About linaji

I am having a good time with life now that I pay attention to how I feel. If I don't feel so good I look to what I am thinking and from there I change everything.

LOve Of…

Love of… Each Other, Family, Country, Self, Music, Divine, LIFE! There is so much to love.
Since the month of Febuary will be part of this weeks blog I wanted to represent the beauty and the expansive nature of love in image and in written works.




My Australia is a long and winding
Great ocean road, whose every curve
Holds the promise of new delights and insights.
My Australia feels, sounds, smells and
Tastes of diversity.
Your Australia is white, middle-class
And totally un-groovy.
Your Australia is a straight and narrow
Highway to an old-fashioned, fascist,
Anal-retentive hell!
My Australia is generous, creative,
Adventurous and psychedelic!
My Australia is rich in ways
You could never understand.
My Australia is this ever changing,
Ever beautiful,
Great Southern Land!!!


Goa Family Sunset

Liam Carroll


The Cellist

Caleb Hamm


Fitting Room


I would rather be standing
in gale force winds
with one who understands my soul
than sitting quietly
in a peaceful meadow
surrounded by those who don’t
the winds bring much to learn
and give me strength to endure
but the foremost gift they offer
is the room in which to grow

Out of Balance


Who Is It?


Who is it
that calls my name
in the whisper of the wind,
writes my name
across the sky
in wispy ink?
Who is it
that sits chattering
in the corner of my mind,
utters inaudible secrets
across a void
in ancient time?
Be it you,
who yearns for life,
with inconsolable grief,
or you,
who longs for death,
for peaceful rest?

Who is it
that watches from within
in the in between of l,
offers enigmatic dreams
across deep sleep
in cryptic cry?
Who is it
that whistles
in the tune of me,
reflects my presence
across the now
in a haunting key?
Be it you,
who desires companionship,
with aching penmanship,
or you,
who plays buried songs,
with melancholic lungs?

Who is it
that dares trespass upon me
in the quietude of my temple,
waltzing awkward steps
across my spine
in ever spinning spiral?
Who is it
that plays
in the sanctity of one’s sanctum,
tossing sacred balance
across the chaos
in darkest stratum?
Be it you,
who seeks divine light,
with broken wings in flight,
or you,
who walks on shifting sands,
with fumbling hands?

Be it who you are,
my name is my own
and I’ll drink your ink
across the sky,
dancing my steps
to any wind blown.
Be it who you are,
my sanctuary will stand strong
and I’ll sleep in tranquil slumber
across the dreams,
whistling my tune
to my own song.


Camellia Queendom

Aglaia b




The Boy Too Bright for Meters

Cynthia Lund Torroll

Intensity shot through his form
unnoticed but to those
who saw in his stillness

pure stealth

It was a practiced tone
years of tamped down brilliance
distilled presentable to cruelty by blood
(and one not skilled enough to shield him)

He lives ferociously
Tearing down weed, chopping birch
to hone a harvest plenty

He hears with radar

He notes indelibly

His soul a defiant strength

In spite of everything
the Eye that just sees Yes


Charons Lullaby

Angi and Silas



Laurie Search

6 your hand is a petroglyph inside my walls

Erich Biemer

running a finger across the mosaic
of lips, full and bitter sweet
a tympani is the best reflection
of all these spin networks
baritone knots have proven
the most effective tamper
for certain flames

i haven’t allowed flowers
since after you died

“how can a gardenia hurt anyone?”

wearing a mask
can be a grounding point
white and red oak masks
for the tango of a flask

glasses and obsidian eyes
hide the dizziness
fighting sleep

you rub them with your middle fingers
nose bridge to corners
before shifting your feet to the floor
to get a cold drink
-small moments can make a life
and you know you have forgotten something that lurks
somewhere in the constellation of a brain pan

“calm can be a word for lie”

you look at your fingers
smudged with sawdust ink
and brush them off
on the metal collar

i will not name it
i will not give it the power
of naming
night flier
speaker of the dead

another watches
as you stand facing
a wall
not understanding you moved
through it
long ago

they only wanted to tell you what you already knew/know
i have filled my crossbow with broken arrows instead
and wait on the tracks for the black wind train

i gave up singing too
but painting poetry still came back
even on the worst days
my heart aches
the floor creaks
and yes
on and on
in shade
the words beat

© by ebiemer

TOUCHED BY FIRE … December 13th 2010

This week I’m so excited about the images and the poetry selections in our ‘Touched by Fire Group‘.
There is a running theme throuhout that I call the FIRE WITHIN which is a fire I’ve felt most of my life.
This fire means, passion and humor, questioning life and in the end, acceptance.

