Posts by J M Greff


a seed
blown on the wind
or carried by bird or squirrel
until deposited
in fertile soil
a spot perfectly suited
for its specific needs
pushes gently
with fragile fingers
to reach the moisture
that feeds it’s spine
to sprout tiny limbs
which slowly reach out
from the warm blanket of its birth
eternally stretching
towards the warm glow of Heaven
in such slow
graceful motion
that its progress is marked in decades
in the rings of its trunk
and its family is generations
of insect
and moss
and squirrels
and birds
that carry its seed
to other fields
to claw and scrape and sometimes
long enough to become home
to their own generations
of life
until one day
hundreds of years
and thousands
perhaps millions
of lives later
it is in the way
holding up progress
it is hacked and sawed
and uprooted
and burned for a road
or a home
or a hotel
or a parking lot
and I am reminded
that in life
there are no take backs
I can’t go back to where I began
reach out into the world
in a different direction
or replace
the paths I took
that got me here
or retrace the steps
that carried me to this point
sitting naked in a hot tub
and sipping rum
and allowing the events of my life
events that led me to a walk down this most beautiful avenue
lined with oaks
planted with purpose
full of peace
intentional peace
a grove
this family
brothers and sisters
destined to live their lives
to their very end
while I
still digging my roots deeper
my limbs higher
have every opportunity
as a gift from the Divine
to expand those roots at will
to places of my design
of Her design
I can never go back
only forward
and at any time
I too
may become
though I am still just a seed



Picture taken at Avenue of the Oaks.



just be

be yourself

Being yourself means being honest with yourself. I sometimes forget that and fall into the trap of “this is who I want to be” or “this is what I want to believe to be true”.

Those feelings are based on opportunity, desire, and a hundred other feelings that stand in opposition to truth and love and they ultimately lead to internal conflict and pain and obfuscate the Self.

I remind myself
I am also part of “the world”
that tries so hard
to make me something else
something less than myself
and release
the untruths
revealed to me
through them
by simply standing back
from what others might see
or believe to be
in order to hear my reflection say
“This is who I am”
not what I want to see
or want to be
or what others believe
but what I know to true
and though what I see
may not yet be who I am
trying so hard to become
I can see that person
looking back at me
and I say to him
“You are perfect just as you are”

I’m looking for the gratitude but…

There’s a stupid ringing in my ears
My left one mostly
The drum I blew out listening to god knows what
Far louder than anyone should
That made it sound like everyone was talking through wax paper
On a comb
Mister Effin Roboto style
Now it rings
Sometimes loud
Sometimes not so loud
Today it is a raging storm
Like a siren
And just now
Like it wasn’t bothersome enough
It kicked up a notch
I suppose
For tones I no longer hear
And those I’ve temporarily lost
Due to sinus problems
That leave the world smelling like
Like something foul
And nasty
And gives me a headache behind my eye
My left eye of course
The same one I get styes on once in a while
The one with macular degeneration
Scar tissue
From damage caused by welding
And grinding
And all sorts of other jobs
I did to pay the bills
For things I no longer own
Jobs that left my hands susceptible to cold
Like my whole left arm
Which I can’t stick in a bucket of ice without wincing
Ever since I burned it so bad
I needed a skin graft
But that’s another story
Stupid ringing in my ears


It’s funny how just writing about it seemed to make it fade some. Probably endorphins released by laughing at myself sounding like an old codger in his rocking chair yelling at the newspaper boy missing the front door by a foot. “Dammit, kid! Develop your arm already! Try throwing a football once in a while or lifting some weights or some enthusiastic masturbation! Next time I’ll throw it back at you. Right between your eyes!”

Call it practice for old age.

As if all my years will ever make me old.

Now there’s something to be grateful for.


Go through life with your eyes closed and you will miss the profound magick that surrounds and permeates us. We are constantly enveloped in it. Immersed in it. It flows through us and from us.

Open your eyes!

Look for it!

Live it!

