THE TREE OF AMBIGUITY

They sat beneath the tree of Ambiguity,
The Thinker and the Unthinker;
By the Sea of Knowledge
Which washed upon the Shores of Ignorance;
The Thinker contemplating God
While the Unthinker glanced furtively at his watch.

The Wind of Change,
Blew from the Darkness of Absoluteness,
Rustling the leaves of the Tree of Ambiguity.

The Thinker spoke,
And thereby destroyed his mood,
While the Unthinker stayed silent and saw all.

It grew colder,
The Wind of Change had gone in full circle;
And while the tide of the Sea of Knowledge
Washed upon the shore,
Ignorance was lost for a while, yet
The Darkness of Absoluteness remained,
But the Tree of Ambiguity swayed.




MONDAY

So dawns the chilly morning.
Freezing facades of an inner warmth
greet the frosty air.
The late rise is scorned, warm in bed
and cold of mind. Befuddled. Sleepy,
hating to go to work.
Tea-cups rattle. Voices are loud
and the smell of frying bacon fills the air,
searching to find every dreary corner.
A cistern flushes. Water gurgles down a plug-hole.
A bolt cracks and running feet
descend the carpeted stairs. The house is waking,
but in objectivity knows only the activity within
as womb feels foetus, a refuge,
bounded by the littered pavements of Life.
A trickle of water runs into the grating
of a sewer. Footsteps in the street.
Legs. White legs seen between the coats and boots
of the pretty girls,
whose hair hangs limply about slumped shoulders
of September.
Worktime. Rush of sudden air in the blackness
and void of the tunnel. Heat.
A train, noisy on new ears, rushing along
the crowded platform. A litter-strewn platform,
waiting, cold and lonely in the early morning hours
for the multitude of pedestrian feet which
wear its surface, atom by atom.
Adverts. Gross. Alarming. Staring across
the platform. Sliding doors. Pushing. Faces,
bodies, shoving for seats. Inside. Warm, cosy.
Smell of bodies and sweat of underarms.
Crowded. Youthful girl pressing innocently
against a boy. Excitement of a strange touch.
A stirring. Uncontrollable. Blush.
A turning away.
Looking for pretty girls. Staring. Wanting.
Lonely. Stop. Start. Doors open, close.
More people. Girl gone. Utter loneliness.
Work. Busy. Paper, pens, pencils. Smell of
freshly sharpened wood. Voices. Bent back.
Joke. Laugh. Work.
Coffee comes. Refreshing liquid, taking away
the biting, acrid taste of tobacco smoke.
Cigarette. Draw, to satisfy the urge eating has left.

The laughter of children running to school.
Happy faces. Scream of girls. A fight.
Bloody noses. Laughing.
Then the bell. The stark reality of cold red brick
and glass. Playground. Cold, damp tarmac.
Looking. Across empty fields, misty. Freezing.
Light green. Chapped legs.
A bell. Silence. File slowly into school.
Register. Snapping of desk lids. Pretty teacher.
Music. Drawing. Maths. English. Sport.
Playtime. Chase girls, laughing. Smoke in lavatory.

Darned washing! Cold, damp day.
Clouds parting, revealing blue sky. Soap suds.
Tinny bubbles, frothing in the dirty water.
Red chapped hands. Clean fingernails. Wet hands.
And arms. Itch on nose. Swearing. Rubbing face.
Froth on nose. Water on floor. Bursting soap bubbles.
Clothes, soggy, dripping wet.
Clean line with wet rag and hang up clothes.
A touch of sun, like the 'hello' kiss
of an overworked father. Lunchtime.
Beans on toast. Quick. Roasted coffee.
Sensitive nostrils, sensing, sifting, savouring.
Shadows. Dying sun. Laughter of children
coming home. Playing, screaming. Never tiring.
In the brooks. In the fields. Dirty.
More washing.

