Within these hours
I am moving towards the Light
Aware….the clouds lifted above me
The Beauty…the Suffering
A kaleidoscope of existence
A dance of sorrow and joy
A cycle of long seasons
Which brings me to tears
Crushing the stones within me
Beloved…l am moving towards You
Moving towards the Light
Ever so slowly
Whispers of you calling my name
Within secret corners of my life
As the Sun rises
I feel the warmth of Life on my face
The sweat beading on my forehead
Plum trees golden leaves sway and fold
Within the soft breeze
The shadows are deep blue
A cosmic dance
I am alive…For I am valid
You are Real to me
Yes…I lift my head
I am blessed…
Nathan Rivera is a native of the Temecula Valley. Writing words and music on the accordion, guitar, voice, piano, what else? Traveling to share the gift of music with those willing to accept it. Spreading positivity and joy one note at a time. With Jessie Andra Smith, they form Nathan & Jessie, a duo that is a unique blend of jazzy folk and blues on resonator guitars and accordion, along with interesting interplay between male and female vocals. Often joined on tour and on recordings by their friends, Trevor Mulvey on Upright Bass, and Blake Armstrong on Drums.
"Deeply moved and affected by the pandemic and the political climate, I've been feeling the minor chords lately."
Welcome to the
Dorland Associate Artist Writers & Musicians Gallery
"Standing beneath the Plum Tree"
I was deeply moved
As I stood beneath the plum tree
And watched it slowly bloom
Within the stillness of the crescent’s moonlight
And with each small, white petal
I have blossomed along with it
Hesitantly as a child taking its first steps
For I had been touched by winter’s darkness
Buried beneath the earth
Blinded by a crushed heart
The earth felt my tears
And now I feel the Light surging
And I have become reborn
I stand beneath this plum tree
The blossoms fall like souls
To the earth to be resurrected again
Petals like snow dusting
The fresh, verdant dew-laced grass
But between the moist, ebony branches
Within the predawn sky
I see Venus
The morning star
Brilliant, poignant, real
Piercing my heart
Against the now yellow, glowing, brightening sky
--A reading sample:
Guess poet (Lefty Oracle Deck)
Mantra: I am present.
Affirmation: I dream the Divine in everything. The poet within wants to sing!
I breathe and I breathe and I breathe.
I make space for the words
that need to come out.
There is no time.
There is no place.
I AM words.
I AM breath.
I AM present
If this card appears in a reading:
It’s time to go more deeply into your current journal practice by branching out into another form of writing such as poetry, creative writing, automatic writing, non-dominant hand printing, dream analysis, drama, songwriting, to name a few. Take some time to sit quietly and gather your thoughts and then simply plunge in and start writing. Time yourself or set a word limit such as writing one hundred words a day, no more or no less. Working with this kind of restrictive format can help you ‘go with the flow’ so look out for poetry appearing like magick without much effort at all.
In my own life, I spent a few weeks writing one hundred words a day and poetry just flowed out of me. It was so easy!
Find Kathy's Oracle Decks here.
--Excerpt from his sci-fi short “The Longing”
Wilford had, centuries ago, paid for the best human semblance possible. Six-foot-one, muscular, short brown hair, piercing green eyes. And capillaries – lots of capillaries. So, he blushed. “I’m just looking.”
“A dusting of cocoa?” The owner was confident. “It’s free. You’ll buy something.”
“You misunderstand. I can’t – I’m a cyborg.”
The shopkeeper appraised him. “I would never have guessed! I must admit, sir, I have not met one of you before.”
“Not surprising. There are fewer than a hundred of us left.”
“I have to ask: do you really not eat anything?”
“That’s a common question. I don’t eat, but my brain is still biological and requires nutrients. A line in my neck supplies sustenance and extracts waste.” He extended a hand. “I’m Wilford.”
“Bill.” They shook. “But if you can’t eat…”
“Why am I here?”
“Sight and sound are easily converted from digital to my analog brain. I can “feel” pressure, and temperature. But smell… Oh I miss the scents. Curry and jasmine. I’d kill to smell my cat’s litter box, to be honest.” Wilford gazed at the glass cabinets. “Or chocolate,” he added mournfully.
In her new book, Of Age and Edges. Odessa Cleveland shares some intriguing imageries---pencil drawings on uncharted skin, the Potter's mold, and Pharaoh ants. In her American contemporary style, her poetry opens up a world of understanding life, love, death, and delectation. Cleveland is off the beaten path with language and wit. The reader will explore, discover, and reflect.
Mercedes and Her Man
He looked at her with desires that every woman craves.
He massaged and stroked every curve of her body daily.
He checked out all openings necessary to his attention.
When she needed fuel, he gave it to her.
If she squeaked, he jumped.
When she needed a touch up,
he gave it straight up.
Her demands became his commands.
If he became frustrated,
she remained boldly empowered to make him tolerate it.
At times he stared in whiteness,
tasted her awesome power in disbelief ... she was his.
Whenever seen out together
his chest stood higher than a giraffe's head.
His light of day reflected love in his eyes.
She spoke to him from the lights within her orbits.
"Watch me. Touch me. Love me."
"Do Cows Cry?"
"How long would an American cow live, if allowed to enjoy its blissful bovine life? Twenty years. A dairy cow has four to six. Producing milk for humans, cows work overtime.
I looked it up
Do cows dream of grass, of endless meadows, of spending days chewing cud? Or do they have nightmares, those early morning milkings, udders pumped raw by indifferent hands, machines. That would make me cry. Do cows cry?
I looked it up
The internet says no, but I swear dogs cry and my cats look sad when they’re sick. Why wouldn’t cows cry? Those big watery resigned eyes. Mother and daughter cows bond for their short life, closer than any humans.
