Monthly Archives: April 2019

Cartography by David Sparenberg

Far to the west, in direction of the Blessed Isles, stands an ancient, cylindrical tower.  It is rumored the tower has stood for hundreds of years, perhaps an entire millennium, or even more.  At base of the tower protrudes the roots of a massive oak.

Coiled around the tower is a huge, formidable yet beautiful dragon with scales of emerald and gold.  In the night, the dragon’s eyes are as red as blazing fires, beaconing out over land and sea.  In the day, the eyes are the blue of a tranquil, cloudless sky.

drago001_400It is rumored that the master of the tower and the dragon of green and gold are one and the same.  Passers-by have reported overhearing the two—master and dragon—in lively discourse and heated debate.  Whispers sound thereabout as winds push past thick walls into narrow window-slots; in tempests thunders roar.

How it is possible for a single identity to occupy two separate bodies is a riddle seldom pondered, never resolved.

As strange as the mystery of dragon and tower, with rooted feet of oak, more mysterious still is the solitary rose that thrives through the years between tower stones, high up on the tower’s curving wall.  At center of this miraculous rose appears to be a living heart.  Mesmerizing is the heart-light, as soft as delicate mist, that pulsates rhythmically with the mystic flower’s heartbeat.

Even more mysterious than rose and rose light is the silver throated nightingale that comes at each twilight onset of declining sun, circling the rose-perch wall and singing melodiously to the solitary flower.  It is rumored that the rose responds to the nightingale’s love serenade with sighs of perfume.  Sweet fragrance, alluring to the nostrils and delicious on the lips, ripples enchantment out across the land.  Month by month presents its intricacies and life in waves and quiet languages shows everywhere.

Far from the tower grows a wide branched willow that weeps in its seasons (the Mater Delarosa of willows), begging ever with sappy tears for forgiveness.  Although it remains unknown what the willow begs forgiveness for.

Far from this monument of sorrow is an aspen of immense stature.  The aspen trembles in the breath of every fluttering breeze.  Tree shivers as if from chill and fever and yet dances with a mantic joy as if a dancing marionette dangled in self-abandonment on a silken spider’s thread.  In the tumbling circus of autumn recently abandoned spider webs mingle magically in mountain air with acrobatic, costumed and parachuting leaves.

To these three quarters—dragon-tower, willow and aspen trees—is added a fourth, far vaster than the other destinations combined.  Yet the fourth quadrant is invisible and has been invisible since the beginning of time.

Tower dragon may possess details of this geography and its elusive inhabitants, being itself a creature of inter-dimensions and mythic memory?  Tower master may have arcana intimations, gleaned from dreams of transformations and distilled from alembic vapors?

However, the dragon; as with all dragons; is forbidden from sharing its secret lore with strangers.  Along with noble courage, patience is demanded to win a dragon’s trust.  For his part, the master of the circle tower never converses with anyone who does not have imprinted in their soul (along with untranslated libraries and artifacts) an analog of the cosmos.


Check David Sparenberg’s NEW BOOK
THE GREEN TROUBADOUR A Source Book of Performance Ecosophy
is online now and you can download for FREE HERE!



David Sparenberg has also 2 more Books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“Life in the Age of Extinctions volume 2 – Threshold”
Download for FREE HERE!


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I’ve discovered the meaning of life by Abigail George

The air is sweet here, and I am filled

    with a sudden longing for you. It just
    didn’t work out and you’re a ghost now
    from novel memory. I feel the stillness
    of the stars through me. And I wait, and
I wait for the exit out. I thought I would
break but I didn’t. The sun glares and
suns1_400glares and glares at me, while the love of
my life stares me down. Veins branch
out in my heart, but I am still me. I think
of the greenness of the day, the ochre
found in the environment, the energy found
in the day, and the photosynthesis that
takes place. At times like this I like to
think of the rain. How it washes my sins
and dirt and dust away leaving us pure
and clean. The lion-eye of the sky blue-
vital and clear as day to me. I think of
first loves, and purpose. I think of the child’s
small back, brown neck, dark eyes, his
love for raisins that I don’t have. I think
of genetics, illness in the family, his sunburned face. The
bridges he will have to cross one-day in
the future. I think of the fists that he
makes when he is angry, when he cries out
when he’s frustrated, and I wonder to
myself if I did that when I was his age. Yes,
I think of his moon eyes. His dark-brown
hair cut into a Mohawk-style. I think of
how I can write a book about his energy.
His soul is the Pacific. My brother is (everything to me)
stronger than I am. I’ve learned from my parents
that you can only marry someone who
is your equal. Intellect must match like

a pattern found in the ocean-sea, a
wave, an ohm, time, vibration. The match must
flow like the river flows into the sea. Together
my parents have achieved this imperfect
life. A love that I’ve searched for my entire
life. But I searched for this life in the dark,
falling into the dark finding imbalance
when I closed my eyes. I burned my fingers.
Salt and light in my eyes. Maybe it was
a blessing in disguise that I never found
the love of my life, settled down to raise
a family, had those children. That I write
now instead of having everything else.

Abigail George has two books in the Ovi Bookshelves,
“All about my mother” & “Brother Wolf and Sister Wren”
Download them, NOW for FREE HERE!


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AntySaurus Prick 913 by Thanos Kalamidas

For more AntySaurus Prick, HERE!

For more Ovi Cartoons, HERE!

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For all those nameless… by Gordana Mudri

What are you thinking, you nameless stranger, when you sit alone, without words, in front masses of people who are running around without stopping? No one sees you. No one stops. No one speaks. And you are just sitting there, looking at the well-known streets after such a long time; and you see – nothing. Your eyes are staring into the distance. Your body is here, but your thoughts are trapped forever in some other place; in some other time.

lone02_400For how long haven’t you been here? Do you remember the time “before”? The time, before you started counting dead…

You knew, you had to be there. You knew it wouldn’t be easy, but…   no one said to you that hell has so many circles…

How many lifeless bodies have you pulled out? How many children’s eyes have you shut forever? How many screams in the night have you counted? How much grief, pain and suffering a human can bear, soaking like a sponge, until the last cell in the body burst… until he has to run away. To save himself… or in the end he won’t save anyone else …anymore.

Now you are sitting here, far from hell, trying to heal your own wounds, alone and forgotten. You’re trying to soak the warmth of the sun but your feet are still wet and cold of the deadly waves of the Aegean Sea. Your bones are frozen from the snows of the Balkans, your skin is covered with mud of the shores of Calais.

The sun died. You don’t feel it anymore. All you have is this deep darkness and this invisible and indelible wounds in your soul. You sacrificed yourself without asking for anything in return.

You knew you had to be there… And you will be there again, among hundreds of those who feel the same like you, to fight the waves, winter and mud, in the battle for humanity.

Without asking – who is going to save you…

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The fall by Bohdan Yuri

The skin touches, the flesh burns;
jerks from fearing singes,
fragile is its thought.
inclination presses on, confirmed,
planted by sure reason.
smothered in bright chrome,
dare again before it’s cold.
confused, our complex circuit
of stirred up reaction.

again, such tempered seasons
contest our barest struggles,
unfolding truths which lead astray
our most transparent of ways.
battle we must, such delicate skin,
choosing truth or impulse stains,
tear me from the surface brim,
either way, the play can strain,
choose again each whittled day.


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