visitors’ contributions

A Cosmic Shift, the Divine Mother, and a Novel Idea

Most remember back in 2012 before the Mayan calendar ended, some predicted an apocalypse (humans’ first response is usually to be afraid of anything they don’t understand). I didn’t pay it much mind, already living through other apocalyptic scares, Y2K among them. 

But what I didn’t know would surprise me later. Many said 2012 wasn’t actually the end of the world, but the beginning of a “feminine shift” in world consciousness, ushering in a new age of unity, open communication and compassion toward Mother Earth.

In the summer of 2012, clueless about any feminine shift, I awoke in the middle of the night with an idea for a short story: “What if women ruled the world?”

As I got to writing, I realized it was more than a short story, and it grew into a full-sized novel. Finally, in 2017, my wife told me about this feminine shift in consciousness that was supposed to begin in 2012, right when I started the book. 

It made me start to wonder, “Did I write the book, or did the book write me?”

Quandaries aside, the idea behind this predicted cosmic change in consciousness is that Earth has reached a tipping point due to mankind’s aggression and greed, but will be saved by restoring the values of the once banished Divine Mother, realizing it’s our only choice for survival. 

The story I wrote eventually became The Last Leader, featuring a female president who represents the rise in female power, fierce at first to match the aggressive levels of masculine energies. The story wrestles with such themes against a futuristic backdrop, delving into the effect of this shift on men, and glimpsing the possibility of ultimate balance.

As we look out at a world polluted by the excesses of humanity, we see a desperate need to restore the values of the Divine Mother, by showing compassion toward our planet and each other, standing down injustice and using intuition to solve what may seem unsolvable.

Since 2012, there are signs of the shift both real and imagined: On a large scale, 2018 became the “Year of the Woman” with a record number of 117 women sent to Congress, many focused on healing Mother Earth. On a small scale, in 2019, I published my first novel that asked the question, “What if women ruled the world?”

Link for more info about the book is here:

the last leader

Excerpt from The Last Leader (Chapter 13) by Joe Moody

The Milky Way marched toward the moon like a procession of candle bearers. Atop the Pink House, the face of the moon reflected upon the glassy surface of a koi pond. A sobbing, swooning tune radiated from a golden harp.

Emperia strummed the harp with eyes closed, creating melodies of pining and regret. She wore a silk gown inspired by the American flag, with silvery stars and red stripes draped down her leg. White flowers adorned her hair like a crown.

Deliberately, her fingers swept the strings as the despondent dirge took form. She swooped up the scale as the pace quickened, plucking with rapid-fire precision, stomping the harp’s pedals like weapons of war. At the climax, the pond’s surface rippled in cascading circles, and the koi jumped and danced. Finally, with a gentle sweep of the strings, she drifted down to the resolution where chords lingered like clouds. The pond became still again as she returned to the melancholic opening, notes evoking deep violet and blood red hues that gave the moon its howling face.

When she stopped playing, she gazed skyward, her powderwhite skin glowed under the stars. Her red lips quivered as she whispered. “My father, why did you leave me?”

Only silence answered, until the gentlemanly voice of Vincent lifted the mood. “Pardon me, Madam President.” He stood in the arched gateway of the rooftop garden in his metallic tuxedo. “I bring good news.”

The presence of her robotic confidant pierced through her inner fog like a sunbeam. “Yes, Vincent?”

“We made progress in our search for the rebels. Underwater drones tracked an unidentified submarine that made a brief stop at an island in the Caribbean Sea. There is a high probability we located our runaway vice president, and perhaps a rebel base too.”

Emperia’s gaze sharpened. All sadness left her body. Confidence bloomed in her expression. She stood up from the harp, straight as a pillar, clasping her hands. “Prepare three warships. Let’s show the world what happens to traitors.”

each day is a new one

by J.D.

Each day is a new one

Made special by me.

I breathe deeper, dream harder, look closer.

It’s all here right now,

All that I need or want it to



I’ve no time for playing

Earth Mother, Hecate or Crone.

I’ve found out the mystery—

My wise woman’s alive

Every minute inside me.

on the occasion of my 60th birthday (and pending financial poverty)

by j.d.

I practice a hundred frugalities

I eat my toast without jam

I shut off each light I’m not using

I try to live small as I can.

