Full Moon Meditation by H. Kopp-Delaney (CC BY-ND 2.0)

As a young teen, I would often hear, right at the stage of falling asleep, what I called ‘reading the book’, someone speaking spiritual philosophy deep inside my head. I never could remember a word the next morning.

After getting a rather poetic education, majoring in English and learning to translate Classical Greek verse into English verse, and a period of travel after college, mostly as a vagabond, in one instance posting my poems on holy sites in the old city of Jerusalem and other places East, a woman who had a writer’s cabin in the hills around Ashland, Oregon gave me the cabin for a whole winter, 5 months, so I’d have a place to live because I was homeless (normally it was a 6 week stay, given as a fellowship).

After 3 months of relative isolation, snowed in some, in twilight, that place of falling asleep, only here I think it was waking up, I heard these lines:

And I suppose a rose knows well
All the glory a man might.

I took those beginning lines and made a poem out of them, thinking that’s what many poets do and just don’t say anything. I had no idea your muse, what I call it, not hearing things, could give you a whole poem and edit it while you’re ‘listening’ it and after. It took another few years before I heard more lines, which was in Cuzco, Peru, about 15 years ago, but the flood started in Brazil a few months later, and it’s continued to this day.

There’ll come a day when floods.

Almost anytime I sit or lie back inside myself, if it’s long enough to get behind the waking mind and into ‘twilight’, I just automatically start hearing and seeing muse, and only sometimes it’s a poem; most of the time it’s a host of things: personal guidance, remote viewing, subconscious stuff, the imitation vision, the outright hostile vision, and I can continue some, only with me whatever I hear is always in poetic form, though only rarely is that at or near poetic quality.

Another time I might show the visual aspect of the muse. Now I’ll end this post introducing my voices with a recent short poem completely from the muse (it’s on one of our blogs at: The Chipmunk Press Vol. 3 Issue 5

Original Sin

In a sunny corner of remote earth
The bite of it all
Challenged orthodoxy.
This was in Nature’s plan.
Green-gold it moved.
This conducted harmony
Operating on discords –
Not a packaged plan,
Neither from the stars.
It brought in cities beyond the universe.
We bask in its revelry –
A riot of God
On lone isles of trust.
Wonderful it wore shoes.
Naked impulse did not light its lamp.
A renegade
It brought all to bear on noontide.
Light held its room.
“Yes,” we sing in darkness’ lair.
“We deliver anthems
Without knowing on which we rest.
It came to us unclothed,
And we saw nought but sin.”
What distance orthodoxy
From all that abounds in this place.