Realm of the Mystic Griffin

 Welcome to Ink Spots, my space to collect various writing of my own doing. I am an artist devoted to crafting, given over to the whim of Muse, and so I share the results of said whimsy for your reading pleasure.

Poetry is a form of expression the Muse often chooses for me, and so you shall find various poems and poetic expressions in this section of my site. I am a member of BMI, (Broadcast Music Inc. bmi.com), so lyrics to a song or two might be present as well as lyrical free form poetry. Spiritual prayers, chants, and existentialistic wanderings have no doubt also found the way to the Ink Spots pages, though they do have a space of thier own at "Mystic Words".  Let open the bottle be and set free the ink!

All contents copyright Theresa (Tree) Pruitt, and are NOT to be used for profit or personal gain. Do NOT re-publish this content on any blog, personal web site, or in any manner, other than for private personal use, without prior written consent from the author. Use Contact Page.

List of Contents

• Messenger the Raven - poem
• To My Old Friend Gone - poem
• My Eye Will Not Forget - poem
• Child's Play - poem
• Seasons and the Spiritual House; personal transformation and the house as a symbol, article
• Thorn Bush Soliloquies; sociopolitical poetry
• Wildman of the Forest - poem

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Messenger the Raven

A raven came to me this morning,

for what I could not say.

His dark eyes looked upon me,

inviting me to play.

He did not tease me or take care that I, a simple human,

could not take flight and join him in his dance up in the air.

His magic and his mystery

to me he tries to give.

I listen closely and I learn

of the world in which we live.

To travel in the darkness,

and bring back a speck of light,

is what the raven's telling me;

It's mans eternal plight.

A raven came to me this morning;

for what, I think I know.

Listen closely to the raven ....

for his magick he will show!

(copyright Tree Pruitt)

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 To my old friend gone...

Dearest companion of my youth,
How I have missed you so!
Though now many miles
And mountains stretch between us,
As do the years gone past,
I feel you with me still;
An influence that lasts.
Children running wild in woods,
Romp and giggle in my mind;
A little you, a tiny me --
Once we two were of a kind.
Adolescent words and woes
Linger in there too!
But here I do not wallow,
Mired deep in sorrows blue,
For when I'm talking to myself,
My self it is -- that's true,
But on my inner side I find...
The voice that speaks is you!          

                                        (copyright Theresa Pruitt)

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~ My Eye Will Not Forget ~

Blurred vision of a distant horizon --
Cedar rhythms dance my eye --
American rainforest a-drip with neon green.
Rivers run my pulse.
Sunset explosion of fiery, bright orange --
Solid color fills the sky,
As if upon another world!
The trees come down to kiss the shore
Where Pacific waves have their way.
Red forest trails --
My eye is filled with wonder!
Water hovers in the air.
Faces look from shapes in trees;
Primordial magic!
Moss beds and alder swamps,
Blue mountains hold a burning secret.
My eye will not forget.

                                                   ©Tree Pruitt

Artwork shown, "The Road to Aberdeen", oil on canvas painting by Tree.

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Child's Play

Eyes closed tight to make colored circles dance; painting a refusal to see the world as it is,
one lone child with its back against a playground wall imagines the whole thing real.
Shifting to gain perspective of the sky, the small thing stretches out imagined brushes
wanting to be dipped again in colors true.
Back to the shadow of wall's cool comfort, it retraced to mind made hues upon internal canvas.
I laugh now to think of it all.
I once saw a white light from above.
With closed eyes I'd waited for the end to come.
But when I opened my eyes I saw only the sun.

                                                                                                                ©Tree Pruitt 6/15/08

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  A house or other such dwelling is often used as a metaphor for, or symbol of, the inner self. Jung tells us this, but even if he'd never come along we could learn the same fact from tales in nearly every culture. Swiss psychiatrist Carl Jung's most famous concept in Analytical Psychology, the collective unconscious, first exposed the modern world to the archetype of the house. In his psychoanalytical interpretations Jung discovered that the house is a nearly universal cultural symbol of the inner self. Dreaming of a house is almost always you trying to tell yourself how you see yourself. Sound complicated? It isn't. The house is a mental picture of what's going on with you. Dream of a broken down palace and you can bet it's most likely your unconscious mind trying to get you to notice your life is a mess. Have a happy white picket fence house kind of dream and you can most likely relax and enjoy it because your house seems to be in order.

