A Starling’s Song

Quote/Poetry

“We will, indeed, have quite different visions and versions of God, All That Is, Ultimate Reality or whatever other term we may use to describe our unknown source, as we each interpret reality through our unique experiences and abilities. Such diversity should be taken for granted. But we should allow no one such vision to be accepted as absolute, or as carrying the indelible stamp of Divine approval.”

– Jane Roberts, The God of Jane: A Psychic Manifesto

These Broken Wings

Dream journal/memoir: 5 minute read

Take these broken wings and learn to fly.
– Paul McCartney/John Lennon

2/1/11 — The Raven and the Roots of Ygdrassil

The invaders do not look like us. They are tall and deathly pale. Their hair, worn long and often braided, is a nearly gray ash-blonde. They have facial hair, uncommon among our own men. The clothing they wear is equally strange. In leather pants and Norwegian sweaters they are plotting genocide.

In Praise of Black Dogs

Dream journal: five minute read

In my part of the world, the obscure cultural history of the black dog parallels that of the widely popularized black cat – revisionist (and arguably racist) folklore at its finest. This post will challenge those tales. I offer it with a deep nod of respect to Robert Moss, from whom I stole the title.

At no point did my conscious mind retain the memory of one Blackdog dream by the time I’d have another. Each dream was its own mystery until years later when I began re-reading, compiling, and connecting my dream journal entries. It seems Blackdog was a constant companion whether I remembered him or not. This is our story.

My Father Hated Hospitals

Poetry/Essay Reblog

Poetry of James William Paynter (1943 – 2018)

For Blaze of Obscurity, may the labyrinth yet yield to the gardens.

CA.

11.

In a hospital at night

late,

when visitors are gone

and only patients are left,

patients and staff,

Towhee’s Last Words

Dream journal: three minute read

“I am bludgeoning my innocent, helpless heart. . . .” — Frank Solanki

My previous post featured Frank Solanki’s poem, “How it Feels to Have a Job.” Where Frank’s poem ends, this nightmare begins.

Content warning: violence against metaphorical animals.

2/11/23

I obey his cruel dictates. I don’t know why.

The Soul’s Call

Micro essay/Poetry reblog

Our soul, our inner being or truest authentic self, calls to us continuously, always guiding us along on our path toward our greatest fulfillment and purpose. Whether we hear that call is up to us. When we do, the strength of the signal can unnerve us as who we really are clashes with the shape our life has taken. The result often feels to us like anguish. We may feel trapped. We struggle and strain, tangled in the sticky filaments of dysfunctional narrative spun by a wounded society.

Recurring Dreams

Poetry

I cannot say whether the person writing this

is asleep in the world or awake in the dream.

– Robert Moss

i.

Recurring Nightmare

He’s crazy. A megalomaniac. Thinks he’s God.

Every day he’s in the news, still waging war

Flowers for Bulgakov

Poetry: 2002 #9

There is no greater vice than cowardice

– Mikhail Bulgakov

You made Christ mortal,

the Devil a hero and a savior.

Providence

Poetry: 2002 #8

What Providence

to place that lush and laden tree

so central in the garden

and then forbid the eating.

Bread and Roses

Poetry

But yield who will to their separation,

My object in living is to unite

— Robert Frost (from Two Tramps in Mud Time)

i.

We call it worth.

The gold standard,

the value of things

monetized.