When I was in my late 20’s I started to read Carlos Castaneda who hooked me with a great way of storytelling while presenting much to think about on the road to finding out life is not so humdrum; if one looked and felt a bit deeper one may find the magical fabric of life.

Here is a quote I still hold dear today as I work with the tools of the Law of Attraction; from the book Fire Within:

“Think about it: what weakens us is feeling offended by the deeds and misdeeds of our fellow men. Our self-importance requires that we spend most of our lives offended by someone.”
— Carlos Castaneda (The Fire from Within)

I find the work below quite stunning, sturring up my heart-fire. The poems sing and prod lovingly at my core.
I know without a doubt as I weave inside and out, this gallery of verse and vision, I am not alone. The passion and the wisdom from this group and this blog give me pause and a lovely sense of joy.

So fasten your heartbelt and let the potbelly stove of your dreams start to simmer. Welcome to this weeks journey of the FIRE WITHIN

Reflections of Fire on Water

David Hatton

tie a yellow ribbon around my dancing feet …..


I ‘m not the same person since I met you.
I believe I’ll not see my world quite the same way again.
There’s been a shift in me, funny how things are now louder in my head and I thought they were loud before.
A reflective surface inside me is gently paving a subtle deliberate sense of love.
The rain feels on some days warmish with the innocence of a deer, doe eyes gently blinking shyness against my skin.

Yes there’s the usual unbroken curves , shore lines that are too far away and boxes that nag at me to be ticked.
The clothes mending I can’t be bothered doing still sits , I’ve been mending me instead.
Electricity holds the same childlike fascination, the wonder of what a marvelous invention with the flick of a switch.
I’ve not lost the tendency either to be more practical minded later in the afternoon.

I still remain loyal to a fervent disgust of that activity called ironing which I’ve renamed crease killing.
Chocolate’s the usual currency of treason to weaken my resolve to open the pantry door and peruse the shelves.
I will always feel uneasy when I witness the act of deliberate meanness which now I find myself uncomfortably shifting my weight.
I can be unkind at times and it doesn’t make me feel like wrapping a smile to my heart…

Since I met you I have noticed the colors are different.
Greens seem deeper in rich oxygen delighting my lungs in healthy exhalation.
Walking in the park heals at every step.

Red is hungry and hot as always but the heat of red sometimes will now hermetically seal those conversations with argument tailored around the edges.
I’ve bitten back into those moments with a hope to re-open dialogue and teethed badly on the risk I took.
Words forever trapped in a stale moment, though this could perhaps be a view of ‘not so good’ judgment.

Since I me you I have to write my thoughts down for I fear I won’t know how to speak them without the courage of my written page.
You have taken my corners and unfolded me like a long lost letter.
I rejoice feeling more seen in more ways and that’s so very good for invisible ink.

I love yellow so much more, sunflower yellow, believe yellow, egg yolk yellow, dazzle yellow and ribbon yellows…
I can dance in yellow even when I can’t feel my feet.

© Arcadia Tempest 2010


Vasile Stan

Song Of Songs


She knew I was Joseph
a prophetic hypnosis confiscated
in Egypt all these years
subliminal messages delivered through
the Pharaoh’s dreams
but no parting of the desert
leading to steps into heaven
an old testament warrior
beaten down with life’s echo
needing soul justice
to heal the branches in the middle of the storm
she was hungry to be my salvation
as her mind slipped away
in the movie reel from the bourbon
flavored breeze that commenced
life on her ripened lips
her breast a palm tree
waving firm hands
gathered wind
kissing my barren lips
drowning the trumpet sounds
of death’s angels
freedom lilies exhaled
crawled on marble scent
to her valley
where I feasted on orchard of pomegranates
drinking from her Lebanon river
while laying on a bed coated with frankincense and myrrh
her foreign spices sprinkled on my fallen skin
brewing a garden of ten thousand lives
O I love thee extol from the catacomb
of my chest
words resting on her eyelids
she tasted my vine
drinking the flourish
chariots of happiness stemmed from her body
don’t make haste my beloved
her accent trembled by my ears
as I closed my ability to see
feeling stream of middle eastern river
washing away desert miles.

