Two young lovers lie facing the moon
As they read lines of my muse passion
In other to discern the secret of my heart
Air of warm kisses kissed their thought
For they never parted not like we're fated to part

As petals of rose withered from my heart
Yet I am sorry to say I love you
For my mind is hungry and wait to devour you
as storm choruses your name into my heart
Maybe dead will be one to separate us at last

As the lilies attract so my love for you shine
jealousy flown away your love for my shrine
No deception for I filled your dream with kisses
As spinning ***** you reoccurred in my heart
I decide to go for the tree of passion will bear no fruit

In my heart I solely love you as a decorated thorns
Running still as water towards a turbine
Generating bewildered lights in our souls
As the energy continues to revamp our love
The springtide will make us fly as doves

Written by
Martin Ijir

The Owls are Watching

In memory of Helen Martins
'The Owl House'
Nieu Bethesda, South Africa

In sculpture and rock rested your art
Cement faces that speak volumes
Of emotions and tales untold
As mysterious as your life itself
Glittering walls of crushed glass
That shone by candlelight
Outside of art you were branded
Though remembered as unique and ahead of your time
With big glass eyes the owls watch the world
What was once your sanctuary
Now a showcase to the world
Recognized at last
Unspeakable loneliness of a soul misunderstood
Now your handwritten letters are framed and displayed for all to read
But you don't mind the curiosity of mankind
With cement hands raised to the heavens facing the east
You drank your chosen cup
Your Mecca now complete

Written by Sean Achilleos
28 March 2016©

How this poem came about:

I was a visitor to the Owl House Nieu-Bethesda South Africa in 2015. Approximately, one year later I was inspired to write a poem about the late great Helen Martins. I was intrigued by the eccentricity of this woman.

One evening while in my living room and enjoying a glass of wine, my eye caught the cement owl in my windowsill which I had purchased outside the Owl House from a vendor. I saw its big blue glass eyes glaring at me. At the time I was listening to a Jennifer Ferguson record, and decided to write while the music was playing. Once I had completed the poem I felt exhausted. Then a very strange phenomena occurred, the lights went off for a few seconds and came back on, unlike a power surge. It reoccurred a second time that same evening, and never since. It felt like a supernatural intervention. As far fetched as it may sound, it seemed like Mrs. Martins had personally given her approval of the poem. I then decided to email it to the official Owl House website. I didn't think much would come of it. However, they embraced the poem and were generous enough to display it on their official Website for a number of years under a section titled "A Visitor's Perspective".

https://g.co/kgs/BPyx1U

nights rang with slamming doors
days half empty
like her creaking king sized bed
mirror reflected regret
poured down the sink
along with her budded cigarettes
the memories
she tried to forget
building bridges
that were burned for twenty years
with her matches
that he gave her
slept-in cars
driven over
the crossing line
of arguments that reoccurred

mornings rang with silence
air filled with tension
thick enough to start a forest fire
if the lighter fluid's out
put the cigarette to your mouth
it'll burn more than
your love ever did

A funny thing occurred to me the other day,
Then deoccurred,
Then reoccurred.
Then it occurred to me that it wasn't that funny.
Well, nothing to write about anyway.

By: Cedric McClester



You can call ‘em
Indians, indigenous
Or whatever you prefer
I call ‘em the landlords
Cuz that’s what they were
It’s a rare thought
That doesn’t occur
To those who refer to them as a slur

You can call’em
Indians, indigenous
Or whatever you prefer
By why call ‘em savages
That time-honored slur
When you are the savages
As it were
And the history books
Certainly concur

You can call’em
Indians, indigenous
Or whatever you prefer
But them saving your lives
Didn’t deter
You from slaughtering ‘em
For their pelts of fur
Which you seemed to accomplish
In a historical blur

You can call ’em
Indians, indigenous
Or whatever you prefer
And treat them like
They were demur
Then claim their land
By creating a stir
Which again and again reoccurred











Cedric McClester, Copyright © 2019. All rights reserved.

It took many years to track down the compound
but I finally acquired it in the spring of '21.

It caused increases in timbral perception and aural acuity.
I could hear marching drums coming from the city center,
From across the lough I could pick out their faint rhythms.

At times things sound as if they've been shifted a 5th down
or have reverberant/echoic tails on them.

My housemate found it hard to understand me
when I neglected to pronounce my consonants
because I was not paying attention to the higher frequencies.
Despite this the cognitive effects are gentle
and unobtrusive (which is relieving
as tryptamines can produce confusion,
in concert with their enhancement and suppression cycles).

Music is listenable at this dose, and sense of rhythm intact;
Would that be the case at higher doses?

During the offset my ears felt warm,
Waves of spontaneous physical sensation washed over them.
This tingling feeling reoccurred a couple times
over the next day, albeit faintly.

Interesting that there would be an aural psychedelic.
Intriguing that other base tryptamines should be inclined
towards other sensory modalities.

DiPT for sound, MET for vision, MiPT for touch;
What sense DMT, DET, and DPT affect is unclear.
As is, the known psychedelics have a broad range
of effects. The particular specializations of the xxTs
are most curious.