Spring Prayer

Selene, Goddess of the Moon

You who are Maiden, Mother, Ancient Wisdom, and all things Divine

As winter releases its long hold I ask that you help me to release those things that harm or hurt or hinder

and to nurture only those that serve or enlighten

As spring returns and life renews I ask that you fold me in your love and feed my soul that I may grow

Guide my my hands, and keep my body strong, so I reflect your good intentions

Guide my mind and soul so I learn from the pain and suffering that all endure

Guide my heart and spirit, and lead me through your love, so I can fulfill your your plan and live my life as One

For these things I offer you my gratitude because I know you have already granted them


Image by Zeng Hao Dun Huang

Diablo Canyon

The night is cool and the slight breeze carries the scent of dusty jasmine, it is a welcome relief from the hot days filled with sweat. It holds a promise and a secret.

The promise reveals itself in the mating flight of two eagles that call my name as if to give me cause to look towards the edge of the volcanic cliff they glide dangerously above.

As I glance upwards I see in the stone wall a carving I have become familiar with though it is something most people miss despite its size. It is Malice, Fear, it is the summoning of a guardian to keep those at a distance who have no business being close. This is Diablo Canyon. The carving is of el Diablo himself though I am certain the name it first carried is long lost.

When the railroad passed through here many years ago the Superintendent ordered the demolition of the carving. It frightened the workers. “A bad omen”, they would say, “We are not wanted here”.

They were right.

The railroad failed. The only remnants are the beds upon which the rails once lay and even those have nearly disappeared, swallowed by a landscape that has rejected civilization and its monuments.

This is a sacred place. A place shared by the Jacarilla and Mescalero Apache, and possibly the Anasazi, the “Evil Ones” who inhabited this area long before anyone else.

It is protected by skinwalkers, shape shifters who gave up their humanity in order to live as protectors and warriors, keepers of the secrets it hides.

I once managed to track a skinwalker to its den near here, a vile and dark place that reaked of carnage, purely by accident. Later I found the ring of stones on a butte close by where the rituals were performed to bring about the transformation.

His den was only two ravines away from my own makeshift den, a 1964 International Harvestor with a massive camper built on its extended frame.


I had the permission of the BLM officer, a kind and gracious man nearing retirement, to stay there in exchange for my useless efforts to return the area to a semblance of its natural state. More importantly, I had, I hoped dearly every night, struck the same bargain with the skinwalker.

Many times as I raked the broken glass and gathered the rusted metal, victims of gunfire and carelessnes, I felt his presence and once, while hiking the ravines, careful to steer clear of his den, I saw him in the thick brush beside me, a huge dark form like a wolf but the eyes that stared back at me were the eyes of a man. Or what used to be a man.

I stood still and repeated my vow with my arms out as I did every night, hoping to please or, at least, placate him. “I am here to help. If you do not want me here you need only tell me now and I will leave”.

His heavy breathing, rich with the smell of blood and age and warm on my skin he was so close, paused while I spoke. Then, in a blur of nearly soundless motion, he leapt off and in a second was gone.

I never saw him so clearly, or so surely, again, until this night.

The eagles again called my name as if to pull me from the trance I spent four days acquiring. I was on a vision quest and the vision had begun, but it was unlike any I’d ever experienced before.


Image: “Diablo Canyon” by Christopher Wieck

Morning Glory


Drift sweetly
in your morning haze
lit with candles
from yesterdays
and colored with candied memories
of tomorrows yet to spend

Dance in the streets
with everyone you meet there
dressed in gala clothing
in a hurry where they’re going
to become what you will make them
Spring diving
or hang gliding
or skipping rope on a waterfall

Chased by a loyal brown dog
shining like a knighted rhinoceros
until tamed by your touch
and led safely to your yard
where rabbit trees
sing lullaby’s
and nesting birds
share spoken word
like beaked beatniks
while monkeys prepare
for flights to who knows where
and you
true goddess
command all
in sacred serenity

Hush now, Love
don’t you rise
there’s still so much to see
so much to do
so much to be
just close your eyes
and drift
enjoy your morning glory
while I make the morning tea
and wonder where you are