have never been ready for this

I am still waiting

to be ready for this

all of this that is me, these bits,

still scattered in night sky

waiting for me to feed

I stumble


my words are oblique and dressed in this cape

and they are triggered, like stars

for I am somewhere, somewhere in there


in their corners.


Erika V. Brown

Make the Cut

The rejection email came into my inbox without making any more noise than the rest of the mail.

It read sweetly, and not at all mean.

My poem had not made the final cut in the literary magazine.

Though I was still invited to make a donation and click on a link and read the poems published.

Wow, I was touched and moved reading their beautiful artistry.

Each, a weave of ladybugs, wings, life, pandemic, loss, and morning dew.

As I read them out loud something jumped out from the page and crept deep inside me!

It wasn’t sorrow or sadness because my angel poem didn’t make the cut.

It was something heavier! And only in retrospect, I can pinpoint its av·oir·du·pois!

It was the ton·nage and heaviness of the life story in the author’s bio.

It was the aggregate of anguish in the author’s voices.

This was a compilation of collective sadness.

A huge pile -hay high -of boiling and steaming anguish.

I felt it all creeping and filling in my porous bones.

It made me forget all the angel fluff and wings floating in my poem.

These poems spelled out insurmountable losses,

all written in 12 font despair Calibri Light.

Indenting angst- not just in the page, but punching a crater into my gut!

I am no angel you see, so it was too much for me.

Their sorrow so strong like big muscles holding me down

I had to shake off their angst

and so off onto the cold on a walk, I went.

I hunkered down into my coat with misery linning us both.

I walked in a labyrinth of pain

all this made me wonder about the editor too?

Was he /she/they --suffering thus?

Or was he /she/they --an angel

that could house so much loss and still breathe right?

I heard myself asking the universe out loud,

“Help me!! I need to parachute away from this burning field I seem to be above.”

Suffering has not diminished or even changed with age and time!

But my ability to hold on to so much of it seems to have weaned -over time.

Hmmm-I wonder if angel’s wings could bring back my fortitude and be more fireproof?

Are angel wings made to sustain pain that burns through?

The pothole on the street reminded me that sidestepping pain is a thing!

After a long walk and breathing in and out the night

I reached my front stoop- and finally felt ok

to say goodnight to all this sorrow that held me, but was not mine.

I told myself that the only sorrow I needed to carry inside was the sorrow I caused, today!

But, for once, and on this day, I happily said out loud,

“I have been an angel- as I have not hurt anything-not even a fly!

And better yet, I have not caused anyone any harm!

So I looked up to see Asteria in the sky and I yelled out into the night, “do I make the angel cut now? …

“Don’t I deserve angel wings now?” But as I yelled I thought about this a bit more and so I said softer,

“Wait” “Maybe I can get angel wings tomorrow, scratch this plan for tonight!

“Tomorrow, I will be ready to shoulder pain again. I am just done.