  House dreams are a type of dream that often occur throughout the life of a person. It may seem like the same dream but details will be slightly different. Well, that's because at each individual stage of life YOU are different, but it's still your house. It's a safe, though sometimes scary, place for your inner self to dwell during a transformation process or major life change. Sometimes there's a need to clean the spiritual, or inner house. It is never an easy chore but should move with grace if you are taking right action. House dreams, therefore, are markers of the cycles an individual has undergone or biographical events.

  Everything has cycles, of course this we know, but we may not always be aware of the cycles within ourselves. It could be said that human life is like the many layered onion; each layer is much like the one before yet individual nonetheless. Handle an onion correctly and it yields flavor and spice. Handle an onion in a careless manner it will stink and probably make you cry! The inner or spiritual house is where we, metaphorically, undergo the process of individuation; where we discover and create ourselves.

  The main points of the process of individuation are death, rebirth and inner union, and they can be compared to the Seasons in nature. Spring offers the birth of our experiences and new lessons. Summer is the time for growth and activity; action. In Autumn time we harvest the fruits of our labors, or experiences, so begin to realize their effects. In Winter we digest our harvest; we take our lessons fully into ourselves. We learn them true. By the time the birth of Spring comes again, the new lessons have grown old. We are ready to begin again; the same but a little different, for we have hopefully grown during this individuation process. 

  Over the door of his actual house Jung had a motto carved: VOCATUS ATQUE NON VOCATUS DEUS ADERIT. The phrase translates as, "Summoned or not, the god will be there".

21 "Seasons and the Spiritual House; personal transformation and the house as a symbol", by T. Pruitt©  http://www.mysticgriffin.com

Image included, "Dreaming", oil paint & crushed gem stone on canvas board by Tree Pruitt©

I hunger --
Yet Father Time asks for more.
I mourn --
But my tears move him not.
I become weary
Of deceptions built upon layers of disillusion --
Father Time protects only himself from the thorns.

My body thin and weak,
Holds fast to Father's promise.
A heart filled with childish faith
Lay tattered on a heap of reality trash.
Burn the pile!
Yet Father Time asks for more.

It is this, and then it's that --
We children suffer
While Father Time gets fat.
Share the life, share the expense --
We are all in this together!
But Father's not on the team --
Economic heart felt sabotage.

We give --
Thorn bush harvest --
Our blood for Fathers goblet.
He feeds --
On golden fields of highway grain
We bathe --
Our fragile naked bodies
Immersed in streams of nature bane.

We grieve --
The loss of freedom fair.
I ask where is dear Father?
High a' loft in easy chair!
I say --
To all my brothers and my sisters,
That it was US
Who set him there!

What is this Father
Without his children's mind?
Empty clock on fictitious shelf
A' waiting to be whined.
Father's voice,
Now faint within my ears --
Thorn bush illusion fails sharpness power,
Through passage of fragile years.

In this thorn bush soliloquy I hunger --
My body thin and weak.
It is this, and then it's that.
What is this Father?
We give,
We grieve,
We grow!

                                            2006 ©T. Pruitt

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Truth be told,
A man of old;
Hidden in the forest deep,
Will trick and guile,
While all the while,
Secrets His to keep.
"Seek the mystery", we may be told.
Ask the questions brave and bold.
Find within a beat in time,
And learn to feel the magicks rhyme.
Run the paths of wild elk,
And fish along with grizzly bear,
Fly high with grand bald eagles,
Know the kiss of mountain air.
For in the wild places,
This wise old man is found.
Where the Wildman wanders,
Is ancient, sacred ground.

2004 ©Tree Pruitt

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