But, music keeps playing inside me

My mind sings a million new tunes

My-self is a universe unfolding

I’m a river that will not be damned

I run into mornings with laughter

Little Goddesses dance on my windowsills.


Perchance a bleak future awaits me

Living does take what it can


Death may be an added adventure

Yet, to living I answer

I am!!!!!


by Josette Davison


Through fields of tiny flowers

Mindful not to tread on them

I wonder…does God hear me?

Hear my prayer?


Why am I here?

Stumbling over stones

His answer comes

In a trinity of bright violets

Blooming midst the rocks


In the whisper of trees

In bird song — in scented air

He speaks to me

Answers my prayer

I hear — I care —

a prayer

by Josette Davison

Lord, let me not be bitter

For bitterness crawls into itself

And awaits a shrunken death

But let this raw heart

Stand back from its wound

Accepting and knowing

That love is its healing

homage to the goddess

homage to the goddess
homage to the goddess



by judy cassidy

For thirty years, this exotic immigrant from the tropics has been part of our family. She’s irresistibly sexy, sassy, her feathered, outstretched arms poised in dance. Her head gracefully tilts to accommodate her regal eight-foot height to an intrusive ceiling. She coos evergreen to her tree children, who gather close to her spindly trunk, growing under her protective canopy.

We attend her. In warmer seasons we move her to the deck where she sunbathes and is replenished by storms and gentle rains. We bring her inside in frosty weather.

Our children have known only She for holy days. As the winter solstice nears, when all else is dark and barren, she announces the coming year in splendid regalia, festooned in a holiday robe generations in the making. Her lighted undergarments gleam red, yellow, green, and blue. Following tradition, ornaments adorn her: framed photos of the young ones, sparkling pipe cleaner dream catchers and spirals from the granddaughters, sprightly Santas of red pipe cleaner Grandma Mommie Lemm conceived during the Depression; yarn and popsicle stick weavings by one of our boys, a bell ringer by the other; our daughter’s fluffy cotton snowman. Friends contributed crocheted Morton House wreathes and snowflakes, a British gentleman with a light bulb head and proper collar; a simple star of dry reeds.

Too heavy for her delicate limbs, some ripened fruits settle easily around the goddess, surrounding her on the coffee table, windowsills, banister, lamps, rims of hanging pots: Mom’s home-made golden globe studded with sparkling beads and sequins, Bruce and Maggie’s Mexican nativity; Aunt Francis’s music box topped with a choir of cherubs; fragrant candles with gaily flickering flames.

Wind chimes carol outside the east window. Cedars scent the path. Blue spruce, now sixty feet tall, stretch skyward, were once lugged into the house for the winter solstice in pots bigger than they were. Now they wear cranberry and popcorn garlands for the birds.

We are replenished by what we offer.

traci barr shares her creative process

traci barr

The poem “Seeing” popped into my head while I was reflecting upon the way I felt about a man who told me he loved me…and then who chose to not act upon his feelings.

I eventually came to believe that he said he was in love with me just for the “thrill” of it and in order to stroke his own ego.

Because he speaks a lot about the subject of love, I wrote this poem in response to what, I thought, was his hypocrisy. In the relatively brief interaction I had with him, my own ideas about love changed quite a lot, and I began to think of him as a used-car salesman.

Sometimes an idea for a poem will start rattling around in my head in a way that becomes very, very distracting.

The only way to make the rattling go away is for me to…write the poem.


by Traci Barr


You look at me and see

everything you fear:

every truth,

every lie,

every puddle,

every apple,

every brick in the wall.


I look at you and see

the sample boy

in a wool factory.


And that is the difference

between us.


by Meta Marie Griffin


I will not ask for relief;
only for stamina to make it through the night.
I cannot ask for a convenient belief,
instead an enigmatic mosaic full of darkness and light.
I do not desire magic in a bottle.
but the need to pay attention
to the miracle of butterflies and flight,
and all the life around me that is so often unseen.
I do not desire a throng of friends,
help me to find love in my own skin
so that when we meet,
you will recognize my face.
I will not wish for a cure.
I only need the strength to take that next step
and when I reach the top I will wait for you there.
I will leave behind this little prayer.

pretty please

by: carolyn c. rice


he said my hair was
the color of honey.
his lay in soft
shiny-black commas behind
his ears against
the smooth, brown skin of his neck.

