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

The Last Miles

walked slowly
across the barren land,
rough woven cape and hood
her only protection
against the blazing sun:
step after step after step.

Her feet burned
in the thin leather sandals,
strapped loosely on her feet,
her only protection
between burning sand
and jagged stones:
step after step after step.

The limp, lifeless bundle
in her arms
weighed heavily
on her weakening body
causing her journey
to become more laborious
with every step;
on and on and on.

She knew-
she must lay her bundle down
and rest,
But not now-
not yet-
Just one more step
after step after step.
Jane Tilton 2002


Response to The Last Miles

We bear

We share, a collective past of
exposed infants screaming on cold stone hill sides bound feet
bound breasts
an unstoppable, indestructible, mutual strength

Woman of grace
Who bears the honored name of Crone
A name I now thirst to learn
to fill my bones with
to wreath my hair with
to celebrate, exalt and revel
to learn one day to

Woman of honor
in roughly woven cape and hood
I do not know your burden
I cannot offer to help you carry
I cannot offer you shade
or even a place to rest

But as my sisters before me
throughout antiquity
I will not let you bear it alone

See the footsteps in the sand
I will walk beside you

Edwina Peterson Cross 2002

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The Lemurian Collection

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

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.
Vi ©January 2002

Sisterhood of Women
response to Wonderings of The Mind

There are so many things
I would like to have done,
or would like to have seen
or would like to have become,

I had to follow my Tao
as have you,

And then I realized
that a bit of me travels with you
and a bit of you travels with me
by the single act
of being a female.

The depth of feeling
I experience when you
relate your stories
continually reflects to me
the depth of my enlightenment,
for truly:
I am you and
You are me.
Jane Tilton 2002

Summer Triangle

Above the horizon, this longest day,
The eagle, the swan, and the lyrist play
To brighten the glance of one who would stay.

The lyrist evokes tones in blue and white.
The eagle dives, spiralling golden light.
The swan floats fair beauty upon the night.

What's fled from the earth? What intensity
Has been melted to iron density
To collapse to ironic destiny?

~ Brant David McLaughlin, 6/20/2005


Idly her hand
rests on the scabbard and her
wings fold behind her.

Brittle branches make
up the forest she watches
with folded wings.

"Beauty," said the crow
on her finger, "I shall love
thee true for always."

Sepia sky looks
down on the jewel among
the ashes and cries.

Golden leaves follow
in her wake, caught in her
rich satin tresses.

Karli Hobson


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