Echo Muses

Motherly Heliotrope

The colors of autumn
Where are they now?
Desaturated and lost in the waves of sight

Pass the forest and come to the purple door,
Three knocks to come forth,
To the stoney garden of the lady with jars

Lost in pensive thoughts, spilled out in tender rains, into the caldron of the cosmos
Cast a bond towards jove…. impart the love of a mother

As purple sage burns the diminishment of pain, and what remains,
Purple ash is scattered from the hands of a mother
Saturating the earth, to spring forth a cathedral of amethyst trees

Halloween spell for : Gina@Singledust

Imagine: pininterest

Standard
Art Illustration + Poems

Lou Land

Rainwater
ambrosial liquid
soaking the perlite soil—
filling the ancient underworlds veins
of fire, with celadon still life beads

Slick cellophane in Lou’s waters
spanish moss shelters,
shamanic whispers,
weaving a wheel to rise the flames
to rejuvenate the scarlet scarred hearts and sundial those eyes,
that once streaked and
swiveled the stars;
in a half destroyed ocean yard

Art and Poem: NaRa

Standard
Earthly voids & Spiritual quest, Mental Health

Derailed…Is there time to heal?

82 lives, she told me.
I was told to go to therapy.
I sought a mystic instead.
Centuries of soul shape shifting,
I want to get off of this roller coaster,
With the rails rackety wack ruckus.
The thrills are gone.
A mother to too many,
now I’m empty as a paper shell.
When I finish unwinding my body,
I forget about myself and
heal for them
heal for them
Not for me
For them
For them
Survival now, I rather take to the streets.
I have many atoms of animal instincts.
How many veils and unveils before I disappear?
All thoses homes splattered on the ground, scraping at my souls.
Karin is right,
we are hungry before we are born.
Human gossamer threads of thoughts,
access forgotten to the obtainable unknown.
Well, I can no longer wait.

Standard
Into the Skin of Europa (series)

Spirit Lantern (Into the Skin of Europa) part 4.

Nadiah awakens by the cool breeze shuddering her skin back into the core of her body. She wonders how long she has been in this summer meadow. As her eyes touch a near by oak, she realizes the season has changed. The tree’s canopy of golden burnt-orange leaves dancing in the new autumn wind.
Everything for the moment seemed silent. Just a faint rustling of the leaves. Even the buzz of the bees she could no longer hear.

As she begins to rise out of the dying grass. Nadiah’s anahata fills with a painful heaviness that pulls her body back down to the ground. Her body is quaking as her chest and throat are closing like a vault.
As her mind tries to reason with her body, it evens slides off balance into suffocating fear.

She starts to let go.
She’s dying.
She knows it.
The lack of oxygen leaves her giddy.
And she believes the warm sensation in her head are her brain’s transmitters shooting and bursting like fireworks; to then sizzle out into cellular ashes. But the warm sensation did not stop in her mind.
It slid down her throat and chest like honey. Then down through her arms to her naval and stretched to her legs. Once it reached her toes, her whole body opened up like a golden champa flower for the sun.
She now not only could breathe fully. She could hear fully.
Her ears absorbed with what sounded like thousands of rapid speaking tongues, until the voices broke into a singular voice like a diving echo.

In confusion she questioned its’ source, “Is it in her?” The voice begins to turn into a hum, then a vivid male’s voice breaks into a lyrical tone,
“Oh Nadiah
Oh Nadiah
Your quivering heart no more
You’re jewel droplets
To this sacred ground
Aqua is your tranquil mind
Oh Nadiah
Oh Nadiah
Your arrival is harmonized
In the highest love of the awe.”

And then there he was appearing like an image on the emulsion of reality.
His dark eyes were deep seats of joy. His face a sculpted masterpiece of cherished time.
And a gentle smile that perished any doubts in her mind.

