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Come with me into the expansive gift of poetry to experience a disruption of habitual ways of thinking and perceiving. The magic of poetry happens when it is spoken, heard and felt as vibrations in your body.
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 There is a silence in the beginning. The life within us grows quiet. There is little fear. No matter how all this comes out, from now on it cannot not exist ever again. * The present pushes back the life of regret. It draws forward the life of desire. Soon memory will have started sticking itself all over us. We were fashioned from clay in a hurry, poor throwing may mean it didn’t matter to the makers if their pots cracked. * On the mountain tonight the full moon faces the full sun. Now could be the moment when we fall apart or we become whole. Our time seems to be up—I think I even hear it stopping. Then why have we kept up the singing for so long? Because that’s the sort of determined creature we are. Before us, our first task is to astonish, and then, harder by far, to be astonished. We come to be astonished. To be reminded that the world—this life—is still full of astonishing things: unexplainable acts of goodness, stunning beauty, impossible hope. We come because we need—every one of us—to fall to our knees from time to time, in wonder. In awe. - Galway Kinnell 
 Owl Shaman Jaguar Medicine by Katherine Skaggs
 Just off the highway to Rochester, Minnesota, Twilight bounds softly forth on the grass. And the eyes of those two Indian ponies Darken with kindness. They have come gladly out of the willows To welcome my friend and me. We step over the barbed wire into the pasture Where they have been grazing all day, alone. They ripple tensely, they can hardly contain their happiness That we have come. They bow shyly as wet swans. They love each other. There is no loneliness like theirs. At home once more, They begin munching the young tufts of spring in the darkness. I would like to hold the slenderer one in my arms, For she has walked over to me And nuzzled my left hand. She is black and white, Her mane falls wild on her forehead, And the light breeze moves me to caress her long ear That is delicate as the skin over a girl’s wrist. Suddenly I realize That if I stepped out of my body I would break Into blossom. - James Wright  Riverbed Comforter Painting by Duy Huynh
 Are you looking for a quiet place? But friend, you are already here. The repose of your blood between pulsations. A secret chamber in your chest where you have no enemies, no one is to blame, and the endless journey has never begun. Here even prayers for peace need no speaking. You can disperse into the finer element you are before you breathe. You can be the sparkling sky in the lungs of a hummingbird, smoke of sage in desert air, aureole in emptiness where the flame just blew out. Here you can burn away because you remember your body is made of vanished stars. You can stumble and fall into your own rhythm, which feels like you are not moving at all because your mind is at rest in flesh that needs no discipline of stillness. You are a nest inside the egg, a mother's womb that carries her own savior, the seed of what you have always been seeking. Now flower on a Winter night. - Alfred K. LaMotte 
 Photo by John Noonan
 "el sol y la selva siempre estan contando sus historias" the sun and the jungle are always telling their stories Art by Troy Farrell, [email protected]
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Xochi Trout
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