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  A staccato sense of wonder
  Beating within my breast
  Like a drum
  As though I had glanced down
  From the High Mountain during a Vision Quest
  And far below, a straining hum:
  A medieval market village
  With dancing dogs and boys with sticks:
  In the town center, a fountain,
  Where one lone juggler
  Plies a tattered bag of tricks
  Outside the courtyard wall.
  Deep within the castle,
  Gliding along a lantern lit hall,
  The High Priestess passes
  A corporeal vassal,
  The Queen of Swords and all pentacle pages,
  Wise men, blind men, hanged men,
   beggars, sages.




                    SILVER CLAD

  I awoke, remembering a dream

  Where seeming became seen

  And meaning ceased,

  A hazy, amber-lighted fantasy street

  Of exotic shop wint=dows with

  Gifts from the Far East

  And jasmine scent and figurines of old.

  At the street's bend, I did behold

   A silver-clad magician

   Who led me through a gate of gold.  


Magi Crowley


Lilith, I Don't Cut My Grass 

by Enid Dame

Lilith, comes out of ancient Sumerian mythology as a female mythological figure representing at first a Sumerian goddess of the wind, -then, the essence of the erotic female in the secret rites of sexual mysticism, the beautiful first female Eve, a winged demon seductress. A complex and long lasting icon from Mesopotamia to the Hebrew mysticism of the Qabbala


Raphael Patai
The Hebrew Goddess

Lilith, I don't cut my grass
as you never cut your hair.
I picture you in my backyard
where it's always cool and ferny,
where jewelweeds grow taller than trees,
where wild berries tangle
like knots in cats' fur.

I see you sorting out the birds from the cats:
two of your favorite animals.
Contradictions never scared you.

Lilith, you smell like the earth
and marigolds and mulchy leaves.
Your arms are mud-bespattered.
You don't look like my mother.

I couldn't ask my mother
for a blessing.
She was too much afraid
of her own craziness.
She only spoke to cats.

Every few months
She went to an expert
to burn all the wilderness
out of her hair.
Once she tried to take me with her.
I scratched and fought,
yowled, ran up an elm tree.
It took years to climb down.

Lilith, I'm almost 50.I'm running of time, money, eyesight.
I still bleed but for how long?
Not like this yard where everything is liquid:
Where roses sag and break their waters,
tomatoes offer up their juices,
slugs die dreamily in beerbowls, you dip your toes in green mud.

Lilith, neighbors are complaining.They're collecting money
to buy me a power mover.
How can I tell them
I'm terrified of power?
There's too much let loose in the world.
It's one gift I don't need.

Lilith, it's growing later.
I knew you won't hang on forever.
they say Messiah's coming any day now.
I hear his footsteps ringing in the hallway.
The clean clang of authority.
I see his shadow looming big as a condominium
sucking up the sun.
No stopping that man!
He's carrying a squirtgun filled with chemicals.
No room for weeds in his world.

Lilith, bless this garden
while both of us
still use it.
            Poetry and Haiku from Katie

   Slowly coming up
   Walking in the dew softly
   Keeping the silence


   Slowly going down
   Walking the darkness hugging
   Grasping your bony arms


                 Anorexic Angel

 I can try to be inspirational to your dying
  Body, that trembles with lack of hope
   (You starved yourself of hope)
   I can tell you how beautiful you look,
   And youíre too lost to know that Iím not lying
   Only your shadow is left to embrace me,
   Although they said it was too painful for you
   They donít realize youíre not even there,
   And I can hear you laughing from far away,
   (If that is even your ability to have fun)
   I can try to coax you back, with lies, 
   The truth, of how your body
   Needs, because it isnít, perfection yet,
   Not yet, 
   I can promise you that youíll make it
   An image of your soul,
   If youíre willing to believe me, but
   Are you beyond willing?
   And if I could scorn your petty advances at perfection
   (Assuming I still have the heart to break yours)
   Would you have enough hope to drain the rest away,
   And still make it out alive, before you die
   (I could slip you between the cracks)
     I can try to make sure you donít live,
   If you promise to come back
   For one instant, and arch up into my body,
   Could you not be fragile, 
   So I can show you the strength of my love?
   (I was never the one who asked you too much)
   And I am not selfish, (yes I am) for wanting you to go back
   To the time that forced you into your present condition,
   Because for a few days you were beautiful,
   And right before you slipped away
   I loved you,
   My anorexic angel
   But the lack of hope wonít grant you wings)


The Loss of a Friend

    (for Margaret Mudge)

 I tap on your door pane,
   Can sense
   That something
   Has gone horribly wrong.
   No bounding stride, 
   No fussing with a barking dog.
   Silently a serious faced daughter
   Gestures toward the bedroom.
   The incongruity of the great white head
   Nested in a pillow at mid morning
   Alarms me at once
   That this might be a deathbed.
   Your body stretches awkwardly
   Beneath the floral shroud bedspread
   Clutched at your chin, 
   By determined knuckles.
   Your still-strong voice
   Is told the lie by the pill bottles
   Huddled on your nightstand
   Like a defeated army.
   When a tense voice on my answering machine
   Merely requests a return call,
   I know that all
   Is spent.
   Now, I rest against a closed door
   Of memories shared.
   I shiver on this February day
   With its useless sun and
   Grit gray mounds of snow.
   Numb-locked, I stared
   And dreamed of dreams of deeds you dared.

  The peace and serenity of the woodland, 
  Especially in the fall
  Is an experience in life that the mind and soul
  Are compelled to recall.
  The echo of a wolf howling far,
  Far away somewhere along a river
  Touches the sense of your soul
  And causes you to be still and consider

  The silence of peace and nature in harmonic embrace,
  The majestic stillness of trees,
  Wistful movement of air, a dignified place,
  Makes the inner self give up pressure and stress 
  That life can impose
  Makes the heart and soul unite in peaceful compose.

  The bridge between life and death
  Is a mystery solved by no mortal man,
  Yet our senses know the presence of other souls
  We do not understand
  The link between this life's time and space
  And some other is not for us to know,
  But a heart, mind, and soul at peace
  Will prepare us for where we must

  The uncertainity, the solitude, 
  Moving forward to the end ,
  The quiet feeling of despair,
  We cannot hope to grasp, but we know we will be there.
  So like the solemn oaks in the timberland, 
  Like the gentle brooks in our mind,
  Be strong, be good and be kind. 

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