Late afternoon. Darkening.
Evening. Singing birds, those left after migration.
The family is home and at table.
A noisy radio, blaring synthetic music in a girl's
bedroom. A shout. Sudden quiet. Scampering feet.
Scraping of knives and forks. Teeth on edge.
Rattle of cups. Smell. Smell of cooked food.
Smell of drying washing by a fire.
Silence for a while. On T.V. noisy music.
Comedy show. Quiz. Play. Monotonous rubbish.
Passing time. People are frightened of having time
to think. Minutes of thought on a higher plane. Never.
Too much trouble. Simpleness. Ignorance.
Is bliss...is bliss...Sex. Eating. Wanting.
Getting. Happiness?
Darkness. Noisy cars. Late kisses in doorways.
Bed...sleep...tiredness...MONDAY.



SUNDAY

Sunday. Quiet sunlight streets.
Rows of stereotyped terraced houses,
Embracing shadows of a warmer sun.
A tinkle of laughter, the innocence of youth
at play in a street of suburban charm.
Lunchtime. Vague sounds of cuisiniere.
A nation at table. The smell of roast beef
and boiling vegetables and new polish
from a busy morning.
A sound in the street--clacking heels
on a shadowed pavement.
A girl, pretty; walking back to home and lunch.
A new noise. Birds high on aerials.
Chirruping, basking in the watery sun,
against the stark, quiet realism, a whine
of a sports-car, pulling five thousand revs
in the indirects. Then silence, as before.
The aftermath of lunch. Sitting before a fire
listening to subdued music.
Outside it is noiseless, pregnant
with an expectation of noise which is not fulfilled.
Peace. A lovely tune; burying itself
into one's bowels. Overwhelming. Heartbreaking.
And sad. Sad with the melancholy that is that
unexplainable all-knowing that come not enough.
An unexplainable peace. Peace and sleep.
The sleep of contentment. The drifting eyelids.
The closure of a mind against the troubles
of a world that has no meaning except itself.
That it is.
A tender arm. White and slender.
It seeks the sleeping hand of time.
A movement. Soft. Delicate.
A stirring of a restless form.
The unearthly hush of day is broken only by
a yapping dog--a child at play.
The houses bask. The shadows lengthen.
The sun is tired, falling into its pillow of cloud.
Lips. Moist and pucked.
Parting. Seeking--exploring cavities of neck and ear.
Lips. Touching. Delicate. Pressing harder,
seeking to devour each other. To swallow,
absorb another creature.
A tongue. Wet. Hard. Crushing.
Pushing--wanting to be hurt and felt
lest the moment end.
Yielding flesh under strong fingers. Erect and hard.
Stroking. A myriad ecstacies from a loved hand.
Gentle, caressing. Heavy breathing.
An animal passion of aroused emotion.
Exploring, seeking out the other's inner self.
The holding. The self-expression of love.
Love--to love--a screaming agony at which
fulfillment comes, only when climax ceases.
Too brief. If only it could last. An inner crying.


Twilight. Orange-red clouds. Stretching.
One horizon to another like lovers' fingers.
The immensity of the universe. Sailing clouds
like galaxies over the sea and land.
Quiet. Watching.
Omniscient. Changing shapes and colours.
Roofs. Pale in the blue light. Chilly sparrows.
Gulls flying out to take a last look
at a frothy, writhing sea, before the nest calls.
A sign of life. A light in a window.
The tea is cleared. The crash of washing crockery.
is over. The blank eye of the television is lit.
The sofa, a seat of love, is drawn closer.
The seeking of an arm to embrace another.
A kiss. Brief. Spontaneous. A squeeze of hand.
A playful squeeze of breast. Relaxation.

