LITMIR.BIZ

The poet's quest is one of wide magnitude. He or she must explore the untapped regions of mind and spirit and then proceed to paint a picture in words of that strange and mysterious landscape. The book before you is such a picture, depicting a new yet ancient province of the soul. By middle age, it starts to become obvious to most of us that we operate with a split mind; the lesser mind that focuses on the acquisition and defense of things and the higher mind that impels us to a more unified reality. With age and experience, the acquisition of wealth, status, and sophistication start to pale in comparison to the more etheric goals of peace, freedom, and union with our Creator. As we start to notice a shorter road ahead than behind, we seek a more meaningful existence. We intensify our search for union with our earthly brothers and our heavenly Father. In effect, we require a reality based on our need to be free, whole, and eternal. By now, we are far too skeptical to accept wishful thinking as our truth, yet still yearn for an intellectual and spiritual certainty that we can believe in simply because the case for it is far too compelling to ignore. After several decades of just such a search I discovered a path that, at long last, gave me confidence in the truth of a divine Mind and Spirit. That path led me to a place that my soul knew and honored as divine. From that connection and in that place, this book was born.

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Listen closely. Hear the Spirit Song. In good turn, all will come along. Join me in this adventure, as we play in rhythm and rhyme. Explore the hidden places, all in real-time. Let us laugh and cry together, let us be alertly surprised. Come with me, dear brother, let us jointly seek the Prize. These poems come from a special place, one I can little describe. They are meant as gifts, but for a minor fee. I am honored to be the scribe of such wonderful things. I have recorded them here so you may see, all that is given, all that is free. Join me if time allots you so. A gift cannot be without a beneficiary. Pearls must be claimed, to shine. Take a chance, my friend. Let us join the Golden Dance in time.

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Mystic Twine is a voyage into the numinous realm of the mind and spirit, told in the ancient style of the storyteller. Contained within are weird and wonderful tales, mind and spiritual explorations, prayers and callings, and occasionally a glimpse into the author's view of the absurdities of life in the material world. These are very personal poems, told in quiet confidence to those who keep their ear to the spiritual sound and their eyes on the divine landscape. They reflect a journey that we will all take at some point in our lives. Their source is un-nameable, but they come clothed in a confidence born of the certainty of truth; the kind of truth known upon impact, the kind of truth that requires no validation other than the knowing that fills our mind and soul when we encounter it.
I invite you to accompany me on this journey, a voyage that refreshes us all simultaneously. The nature of these ageless odes, in large part, remains a mystery even to me, and I welcome the occasion to explore them with you, my brothers and sisters. I do not write them to sell nor to glorify myself, but rather I pass them on as a sort of divine pact that I have made with their Source. I ask simply that you turn the page and see if they call out to you.

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The Emerald Mandala is a spiritual shelter, a sanctuary of sorts. It is a harmony of words and rhymes to take you to far away inner places. Inside you will find fables, prayer, dilemma, and intentional absurdities. Angelic advocates wait to take you on wings widespread and destined for the heavens. Love is discussed, insights appraised, mind and spirit explored. The Emerald Mandala is a journey from which you will return changed, maybe ever so slightly, but changed nevertheless. It will likely provoke you. It may touch your heart. It might leave you mystified or confused, but it will certainly leave you in better thought. Within these emerald walls, we will explore ourselves together, we will challenge our beliefs to see if they endure, and we will pray and hope for similar providence. I ascribe my poems to no particular religion or doctrine. I seek God by any means left to me. There are as many paths back as there are rays of the sun. Join me now and let us ignore our differences, embrace our alikeness, and seek together that we may end up as One. Let the Emerald Mandala transport us beyond the worldly bonds that seek to contain and diminish us. Let it be our mutual conveyance to set our direction, side by side, to the road Home.

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Gold has always symbolized material riches. It is a simple element that somehow exceeds its intrinsic value. Its pursuit has become, for many, the primary goal of life. What is it that attracts us so about money and the material things it can buy? Is our fear assuaged by the perceived safety from a rainy day or do we believe that enough things will somehow fill the emptiness inside? I would hazard to guess that no amount of money has ever made anyone happy, ever. True happiness comes from finding our center, that place deep within each of us that cries out to be filled, a place that has been empty and found wanting since the beginning of time. No? Then ask yourself why a world founded on materiality is so screwed up and why the coveting of wealth so often lays waste to lives, compassion, and families in the pursuit of such things? The happiest people I know are those who treasure love, peace, and freedom over the chains imposed by the ownership of material things. These truly fortunate few are filled and made happy by the knowledge of a divine presence within, a presence that offers riches that satisfy the soul. They know that everything here is nothing in eternity. They, my friends, are the truly happy ones. So let us abandon our search for the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, the quest for the fountain of youth, or enlightenment in a capsule. Let us put aside these shallow offerings and pursue instead the divine life: the life that makes pale and lifeless the pursuit of simple gold. Join me here as we un-wrap celestial gifts, not of gold coins, but of joy and freedom.