I looked into his
dark eyes, a little tilted,
like Pan.
he said, careful
fingers unbuttoning the top two
buttons of my blouse,
may I see?

so polite.
so unassuming.
who could say no?


“Pretty Please” first appeared in The Petigru Review.

strawberry pleasures

by: carolyn c. rice

Skin heating

Noon’s caress
Hands busy, leaves
haired, thick springing
Fingers stalk kneading
teasing top ruddy glowing

Mouth filled – flesh,
juice overflowing
Stinging kisses, touched,
releasing perfume –
earthy balm


“Strawberry Pleasures” first appeared in Horizons.


peacock display

by: carolyn c. rice


lift and fan
fluff and smooth
brush brush brush
artlessly proud
humorously vain

red changing to green –
one last preen and
satisfied glance at his
hair in his rearview mirror
before driving away

“Peacock Display” first appeared in Horizons.


by: carolyn c. rice

It’s been too long since I’ve been lost.
I don’t mean the common or mall variety of lost,
though I do that too.
I don’t mean the scary nighttime Oh my God I’m running out of gas kind of lost,
though I do that too.
I don’t even mean the middle of the night in my own house lost.
No, I mean a full of myself lost,
a secret mischief lost,
an I can do anything hide and watch me lost.
Myself, lost and found.

I mean the kind of lost I was in New York City on foot
when I went out the wrong exit of the Museum of Modern Art,
wandered clueless as a cloud, and ran right smack dab into a Shoe Museum.
A SHOE museum!
Fifteenth Century Venetian noblewoman’s shoes,
medieval peasant clogs,
Judy Garland’s Wizard of Oz slipper.
You could have a fit a shoe in my smile.

I drove down to New Orleans for the King Tut exhibit.
I got lost.
Round and round humid, shady streets,
past wrought-iron balconies and bougainvillea,
back and forth on the bridge over Lake Ponchartrain,
until the warm wet air blowing in my car window,
spicy as Cajun sausage,
smelling of mildew, oil refineries, and heated swamp,
became familiar again,
scents of childhood.

I flew to Holland for my sister’s wedding.
After the wedding I took a train to Amsterdam.
I ended up in The Hague.
I met three college students
who took me to the Madurodam,
through village streets no wider than my shoe,
by church steeples no high than my knee,
alongside a solemn procession of altar boys, Lilliputians.

On the island of Hydra in the Saronic Gulf off the cost of Greece,
only a few steeply-climbing streets and one long dusty road.
I got lost anyway.
Flame-blue sky pressing the noonday heat onto the white stone walls.
Houses, their bright-painted windows tight-shuttered,
keeping out the sun and strangers.
I followed a dog
to the fish market.
Bins of squid, lobster, shrimp,
pans of whole anchovies,
pushcart grill, man cooking octopus,
tiny tables filled with men drinking ouzo
who helped me get back to the ship.

My straight-arrow cousin from Texas came to visit me.
I took her to Asheville, and, of course,
I got lost.
She was outraged.
She needed guidebooks, compass, maps,
paper security,
blue and red lines weaving a safety net,
pathfinders to follow down a narrow, hard-paved road.
She was so angry that I let her drive my new car.
She drove it backwards down a freeway entry ramp.

I do use guidebooks to plan my treks,
each historic site safe recorded on my written plan.
But … I turn the wrong way at a corner.
I see an alleyway, a gate, a door.
I find an old woman sitting on her doorstep making lace,
her gnarled fingers moving swift as swallows’ flight.
Her wise old eyes nested in wrinkles watch me watching her.
Spindles, stacks of slender pylons, frame her lap.
Wings of fine threads, secured to a solid body of pins
on a runway of red and blue cloth.
Above, clouds, constellations of lace.

One day soon I will find myself again
down an unexplored street, driving
along an unknown highway, a sojourner
beneath unfamiliar skies, a striver struggling
up a steep hill and across the wide ocean,
even in and around my own home place, an explorer.
Somewhere in this strange and magical universe,
I will be lost again.


“Lost” first appeared in Earth’s Daughters.