Sound. Vision. A play. Long, boring.
Time passes. The hands of a monotonous clock
creep round the dial, as if bored.
The tick-tock, goes on, for ever and ever,
timelessly, fading into an inconceivable void.
Finis. End. The small blue dot fades.
Activity. Percolated coffee. Aroma. Satisfying.
Bed. Warm, comfortable.
Hugging sheets. Cold then warm.
Close and warm. Embracing. A laugh.
Noise of withdrawal of clothing. A rustle of silk.
The snap! of elastic.
A look at nakedness. Parting of the sheets
and slipping quickly between them. A shudder.
Goosebumps. A giggle. Snuggling together.
Naked flesh on flesh. Hard nipples. Cold feet.
A click! the light--gone forever...
Wafting in the netherland of the unknown universe
out and away.
A kiss. Silence. Deadly stillness and blackness.
Crowding darkness. Frightening.
The intimacy and warmth of sheets and bodies.
Silence at last...Quiet...Sleep...SUNDAY.



ON FANCY

Too much of Life passes by
without a thought by people who
when they live the day, fly
from some hidden fancy that they may woo,
and step into the reality of some unwanted thought.
When might they have been happier if,
had they stayed and lingered as they ought,
and gained something, if but a whiff
of Life, instead of cultivating a horror
of what may happen on the morrow.



SOLILOQUY

Oh, that this too short life should end,
as though it had never been!
When one's small and immortal soul
will live on for evermore.
Oft have I known the laugh of friends
and the sweet kiss of loved ones near
and now they are gone to the dust of earth
never to be again.
When the still voice of Summer sings,
I will never more be seen to roam
beside the brooks of love and life
nor hear the bark of a dog.
And as I go to my resting place,
with a heart that's full of sorrow,
I will know at last a peace of mind,
such as never felt before.

Oh, that the blood of life should ebb
as free as a bird on wing;
when one's small mind and open thoughts
will die in my bosom quiet.
Oft have I heard many angry words
and known the author's mind,
and now they are gone to the dust of the earth
and never to be again.
when the rainy days of Winter groan,
I will not be here to see;
nor listen to words of wisdom sound
nor hear a sparrow call.
And as I go to my resting place
with a head so full of reflection,
I will know at last a peace of mind
And I die now a happy man.



THE SEA

The shore, twilight,
Lonely shells and sand;
yellow sand, grey sand, sand all around.

The sky, darkening,
Blood-red clouds, and grey;
Purple clouds, orange clouds, clouds all around.

The sea, swelling,
Green sea and foam;
Grey sea, blue sea, sea all around.

Some gulls, calling,
Stark white gulls and rocks;
Large rocks, grey--black rocks, rocks all around.

The sea, moving,
Frothy sea and waves;
Large waves, small waves, waves all around.

A boat, sailing,
Writhing on the sea;
High sea, low swell, rocking with the boat.

White horses, falling,
Riding on the sea;
Foamy sea, seething sea, sea upon the shore.

The night, dark now,
Lonely greying clouds;
Darkening sea, incessant sea, sea all around.

The night, quiet,
Nothing but the sound of sea;
A high sea, crashing sea, smashing on the rocks.



WHAT MIGHTY WORDS

What mighty words we pen
when we are sad.
What mighty, sad and lonely thoughts
are put to paper when the mood
in solitude takes us, wandering
into the depths of a melancholy mind.

How be't that it is only when we are sad
that we pen our thoughts in so eloquent
a manner as when we are moved thus,
searching for words we should have said
but never came?

How to express ourselves when needs must
if not by a show of feelings,
which steal as dawn, seeking, searching
from such a frail frame as a man.
O, Life! that I knew the answer!



SO WHAT, LIFE

Can't you feel that wanderer, Time
slipping past the slender fingers of Life?
Can't you feel the senseless melancholic rhyme
whose very metre beats out strife?
What is there that makes this life so precious
that it's very heart can be within us?



IS THERE ANY MEANING?

Is there any meaning
to the meanderings of our closed minds?

Is there any meaning
to our senseless belief in some other world?

Is there any meaning
to a life of constant torture?
wherein our minds and lives
forever roam?

Is there any meaning
to meaning?



