Thursday, March 16, 2006



Angels must be confused by war.
Both sides praying for protection,
yet someone always gets hurt.
Someone dies.
Someone cries so deep
they lose their watery state.

Angels must be confused by war.
Who can they help?
Who can they clarify?
Whose mercy do they cast to the merciless?
No modest scream can be heard.
No stainless pain can be felt.
All is clear to angels
except in war.

When I awoke to this truth
it was from a dream I had last night.
I saw two angels conversing in a field
of children's spirits rising like silver smoke.
The angels were fighting among themselves
about which side was right
and which was wrong.
Who started the conflict?

Suddenly, the angels stilled themselves
like a stalled pendulum,
and they shed their compassion
to the rising smoke
of souls who bore the watermark of war.
They turned to me with those eyes
from God's library,
and all the pieces fallen
were raised in unison,
coupled like the breath
of flames in a holy furnace.

Nothing in war comes to destruction,
but the illusion of separateness.
I heard this spoken so clearly I could only
write it down like a forged signature.
I remember the compassion,
mountainous, proportioned for the universe.
I think a tiny fleck still sticks to me
like gossamer threads
from a spider's web.

And now, when I think of war,
I flick these threads to all the universe
hoping they stick on others as they did me.
Knitting angels and animals
to the filamental grace of compassion.
The reticulum of our skyward home.


I am listening for a sound beyond sound
that stalks the nightland of my dreams,
entering rooms of fossil-light
so ancient they are swarmed by truth.

I am listening for a sound beyond us
that travels the spine's
invisible ladder to the orphic library.
Where rebel books revel in the unremitting light.
Printed in gray, tiny words with quicksand depth
embroidered with such care they
render spirit a ghost, and God,
a telescope turned backwards upon itself
dreaming us awake.

Never-blooming thoughts surround me
like a regatta of crewless ships.
I listen leopard-like,
canting off the quarantine of bodies
sickened by the monsoon of still hearts.
There is certain magic
in the heartbeat which crowds the sound I seek,
but it is still underneath the beating I wish to go.
Underneath the sound of all things
huddled against the tracking dishes
that turn their heads to the sound of stars.

I am listening for a sound unwound,
so vacant it stares straight with the purity to peer
into the black madness of time
sowing visions that oscillate in our wombs
bearing radiant forms as the substrate of our form.

When I look to the compass needle
I see a blade of humility
bent to a force waylaid like wild rain
channeled in sewer pipes.
Running underground
in concrete canals that quiver,
laughing up at us as though we were lost
in the sky-world with no channel for our ride.

I am listening for a sound
in your voice,
past the scrub terrain of your door
where my ear is listening on the other side.
Beneath your heart where words go awkward
and light consumes the delicate construction of mingled lives.
I can only listen for the sound I know is there,
glittering in that unpronounceable, stateless state
quarried of limbs so innocent
they mend the flesh of hearts.

The beautiful words above are poems found hidden in Chambers deep within the earth and left for us to discover and understand now.

If you are not familiar with Wingmakers and their message here is a little snip from the background story of the original Wingmaker's Site

In 1972, in a remote section of northern New Mexico, a group of hikers discovered an unusual artifact and pictographs within an obscure canyon. An archeologist from the University of New Mexico analyzed the artifact and searched the area where it was discovered, but found no signs that a prehistoric culture had established any permanent site in the canyon. It was presumed that a nomadic, Native American Indian tribe had occasionally used the canyon as a temporary settlement and had left behind a few artifacts of their presence as a consequence.

There were, however, two very puzzling questions. All but one of the artifacts could be dated to the 8th century AD. The exception, known as the "compass" artifact, appeared to be an unusual form of technology, and was found among more typical artifacts like pottery and simple tools. The compass was covered in strange hieroglyphic symbols, some of which were also found on the pottery. Secondly, the pictographs that were found in the area had inexplicably appeared, and they were strikingly different than any of the other native petroglyphs or rock art found in the southwest or the entire continent for that matter.

Because of these two anomalies, the artifacts and the entire project quickly became the property of the US government, or more specifically, the National Security Agency. It was decided that these artifacts might suggest a pre-historical, extraterrestrial presence on earth, and that the NSA had the appropriate agenda and wherewithal to initiate a full-scale, scientific expedition to determine the nature and significance of the site.

The painting illustrated above is from Chamber 5. Here is a link for Paintings Chamber 1 – 23. Paintings

Should you choose to explore the WingMakers website, please be aware that the current website at has been changed in a number of ways from its original form. The WingMakers story there has been seriously distorted to the point of being disinformation. Fortunately, the WingMakers website in its original form can still be accessed from the original WingMakers home page at Ancient Arrow

This original WingMakers home page and all of its links are part of the original, uncorrupted website, and not linked to or from the current home page or any of its links. To explore how the WingMakers website has changed over time, you can use the Internet Archive

to access a succession of past versions of the website since its earliest days by clicking here

(the first entry should be Jan. 1999—always check date in the top address bar, as it sometimes rolls to a much newer version). For further information on how the website has been changed and corrupted, contact the site where this original Wingmakers information is hosted at I Want to Know

If you found this WingMakers essay to be meaningful, you may appreciate two other inspirational writings. The first is a concise, two-page essay on what’s happening in the world and what we can do about it. Titled Building a Brighter Future, this compelling summary is available at Brighter Future

The second is an inspiring essay titled Simple Keys to a Fuller Life available at Keys to Life

Wingmakers - Shifting Paradigms of Consciousness

Monday, March 06, 2006

The Exit Door Leads In

I haven’t written anything on here in quite some time. Life has lots of noise and lots of doorways that lead nowhere. It’s so easy to get lost and lose yourself.

I’ve been searching all over the internet to find the way, the quick fix, the door that will lead me back to that incredible moment of heaven that I experienced. And then I ran across an old article, a biography about one of my favorite authors, Philip K. Dick.

If you are not a sci-fiction fan you may have never heard of him. But if you like movies, you might be amazed at how many of his books have been turned into movies; Bladerunner and Total Recall are just two that I can think of at the moment. Many of his works mirror the world we live in today. I just finished reading “Radio Free Albemuth” this weekend, and it’s all about mind control and nationalistic thinking. I won’t spoil the ending for you, in case you’ve never read it and want to. But it ends on a note of hope.

One of his short stories that has never seen the light of day was written for the very anti-establishment, psychedelic, tripping, early Rolling Stone Magazine. It is simply called “The Exit Door Leads In”.

And nothing could be more important today than for all of us to open and find the secret door that will lead us all back to the Garden of Eden. We hold the key.