Endless Possibilities

Animi Dawn

The Infinite Kiss

Stephen Gorton



I stand here
watch you pass
in Time’s dim light
like petals of a dream
in the ambience of memory.
Do you remember
floating on air,
walking on water,
plucking stars from Heaven’s vault
to give us light,
kissing Venus
and making her blush?
Do you remember
the silence we spoke,
touching with misty eyes,
dancing with moist lips
to a rhythm of our making,
drunk on moonbeams
and sunrise passion?
Do you remember
naked innocence entwining,
embracing the chalice of youth
like tomorrow ‘s forgotten ghost,
melting as one
with celestial molecules
in a jasmine scented breeze?



Pearls…dying on the broken lava.
Long and winding, the steps.
The Woman under the dress,
summer showering the Earth.
You…looking… me… deviant eyes.
You…smelling… me dried heart.
You…covering my shoulders….
me… dreaming forth inside.
Present tense… I love.
Past ago… was gone.
Future…ahead… my back.
Nowhere to go… inviting road.
What is it… behind the Dark?
Twisted trees, crashed souls.
Bowing to the Sea… under shore.
The more we walk…
they seem to recede….
like a trickster rainbow,
feeling our blow.
Rainy Day… Woman.
The Queen and her Escort.


Blake Steele

Feathers and chestnuts
sea shells and stones,
old churches to pray in
silent, alone:
sitting half in the sunshine
and half in the night,
half naked in shadows,
half blinded by light .
A rugged old country,
red cows in the lane,
a little fox running,
the color of flame.
Mists on the mountains,
wild hawks in the trees
a faint song of freedom
in the gray of the breeze.
Slowly my face
turns the texture of stone,
old village walls
and mystical moons:
slowly my soul
finds the path of the wind
deep in the dark
of a wintry wood.
Chickens and berries
and goats in the grass,
silence and singing
of a love that passes
out into memory
with barely a sigh,
sweet in the shadows
of an opening eye.
Without a glimmer,
bereft of all reason
seasons are passing
into a season
when minds melt down
to the roots of the heart
where music and madness
and ecstasy start.
Feathers and chestnuts
sea shells and stones,
old churches to pray in
silent, alone:
sitting half in the sunshine
and half in the night,
half naked in shadows,
half blinded by light .

Dance Like You Mean It

Sybille Sterk

Dusk Wing Butterfly


A flutter of wings close to my head as I stood under the cumquat trees
Watching the water from the hose spraying the rich brown root-
Inhaling the hot air of the cigarette, watching it burn so close to my fingers
A blink, as the ash falls flying out into the dust filled air,
A blink then a strange weaving, jumping, dip of a dance, defying
The strong gusts of wind, battering serrated green leaves,
Pushing and pressing into the small branches with a startling urgency

Standing transfixed and stock still- holding my breath-
I have never seen one of your kind this close up before
I have never seen the delicate tuffs of fur you wear
Nor the blackness of your wings, trimmed with the most blinding sprinkles of gold-

I leaned into the tree wanting to blend my black shirt-
A colour and texture obviously manufactured in opposition to the lushness of the living-
Hoping to encourage you to stay
And wondered at you- so intent on laying those little white eggs
Would even notice that my shirt was the same colour as your wings-
How very human
To think of myself, as being significant to a creature
That can only be the epitome of the word “miracle”

In the middle of your dance, other insects in the court-yard-
Appeared in my peripheral vision-the helicopter dragon-fly and the pure white
Smaller butterfly- buried themselves in the background,
The chorus to your performance

I was holding my hand up against my fore-head, even though the sky
Was covered in white clouds, the clouds had that hint of sun behind them
Creeping out at the corners to sting my naked eye-balls
The skin at the corners, when I am old will have wrinkles to show for it
And will pull tightly gathered together when I smile or laugh or cry.



Mark Stanley