I looked it up"
--For more of DeMarco-Barrett's writing, see her site Pen on Fire here.
"Don’t Name Your Son Angel"
He’ll turn out half devil.
If you must name him Angel
don’t give him a 15 year old mom
nor six younger brothers
with five different last names
or a stepfather with a talent
for wielding a plastic bat
against a child’s transgressions.
Don’t give him long lashes;
the girls in five different
schools surely will pay
for the sins of the mother
But if you must name your son Angel,
give him white teeth set against
dark skin, hands that can take
apart and put together anything --
bicycles, radios, hearts and miniskirts.
Give him a smooth tongue, a talent
for spinning tales that gets him
an A in English and
out of the clutches of cops.
Give this young Angel
a heart of steel and fire.
You can read more of Nancy Alvarado's work by clicking on the following links:
Mailing address: P.O. Box 6, Temecula, CA 92593 ~ Physical Address: 36701 Highway 79 South, Temecula, CA 92592
(951) 302-3837 ~ www.dorlandartscolony.org ~ firstname.lastname@example.org
A California 501(c)(3) nonprofit organization
---From her essay “Friday Night Mariachis.”
"Decades earlier, I sit between my mother and grandparents at El Tapatio, where waitresses swirl between tables, bright flowers tucked behind their ears. With his fingers laced across his trim middle, my grandpa nods in time to the music playing across the room, a band of mariachi musicians decked out in sequined sombreros and espaliered jackets. At the climax of the sad ranchero, in a surge of apasionada, the singer yelps a high-pitched ay ay ayyy. At this, Grandpa closes his eyes. I pinch a clump of salt from the rim of my mom’s margarita and lick my fingers. When our waitress comes I order the cheeseburger plate, but my mother mocks my choice, wonders aloud the same question she asks when I won’t dunk my chips into the too-spicy salsa: What kind of Mexican are you?
It was a joke, a rhetorical question. But it was a phrase she repeated often, and I was an only child who puzzled over adult conversations and took everything literally. What kind was I? On my mother’s side, a third generation Mexican-American, born into a family rooted in a town east of East L.A."
Read the full piece here. Please find more about Kelly and her writing at kellyshire.com. Follow her on Instagram here.
"When The Satellites Crash"
--by John Lane (copyright 2019)
"When the Satellites Crash" is one of 8 original song submissions to the National Songwriters 2020 competition.
All John's original music with Grass and The John Lane Project can be found everywhere music is digitally distributed.
Enjoy your journey through prose, poetry, and song.
Explore more about each of Dorland's Associate Artists on the Members page as well as through links to their websites.
--A reading from Odessa Cleveland's book, Water Colored Soul at the PVLD Local Author's Fair 2014
Because Dorland welcomes artists of all genres, the fertile soil of fellowship sometimes gives birth to a joyful collaboration. Writer Pamella Bowen and artist Sacha Hope got together on Labyrinth Wakening: a spiritual journal novel. Pam wrote the story, and Sacha painted the cover art, conveying how the power of the labyrinth transforms the female main character, using daybreak colors.
In Labyrinth Wakening, Therese Oakes struggles to find herself, her heart, and her freedom. Does she really want to marry Leo, or is she in love with the idea of a wedding? Will her selfishness damage her friendship with longtime friend, Mersea? And what does the mysterious allure of the labyrinth have to do with it? In her second novel, Pamella Bowen proves that letting go of control opens the path to True Love: romantic, brotherly, and divine.
Paperback and e-book are available on Amazon here.
Author and publisher at Green and Purple Publishing
Inspiring books for seekers and believers of all ages
Excerpt from “Ghost World”; Copywrite
My name is Suri and the brother I seek is Kevin. Kevin has always been of a curious nature. He kept mumbling something about pain, torment, and hiding something.
We were stranded here when the craft that brought us left. Our parent, when it was discovered we were missing, signaled us that the ship would return. We must be at the landing site soon. The contact window will close before long and if we are not there we may have to remain on this planet for a long time.
This is a cold, desolate, and very strange planet. The mists are pervasive. They almost seem to coalesce into forms. When you happen to pass through it there is a distinctive cold, tingling effect also.
The finders that we are wearing don’t seem to work in a timely fashion in this place. My system isn’t sticking with my brother. I locate him on the navigational display and as soon as I get to the position he is gone. As a result, I keep looking.
EXCERPT from the play, GOBLINS IN FLATLAND
In the guise of a parlor game,
Lady Wilde acts out the story of “Flatland” by Edwin A. Abbott
Wait! This silly author has forgot to mention my guests. Starting clockwise, we have my son, Oscar Wilde. Then Christina and Dante Rossetti. It paints a world of two dimensions, with interesting similarities to Britain of the late 1900s. I confess it is actually a ruse. I wish to discourage Christina from marrying-
Thank you, Lady Wilde. If I can now continue- I am sharing some of the story. Parts are re-written from the novel. I have simplified and added the verses that I am sharing. Imagine what life would be like if the world had two or one or no dimensions.
I call my world, Flatland. Not because we call it so.
But to make its nature clearer to you.
Who are privileged to live in space.
Imagine a vast sheet of paper with straight lines, triangles, squares, and circles.
The inhabitants can move freely about on the surface. But have not the will or the power to rise above, or to sink below.
I can explain it better, square! After all. It is my system of government. Am I not, Pantocyclus. Auh, humm.
IT’S A GLORY AND A WONDER TO BE FLAT
WHAT A WONDER AND A GLORY TO BE RULER AND BE FLAT
THIS SHEET AS THIN AS PAPER IS OUR ONLY HA-BI-TAT