'TIS LOVE

'tis love that sows the seeds of life
but when it's gone, the seedling dies
and bends a weary head
back into the solitude and darkness
of the ground.



LOST LOVE

When love is lost--
a passion of some older past.
the heart is shattered
and a little piece is lost.
No expression or word profound
can ever hope to bring you round
without Time.
But turn! the Dawn of Life awakes.
A new love begins,
where once the old has stood.



A PARADOX

It is only through others
that we can learn of ourselves.

And it is only through ourselves
that we can learn of others.

Paradox, where is thy sanity?


ON LIFE

It's the beauty of Life
that sees the willingness
of the observer
to discover the talents
of the Earth
and portray with emotional instability
the causal effect
of such a passing shadow.

It's the envy of Life
that makes us inspire
to commit such hard won notes
to memory and
create within us
the score of a musical dream
where Life's delicate metre
strides the quavers to the end.

It's the glory of discovering
each atom of joy
that send emotions craving
for the molecules of Life
and the elements of the soul;
when suddenly, in ecstacy
we discover how we,
are One in All and All in One.



MACRO-MICRO

What a hand omniscience has
that can sweep through the matrix of life
and create a destruction of ideals.

How vast the thoughtless thought
that can pervade the tiniest minion
and produce a wealth of chance.

What awe is produced
when such a minion thinks of Life
and sets about to sell the world.

Such cosmic frailness is ours,
such minute strength comes from us, Man
and the Universe shudders.



PRELUDE

In the essence was the beginning
and in the beginning
the nucleus for all things to come.
In the far reaches of the Universe
came order,
and order was, the Universe.

The ruptured caul of creation,
bursting forth its might
in awesome genius
bore its fruits in splendour
and Awareness became aware.



INFINITE

They were as lost children,
crying, unwanted, unknown,
in the infinity of the Universe;
where Time's distant finger
pointed only one direction.

Theirs was to find the way,
the goal, the Purpose of Life,
and in that finding,
their battlefield...
Personification;
at all costs.

So it came to be:
Man invented God,
and God created Heaven and Earth
and All things.



SEARCHING

Search, said the mind
and you did.
Find, said the mind
and you did.

Yet for what did you search?
And what did you find?
Did you find that for which you searched?


A SONG FOR ALL TIME

So spoke the Universe,
dimly lit in Creation's womb.
And so it came to pass,
out of the pangs of amorphous omniscience;
then we were created
and rose our voices to the air...
a song, a song for all time,
searching a meaning for our existence;
a fluctuating metre
for all our moods;
and when our song is ended,
its finality is like a death;
yet in its passing,
the inspiration for another reigns.



ONLY I AM ME

I spoke a million outer words, and cried,
for the inner word was lost.
I cried a million tears of hope
but the inner tear hurt most.

I saw a thousand fading forms
of people passing by;
I felt a thousand eyes on me,
but none of them could see.

I stood a hundred hours or more
but time went passing by;
I knew a hundred facts of things
but none of them were real.

I keep the one I am to myself,
knowing only I am me;
I hope the one I am stays cool
maybe to others, I am a fool.



WITHOUT

Universe within Universe.

Love within love.

Motion within motion.

Time within time.

Mind within mind.

Without within, nothing.



INSIDE

Did some-one call?
Was not that the voice of Life?

Did some-one shout?
Was I not listening?

Did some-one whisper?
Was that not myself, I heard?



BUBBLE

A bubble burst.
It was out love.

A bubble burst.
It was my mind.

A bubble burst.
It was my life.



THE END

So much for it!
not even the flash of past experience.

Not even the shadowy forms
of non-existence
on some material plane.

Not even the whisper
of past thoughts,
loves, feelings.

It's the end...You're gone.



CONSIDER

Quitely, ticks the padded clock of Time
Within the robes of Life;
Quietly, the padded feet of Time
Cross the infinity of mind.
Sit ye then upon some chosen rock
and let it pass momentarily.
Tarry awhile between the beats
And consider.

