With this Post I re-visit an event which took place decades ago. It was a time when I was inhabiting a very powerful dream life, one that influenced and inspired much of my art. It was a time of earnest searching for understanding not only of the amazing events of my dream landscape but for information that exists beyond our physical time and space parameters-the metaphysical.
From sleep came this poem. It seemed to be coming from someone else, a source unknown consciously. It seemed to be “dictated” to me, and so I did my best to write what was told. The original text came on the 24th of August, 1981. I considered it finished with some minor revisions on the 14th of September, 1981. Much later, in 1992, I made a small accordion book and transcribed the poem into it and added some original art as well.
As we now witness frightening events in our world I remembered the book and its contents and have been considering the powerful words in the poem. Could this poem have relevance to the state of the world today? Have we come to the place foretold in this poem?
I DREAMED OF THE RED MOON
The burnt moon that hung blood red
In fragments descended
On the broad horizon
And loomed on the brink of certain fortuitous events
Nestled unborn within.
All that came before was unknown
And all after foretold by me
Pointing to a page,
Circling the natal date,
The Second Coming.
The blind can only see in dreams
What lies before scaly eyes by day.
I am Christa.
You know who I am by the stench of birth,
By the sway of pillars falling,
Man, helpless before his own inventions,
Stands now, naked in the perfumed rain,
Face to face with the Being he has created,
Not against his will,
But in fulfillment of the Time he has chosen.
From the ashes and the cinders,
Deep from the blackened skies,
Comes a necessary miracle,
Old and new, springing alive
As it has always been,
Free of itself,
Unclothed in timeworn vestments
So long held dear.
The miracle looks inward upon itself
Who are you and all who breathe.
Though we have lied to ourselves for long,
And covered frightened eyes with denial,
The moment of truth is with us,
Now, as always.
Sleep no more by day,
But remember yourself in the night,
For we are our own salvation.
-8/24/81 and 9/14/81 Norfolk, Virginia
I find it strange that, unexpectedly, I again live in the same city as when the poem was written so long ago. Am I watching the events of the poem unfold?