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This is not your grandfather's poetry. It is spun for the everyman and woman. It is bred of a spiritual nature, yet it smiles and laughs and screams. Some are funny, some are sad. Some spit in the face of conformity, amused at the absurdity of the world whilst seeking a better way. These odes defy conventional structure and content. They rhyme without embarrassment yet experiment unapologetically with such. They convey messages of hope and love and clearer sight. And they challenge the accepted and popular notions of reality and illusion while offering superior alternatives to both. They will amuse and dismay, provoke and possibly offend, but they will not leave you unchanged. So join me, if you will, as we accompany The Illusion Warrior on his quest to dispel chimera and discover truth.

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Between the covers of this tome lay truly wondrous things. Composed of colors previously unseen and sounds rarely heard, these buds will blossom in your hand. As they do, they will burst into light that will illuminate the darkness. As that light reflects upon a table, a feast is seen before us. Take up arms, in spoon and ladle, and prepare to experience ephemeral tastes and aromas never known. So whet your appetites my friends, hone them and apply them to the job at hand. Then join me, if you will, as we feast on these delectable delights. Yet, if you don't mind as much, we'll leave the bones behind.
Praise for J. Michaels [CENTER] "The Poet's Quill is an inspirational uplifting book of poetry that will have readers aspiring to new goals. With over one hundred poems ranging in titles such as 'One Soul To Save,' 'Beauty By The Bay,' 'I Want My Perfection Back,' 'Heaven's Gate,' and many more equally thought provoking, how can one not explore the vast possibilities of this wonderful book of poems. The author, J. Michaels, has reached into the depths of his soul and produced an amazing book that will touch readers' hearts, minds, and souls." –Angela Simmons Member, Reviewthebook.com

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The Fly in My Eye is a reflection of an illusion. It is the mirror of my creature self declaring itself as real to the eye of the beholder. Yet the human self would fade away into its parent nothingness but for the trance of the image it beholds. Enamored of its own appearance, regardless the truth of the echo, the affair with the dream continues. Narcissus sees himself time after time in the clouded pond and falls for it; hook, line and sinker. He is king in his own mind only. They say it's great to be the king, but of what, I say. If it be a ragged throne in a hellish realm, of what value to the soul is it? I have chosen to stand beside my King, instead of displacing Him. The position is not as exalted by the world, but instead of the king of hell, I claim Prince of the eternal Kingdom. I inherit now, and forever, the gifts of joy, peace, wholeness, and freedom. I relinquish title to the nightmare dream; giving up only pain, guilt, discord, and death. I choose to accept the reality of my eternal being and deny, once and for all time, the temporal, chaotic, and completely insufficient life of the world of man. I will stay for awhile, but only to convince you, my brothers and sisters, to join me and journey to a better reality. Know the fly you see in your eye is but a frail wisp of a dream, destined to fade away into the illusory mysts from whence it sprang, dissolving now as we lean in the direction of truth. Clear the reflecting fly from your eye and see henceforth with the one, eternal Mind that unifies us as brothers in Christ.

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The poet ceases. Something has changed. He has reached his goal but somehow remains undone. His soul has received as nourishment the odes he writes, yet he cannot rest. Or might it be possible that rest has now become enduring and no change appears to mind? Either way, he has been instructed to stop. Something has been completed even if not him. He counts the manuscripts upon the shelf. They are nine in number and the digit feels complete. The nine play host to more than one thousand of the odes, each and every one a blessing to be discovered and savored. The nine are now prepared and ready to be given at spirit's insistence. The poet must consider the musings done for now. He must move on to the next thing, to whatever his Guide deems essential. But what shall he call this ninth child? Is it an ending or merely a stopover, a brief respite from the work? The poet knows not but he wishes to know. He needs to comprehend this final step in this progression he has been subsumed by for the last two years. Yet he receives no reply, no answer, no direction except the simplicity of a title. Call it The Final Step, he is told; nothing more. It will conclude what must be never concluded for want of a better vision. But what does it say to me now that I must move on, he queries? It says nothing more than this: Forgiveness is my quest Clarity, my goal Peace to daily attend me Love to make me whole

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Whether it's the big-hearted hooker, the henchman priest, the fate of poor Bobby Fischer, tripping with Tom O'Leary, or the last thoughts of a dying man, we are told their secrets by the only one who knows them all, The Storyteller. Yet what haunts the mind still lingers. What is his secret, or dare we ask? Well, here's what I think it is: I believe that each of the stories the aged one offers up contains one morsel of his mystery. When they are all ingested by the mind and the soul, they will reconstitute as one. It is truly a jigsaw puzzle of sorts in that, as each piece of the puzzle is examined, an image starts to form in mind. As each remaining piece is examined in turn and integrated into the whole, the secret starts to emerge. Many may, of course, challenge my assumptions, perceptions, or illusions, but I shall remain steadfast in my belief, albeit delusional. It's the best I've got and I'm sticking with it. So before you lay this splendid book down and we part company, I leave you with the words of the old tall taleteller himself, as he describes what can happen when we fail to recognize the truth before us. Perhaps that recognition is his secret. His voyage ended fruitless For he never found that sought He failed to let words point To where, in truth, they ought

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