This collection provides a glimpse of the beauty, of the serene landscape of Lemuria.

Water Fantasy by Linda Plaisted

Fragrance of Lemurian Rain

The fragrance of rain
Is like the touch of a lover.
It consumes,
Holds us spellbound
As an aria
In a dark auditorium.
It rises to meet us
When we open the door,
Then, it teases,
And invites us to play.

The Fragrance of rain
After a dry spell
Is magic.
I capture its essence,
Embrace it,
Hold it forever.
What better perfume
for milady’s heart
than the fragrance
of rain after a dry spell.

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The Lemurian Collection of Vi Jones

All day long the door to the sub-conscious remains just ajar; we slip through to the other side and return again, as easily and secretly as a cat....
Walter De La Mare, Behold, this Dreamer! 1939

Wonderings of the Mind

I had thought, as I had walked along the fog-shrouded beach that day, about the why of my existence in this time and this place? My melancholy mood was in tune with my surroundings, which matched my biorhythms of the moment.

I had read recently about Avalon, the Island in The Mists. I had thought a lot about circles of stones; the henges that dot the landscape of my native land and which, in keeping with my mood seemed to be voices reaching into the present from the past. Can we, in this enlightened, scientific age afford to ignore voices that come to us in such moments? Can I, as a solitary human, afford to ignore them? There is no map to direct me safely into the past and back again – or would I, having experienced it, want to remain in the there forever?

The fog became thicker, so dense in fact, that it muffled the sound of the nearby surf and the shore birds raucously announcing their presence. I had lost all sense of direction and wasn’t even aware of the proximity of the surf until I felt it lapping greedily at my feet, causing me to retreat as if burned by a flaming torch.

When I moved far enough up the beach for safety, I rested upon the sand. It was as cool as the fog that blocked the warming rays of the sun. Yet far to my right, a tree was illuminated as if by a spotlight aimed at the headland upon which it grew, declaring its presence despite the white swirling fluff that turned warming sun back on itself.

I thought I saw on that distant headland, a child, free of concern and running gleefully about. Was it an illusion? Was I that child, or was the fog playing tricks with my imagination. Then, I heard, in that distance, a child’s cry – a lonely forlorn pleading for a childhood lost, one that that ended in this old woman’s bed.


The Crone

She has always been with me,
In the background,
Silent and alone.
Keeping counsel,
Closely guarded
Until I was ready to accept
That she is me,
My identity.

She’s known me since conception.
She’s lived and suffered
Through my foolish, youthful indiscretions.
She’s been with me through good and bad,
Has celebrated my achievements,
Grieved with me
When my heart was broken.
But, through it all,
She has remained
Always in the background.

Until today,
When I least expected
And looked into the mirror
There she was,
Not the scraggly haired, rheumy eyed,
Toothless hag
With claw like fingernails,
That I imagined she would be.
Instead, a fully blossomed woman
Who, when she smiled,
Revealed the wisdom of a lifetime in her eyes.
She is the keeper of the flame that burns
Within this heart of mine.
She is my soul of wisdom,
Guardian of compassion learned.
Though no longer painted with the brush of youth.

Now that I finally meet her
In that mirror on the wall,
I welcome her with open arms,
Embrace her,
Take her to my heart.
She is the best of years to come,
The enlightened one.
She is Child, Maiden, Woman,
And now, she is the greatest of them all,
She is The Crone.



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