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AmounrA  AmounrA is offline
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... but no one mourns and no one cares
this world a land of vacant stares.
each looking out for there selves,
Life born to die on a video shelf

I close my eyes and hear only screams,
a million rejected babies die,
The lustful dance of passionate joy,
the child sent away so a life not to annoy.

I am not a moralistik sod,
But surely this is an abonimation of netzach and hod,
Tipareth cries a golden tear..
... there is no magic left to wonder here !
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The Birthing PLace of Understanding

The breakthrough came in nineteen o five
Scripts that modern eyes had never seen
No one knew whose tongue this shaped
Was it dead or was the talk still alive?
ďI conclude from this (the great Petrie said)
That this is wall graffiti it's not Alphabetic
Nor hieroglyphic- just tallies of the miners here
Written when the Wadi was an empty dry bed."
What have we here, thatís been brushed aside
I can decipher a word, indeed with spaces between
Box and Eye and Cane and Cross- itís just a word
God Lord! It is Lady Baalat- the Miners guide
Bayt and Ayin and Lamed and Taw
Written by the miners- beloved of Hathor
~Rosanne
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.. The ancestor with the shamans eyes,
saw deep into our modern eyes,
aiwass here and i was there ,
but new rock does my pic axe creep,
mining deeper deeper even in slumbers sleep,
O' hidden star, O' hidden world,
i feel the cat , I watch the canary,
this mine I wonder , no longer scary,
upon the dessert ships hump back,
I make up time I take the slack,
the drums pulsate, a spiral roar,
I join the dots, I see the shape,
eye do the dance , I start to shake,
The ancestor with shamens eyes,
saw deep outwith our modern eyes...
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A stitch in Time -A journey with my Self.


With a clickety clack we sit untogether.
Like jazz inharmonics in a melancholy dream,
driven like wool on grannies knitting needles.
Viewing our has and what might have beens
in each stitch of a pattern she once wore,
cradled in arms a year before the war;
when wool was cheaper and the clicks clacked loudly
from the mass of enslaved labours,
before the cheap make superstores,
before the deaths of fathers drowned in fields of mud
with stars of bloodied bullets.
Before the now of clickety clack halt.
Another stitch dropped in here and gone station.
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Woman of Three Cows


O woman of Three Cows, agra! donít let your tongue thus rattle!
O, donít be saucy, donít be stiff, because you may have cattle.
I have seen - and, hereís my hand to you, I only say whatís true -
A many a one with twice your stock not half so proud as you.

Good luck to you, donít scorn the poor, and donít be their despiser,
For worldly wealth soon melts away, and cheats the very miser,
And Death soon strips the proudest wreath from haughty human brows;
Then donít be stiff, and donít be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

See where Momoniaís heroes lie, proud Owen Moreís descendants,
íTis they that won the glorious name, and had the grand attendants!
If they were forced to bow to Fate, as every mortal bows,
Can you be proud, can you be stiff, my Woman of Three Cows!

The brave sons of the Lord of Clare, they left the land to mourning;
Mavrone! for they were banished, with no hope of their returning
Who knows in what abodes of want those youths were driven to house?
Yet you can give yourself these airs, O Woman of Three Cows!

O, think of Donnell of the Ships, the Chief whom nothing daunted
See how he fell in distant Spain, unchronicled, unchanted!

He sleeps, the great OíSullivan, where thunder cannot rouse -
Then ask yourself, should you be proud, good Woman of Three Cows!

OíRuark, Maguire, those souls of fire, whose names are shrined in story
Think how their high achievements once made Erinís highest glory
Yet now their bones lie mouldering under weeds and cypress boughs,
And so, for all your pride, will yours, O Woman of Three Cows!

The OíCarrolls, also, famed when Fame was only for the boldest,
Rest in forgotten sepulchres with Erinís best and oldest;
Yet who so great as they of yore in battle or carouse?
just think of that, and hide your head, good Woman of Three Cows!

Your neighbourís poor, and you, it seems, are big with vain ideas,
Because, inagh! youíve got three cows - one more,! see, than she has.
That tongue of yours wags more at times than Charity allows,
But if youíre strong, be merciful, great Woman of Three Cows!

