Western astrologer Pam Gregory
Poetry and environmental advocacy
Resources for free/donation-based stock photos
Dance practice videos (old school and new)
More coming soon.
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
I pass lacquered desks
the color of high gloss butterscotch
and mirrors 12-feet in height
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
She pulls a lamp of celadon glass
next to a Moroccan table
and pillows of each shade of green
from sea foam
She seems to know how one can live without water
to make that work
How high does that table need to be?
whipping out her tape measure
Later she finds an elegant table
in the shape of a hanging trumpet flower
with cutouts as delicate
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
UPON LISTENING TO RESPIGHI'S PINES OF ROME
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
never again to be small
DIFFERENT KINDS OF OCEANS
an ocean of tears
lies in me
and sometimes new waves
today the language
or the wounded
“don’t be a victim”
they forbid the emotions
born from violence
violence creates 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
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
Unlearning false actions
no other shall determine my worth
no judgement there
for when it comes to my beauties
there is no adequate
to tolerate my intricacies
hands not soft 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
do not tamper with magical marks
once placed intentionally
for they will each serve their purpose
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
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.