NMR ISSUE 23

Astrological Forecast 23
Astrological Forecast 23
Communicating with Plants
Editorial 23
Famous Last Words
Horned One, Lover, Son The God's Father Aspect
Joy
Kali and Cernunnos
Letters 23
Magick for Money
Nature of Health
Owl
Sex-Centered Religion
The Cost of Spirituality
The Inner Secret of Magick
The Oldest Magick
Wolf

Articles
Authors
Rituals
Book Reviews
NMR Issues
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Joy

The lone taper gutters in its carven holder, and
the light
soft and orange-yellow
dances the shadows like demon
marionettes
then steadies, warm and mellow.
I repose in my ancient
and overstuffed armchair
like a king on a throne overlooking his domain.
The musty, earthy scents of my cellar sanctum
rise
about me like the memories of a golden
age long past. All around me, aged tools of
my interest
sit like neglected gargoyles
in unkempt clusters
on furniture long obsolete in the homes of
more fashionable men.
The still air holds an ancient spice, and I hear
faintly, the song of time.
I feel a cold breeze upon my skin, now
like the breath of a spectral kitten,
triggering a knowledge within me.
It comes.
I rise to my feet now, gnarly staff in hand,
braced against the ethereal wind
now blowing in my soul.
I hold the wooden stave like a scepter
(and indeed it is) and
command the power in my spirit to rise
and meet my conscious mind.
Like the ecstacy of a lover's kiss upon
the small of my back it comes.
Rushing like a tsunami through me
to my yearning's rescue.
Now the buzzing, tingling radiance spreads,
pulsing down my arms to my outstretched
hands, and leaps in witchfire arcs from my
fingers as I revel in the rare juxtaposition of
soul and body so often quenched by cruel, cold
mopwater of mundane society.
Like Solomon's living clay, the glow seeks form
and I must choose.
What purpose shall it take. Swiftly, now swiftly!
I have no need of weapons, nor of armor to
shield myself from the power
of evil's minions’ foul (though oft I
have, for it is mine to guard my realm
and those within it.)
I have no need, either, to know what fate the
future holds for me, (though oft there is
such need).
But need I have, for my solitude lies heavy
on my mind.
So now I seek to part that ebon veil
that lies between my mind and all that exists
beyond my knowledge.
Throbbing, the radiance rests upon my brow,
and I seek to glimpse
my other half, Mendorra, most
difficult of sightings.
The dark veil turns to starlit mistiness and I
smell her perfume, through ever so faintly,
like the incense
of an eastern temple
Oh sweet success! Never before
a vision of such clarity!
And I see her singing softly to herself
the ancient song
of our ancient lives,
though ever so softly, like the echo of the wind
in distant groves.
I see her as through a white-smoked
mirror, never able to discern her features,
though eyes brown and deep as the roots
of ancient Yggdrasl
are burned forever in my memory.
The sparks die slowly, and fade.
It has passed for now, and I am brought,
like one dazed by a solid blow landed
in a vicious pillow fight back to
myself. It is enough,
more than I had hoped for, I now have hope.
The game is not over yet, and I, a
veteran master, can still essay to win.
Though my knees are weak, I begin to dance
for Joy.

—M.D. Warner