Now, there you go! You still, of course, keep up your scornful bearing,
And Iím too poor to hinder you; but, by the cloak Iím wearing,
If I had but four cows myself, even though you were my spouse,
Iíd thwack you well to cure your pride, my Woman of Three Cows!

by James Clarence Mangan
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Let no one deceive himself.....
I take the book from the shelf, muttering "is she the sage -is he the sage?"
If anyone among you thinks he is wise in this age
Why! he does and she does -spiritual of that school, wise of this school
That he may become wise let him become a fool......
A little from here, words from there, I think my soul's feet are shod
For the wisdom of this world is folly before God
I am so confused.... I know! Time for a new book. And new shoes.
~Rosanne
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Fake pedlars of miracles,
What a pair you make.
The juggler and the papesse
Making play for heaven's sake;
Complaints and prayers you answer
With bones of dice and saints.
"I shall trample", cries La Pances,
"The guts of hell's own snake!"
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I got peddled once, just a baby in a mothers arms.
You are imperfecto by imperial imperative, imposter in your skin.
A bone in my baby ear rang, a cochlear alarm
'I' am imperfect?... such insolence, impudence, ignorance and sin.
I am a yod, a hand and an arm, a perfect pillar of the 'is'
So even though I am 'so what' in truth, I am also 'what's so'
Imperfection-The biggest lie in the story of humanity is this.
Nature grew me in it's heart, and thats the perfect universe I know.
~Rosanne
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Your dog, tranquil and innocent, dozes through
our cries, our murmured dawn conspiracies
our telephone calls. She knows - what can she know?
If in my human arrogance I claim to read
her eyes, I find there only my own animal thoughts:
that creatures must find each other for bodily comfort,
that voices of the psyche drive through the flesh
further than the dense brain could have foretold,
that the planetary nights are growing cold for those
on the same journey, who want to touch
one creature-traveler clear to the end;
that without tenderness, we are in hell.

(Adrienne Rich)
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THE SEVEN DOUBLES
by G.K.Spain

(to Rosanne, terms in bold-italics being hieroglyphs)

The wizard, seated, points a hand straight out
And invokes dalet, the doorway into things:
Outer horizon's oak, great lightning's lair.
Thus manifests the force of reach: the round.

As if to reach for tongs, the arm descends
To unvoiced tav, one's 'mark' placed on the world
Through sound, though the ugly duckling hieratic t
Of 'group writing' yields the Phoenician cross.

Basket below this, whence sweet hazel's plucked,
Became kaf where its handle meets it: the arm
Has now swung down to the knee, and within reach,
There on its refuge knoll, lurks qof the apple!

When arm's straight down, with palm flat on the ground,
Fire-air-and-water all present, earth's wide mouth
Awaits it, reysh, the growl of Hades' hounds . . .
But wizards press on farther, undismayed:

Into the oven of alchemists arm goes
Who cook the future -- gimel, distant prize
Converged on via camel's hump, bold lever
Of change (ivy desiring, wandering . . . )

The arm, behind, continues upwards now
To the reed stool that awaits one's rising up:
The chair of poets -- peh of enlightened speech,
The water-elder (companion to the crane).

Thus taught, arm then points straight behind or in,
And wizard, done, stands up upon one foot
To cast the spell; but beyt, meaning "in" in Hebrew,
Departs as the bird soul of bright rebirth.

These seven stations range across the earth,
Resting on Giza's pyramids. For D's
Thunder-and-lightning batters the north slopes
Of the Alps to spawn the Danube and the Rhine,
Near where the oak-born mistletoe was clipt.
And T, the rune called tyr, denotes the sea
That's called Tyrrhennian, across which ranged
Spears by the holly-bush aboard oared arks,
In Rome's dark day. And K's basket of goodies
Awaits the Libyan fleets at moist Kyrene,
R's mouth, agape, is plugged by pyramid,
While G's turning the world to better use
Plies the desert approach to Babylon,
Or else turns south, leading to P's reed stool
In Punt perhaps, B's foot down towards the Horn,
But I am called to follow G as gimel
Through Babylon to Persia for a P
And thence to where the Indo-Europeans
Began this trek, the Kirghiz-Khazak steppe,
To find the birth of B, birch of the shaman.

3/29/07
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