Without an utterance she knew she was going somewhere with him.
But where she did not know.
She was not afraid as she took his extended hand into her own, hand of crimson.
And like a pure drop in the ripples of sound, he spoke,
” Hello Nadiah.
I am Beara.
I’ll be your guide.”

And as if the earth escaped from the sun, everything grew dark. Except Beara, who glowed like a lantern in the unknown ebony.
And from this magical lantern, a whisper,
“This is trust.”

Poem: Naomi Ruth/ Art: altered by Naomi Ruth & Violet Aveline (peer and loving friend)

 

img_4883

Standard
Kryptonite

Beseech

image

You’re the tiger eye to my wobbly mind.
A phenomena.
To teach me what I mouth on a pixelated spread.
And not just be another chalkboard poet.
You were the core to my apple.
The yin in my yang.

Before you all I knew was to forget, to stop asking, to stop tearing, and to bobble like drift-wood.
Abandoned symbolic punishment.
Trapped an alien connection, of what we said in the dark.
We found a common need.
When daylight came streaming in, duality, apparently.

You came to my rescue and built within me a honest temple.
Infused everything.
So where did all the magic go?
Must’ve palmed my ego too tightly.
And I was too eager to rise.
For the feast is tossed over cliff’s edge.

And my heart, like bruised blueberries scattered on the floor.
Somehow I’m back digging in the ruins. As the seeker surrounded, in bleeding hearts.

image

Standard
Into the Skin of Europa (series)

A Summer’s Hum

Nadiah’s Meadow – Europa Series Part 3. 

As one might bear away,
so far beyond reality
where she waits,
till dawn
with eyes wide awake listening for summer chimes, across
green meadows shimmering,
wildflowers blooming prosperity
from london’s music that fosters heartbeats, to erase aches, in her delicate crimson skin of sorrow.

Standard
Ceramics + Writing, Earthly voids & Spiritual quest

The Releasing and Rescripting Station to Sink a Stone

 

Smokey Quartz and Sodalities,
nestles around the eyes of my heart.
They set up base in this vertigo vessel.
Building an inner peace,
for the quakes of my solar plexus.
Ventilate, the darkest clinging fragments — lies of soot
and take root to truths.

My immersion, in calming undulations
of crystal ship and parting blues.
Pouring out, my black blocks of code.
Creating a new composition,
on a petrichor cellular wall of streams…I’m alive, I’m alive,
I’m alive…

Standard
Mine Na 11.

The Oleander Cocoon

I enter in this arch of light above my heart.
Take me back, to that gentle place.
Where I tread upon before age.

I hear a faint crowd in the back,
“Nurse, the scalpel to drag across the chest.”

I’m walking through a bush garden.
Oleanders to my right side.
Oleanders to my left side.
Only their sweet scent can drown the surface pain.
They conceal and protect.
What is left of my folds of consciousness.

In the inwards of the garden,
I rest on the alabaster ground; to bask my pallor body in the crystal light.

The spirits here are tender.
They delicately burrow love atoms in me.
While the living take me apart and rearrange me.

They lay me in cool chambers to relieve the surface heat, like a sunburn stinging inside of me.
I’m wrapped in satin flower petals.

Cocooned here, until I emerge
glistening…glistening
with child eyes.

Poem: Naomi Ruth

Image blended with Newsha Ghasemi Art

Standard
Imprints: The Wild Edge of Sorrow

Imprints from the book: The Wild Edge of Sorrow by Francis Weller

It was through the dark waters of grief that I came to touch my unlived life…There is some strange intimacy between grief and aliveness, some sacred exchange between what seems unbearable and what is most exquisitely alive. Through this, I have come to have a lasting faith in grief.

Our healing is in “every small contracting and expanding.”

A great read. For me, writing poetry is a way to exhale my sorrows. The grief still lingers but I’m not holding my breath with it. Yes, perhaps I’m addicted to this type of sadness, but I know what gifts it brings. I welcome it, for in all my days of sorrow, my heart has learn to surrender and I’ve found sweet serenity in doing this.

Standard