Wednesday, January 14, 2009


A man my mother saw for many years (I hesitate
To say his name because they broke up, and it was nasty)
Did a lovely thing for us girls (my mother and I); every summer, we went camping
To a sacred mountoun, where as he said later turned out to be true,
Spirits of every sort (think a white robed ghost, the most common kind)
Flew through the trees at night and sang as the wind sang in the tall Pines
A sweet song if you knew how to hear it, nothing to get scarred over, just some friendly
Sprit songs, the “OOOoooOooeeeeEEEeeeeOOOoooOO” like you hear the ghosts sing
In movies and on T.V. Only more beautiful, you’d have to hear it to believe me.

He did another thing also, that I have never forgotten, me a little girl without a father
I still cherish it as the fondest memory, it was a ritual of our little short lived family
Of the time.
He’d make us soup. I don’t mean Cambell’s. I mean real soup, made with as many raw ingredients
As you could imagine in a soup, and then some: chicken (broiled till it melted on your tounge),
Potato’s (so soft, juicey, sweet, in there own way), carrots, sellery, all in broth so spiced and flavored
You’d think you were dining off a King’s bowl, there’s really no other way of describing it, he cooked his soup, in a Big Pot. No one ever, to this day, has made a better soup that I’ve tasted, and I have long loved
Food, so trust me when I say that this soup was truly devine.

After two nights of hearing the ghost’s sing there song in the Pines, of climing down to the
Strawberry Pond, chasing swallows and butterflys (it was the joy of the hunt, I know realise, because who in there right mind would want to take a butterfly out of flight?) we retired to the table on the camp ground site
It was getting cold, he lit a fire for us to be warm, started to cook the soup we so came to love, over
A little green camp stove, I remember the smell of the karosine so rich and sharp.
The camp ground was empty, strangely enough, although it was a place of cingular beauty,
Almost no other camp sites had visitors, or so we thought, as the sky began to darken and the moon
Hung and began its slow climb into the night, a man appeared from somewhere off below our campsite,
He was alone and Mom’s Bf, always the kind and generous man, invite him over, he sat down and was quite
But a pleasant company, he sipped the soup with enjoyment on his face, and hummed a pleasant song using his tounge and teeth as ryhthm instruments
I remember a funny face he made to me, his motive seemed genuine, like an angel from another realm
But he took the form of a man, at least for the moment
My mom’s bf (again, if I say his name he’ll get mad, lol, he still likes my mom), asked if he was religious,
He said yes we read the Bible, it was a moment of closeness with the Earth, with each other and this mysterious stranger, we never caught his name or where he from,
He rose after dinner and thanked us,and ambled on down the path, the explorer rose up in me I waited
A few minutes, “Can I go to the restrooms” they answered yes, I walk to see where he goes,
But he is gone, there is no trace, no little cars at any of the campsites, no camp fires had been lit in recent days
The man was gone, to this day I think he is one of the ghost’s who lives there, I think it was him singing
The song in the Pines, because at our dinner he seemed so musical, I would love to have a chat with him today,
Because as a spiritst I’m interested in learning from spirits, he could have been the protecter of those Pines,
I bet he has many storeys to tell, maybe one day I will see him if I ever go back to visit those Pines,
And hear the storeys, songs, and formulas of magic that brought them to be in the first place.

Tuesday, January 6, 2009

Channeling 2

So meticulous: A little girl, grown up amongst
Spiritists. Grown up, now.
Setting up the curtins of a living room
To block out light: black curtins.
To remove sensory interuptions, also a cleared floor:
Table, chairs, bookshelf, wall photos of family, ornamental Chinese woman
Swept, dusted: What now? She brings in candels, incense, a crystal ball
The stone (unmentionable, here) is lied in the center of the room
With a black cloth to cover it, for now

Have you ever wondered how spirits know which direction
To fly in? How they travel somewhere when someone calls
Them, to fly, could be anywhere in astral, a millon or billion miles away
How they are able to arrive so fast, never get lost?
The spirits are meticulous, too: there more sensory then
We are. Do not underestimate them. Ask, then:
Why do they come?
Because there fates are interlinked to the living, and so
We channel them, we fly to astral
We project ourself, they project back also
There more eager to find a willing body to inhabit, a temple
Then all of mankind is to worship in a temple, manmade or
Nature, spiritual.

I remember my aunt, she was sometimes called the purple lady
Or a mystical cross between a witch and a word I cant repeat here,
I respect her to much.
She was a spiritist her whole life, she did sences for a living read palms
Tarots, visions, visitations
She would set up her living room to do sences
The people, sometimes alone or couples, would come
And she would use her powers: sparingly, for few were ready
For the spiritual forces she unleashed, many left screaming running
From her home,
A wallet, a purse left on the ground, it contained her payment, and then some
And though she would have given them back,
Most never returned, or were heard from again

The living room ready, I sit in lotus (not easy for me, I’m a large woman, in body
And heart, you see) I begin to meditate, the first rush of a spirit whoosing past
My body, wanting to be let in. The room soon fills, I look I see smoke
I see swarms of spirits swooping around the room, chasing tails like a dog
Might, but these are spirits, there not here for games
I call to a bright one, to come near to me, tell me its name.
“I am Zeemo, I am two thousand years old”---”Go away, you are to young for me”
I call to another, I am looking for a spirit with experience
“You, how old are you” he flys up, he’s purple and his body looks like jello
He tells me about a time when the romens were in battle,
Upon a hill, fighting a enemy wos name I cant remember
They were about to loose, the course of history would have been different
So he blew a gush of wind, and knocked the flanks of soldiers over like
Dandelion seeds in the breeze.
So the Romans won the battle, he was worshiped by the men there
Who were very inviting of bodily intrusion
That is another story, but Azareal became my guide for a short time,
Thereafter, and after I heard all the stories about the old days of Roman warfare,
I got bored and, meticulous channeler that I am, I ejected him
And set up another sence, this time I was in no hurry to call out each spirit
By itself; I let them fight amongst themselves, the ones who want an audience with me the most
Will get it, probably.