Find peace within yourself
Time wanders not in jest,
Time strides the strident notes of Life.
Consider. Be at peace.

Care not for materiality,
for a minute
Between, that is,
This one and the next.
Consider. Find yourself.

Such is tranquility.
Fall not from your rock,
Hear not the next beat of the clock,
But find yourself within
Yourself.

Nor love nor hate yourself;
Thus thinking the time doth go.
Yet consider yourself.

Think nothing about nothing.
Consider.

Listen to the music of the soul--
Silence.
Yet be not frightened by it,
for it has been there
For Eternity.
And if that wanderer Time,
Steals the minutes with icy fingers,
Think not on it.
Feel the Life within yourself.
Consider.

Be truthful with yourself.
Yet think not too deeply,
Lest any moments pass
Onto the next.
Find contentment
By not thinking.
For thinking may be a stranger.
Consider.
Such moments as these are precious.
They seek not to be sought;
They are found by those who consider.

A man could search a lifetime,
For minutes of peace,
Yet in searching
The minutes are lost.
For the minute next,
Is the minute now,
And is lost forever;
Since the minute now
Is the minute gone.
Such is the order of the Universe.

So, consider now,
And the moment
Of realisation of Self
Will be a remembrance
Of peaceful thoughts
And is not lost,
But considered.



CHANGE

What was I a second ago?
That which I am now?

What will I be
In a second from now?

Surely not that which I am now.



A GRAIN OF SAND

Small!

           Huh!

You're nothing, without me!

He shouted to the desert.



IMMATURE

Not so fast, cried the Wind of Change,
Howling through the vortex
of Man's evolution.

Not so fast, cried the Spirits,
In vain,
As Man trod clumsily
through his life.

Not so fast, cried Life itself,
Rushed onwards into oblivion.

Remember your minds,
They all cried;
They are not all ready.


WISDOM

Tread softly
Stranger in my mind
Lest others think me, strange.

Come not quickly
Into view
Lest I act without thinking.

Tread warily
Stranger in my head
Lest you mock my sanity.

Wisdom is born of age
And I am but a youthful traveller.



TO FLORENCE

There's treasure in a moment of joy;
Yet such moments are short,
Far between, precious.
Search, then, for such joy
Then reap--
As harvesters' reap warm golden wheat--
With the scythe of Life.

Such a scythe shines with use;
Dulls with the passing of age
When harvest stops.
Harvest now, your moments of joy;
Let melancholy not rise
Like the waxing moon;
Liken the fullness of that moon
To your life,
Golden moments of joy
Clasping together like lovers' fingers,
Enriched with the knowledge of Love
And Peace.



INFINITY

My mind is wandering
Out, out and far,
Past the twinkling entities
That we call stars.

And when stars end
And darkness enfolds,
Search on, mind, search on,
And see what you can find.

Great thoughts flow thus,
And in darkness one sees
All that's gone before
And all that's left to be.

See lonely souls, like travellers
Time-bound in this life,
Weaving through the Universe,
Dying; to be free.

See mind, boundless, spiritual,
Seeking all that's known,
Drifting through the shadows
Of Life's infinite home.

My mind is wandering,
Out, out and far;
Past the twinkling entities
That we call stars.



FREEDOM

There's a sadness in living
That cannot be dispelled.
There's a gladness in giving
That cannot be quelled.

Life is all thus;
Even for you and us.

What then, Nature's call of freedom?
When bones rattle with the age
Of repression.
Aye, there's the rage.

There's trouble in laughter
That cannot be bought.
There's no peace ever after,
As there ought.


ROAD

Keep to the road, wanderer,
For it is long of years;
Keep to the road, wanderer,
'though it's washed with tears.

Keep to the road, traveller of Time.
Allay your fears;
Keep to the road, traveller,
See how Nature cheers.


ADVICE TO KARON (My first daughter)

What wisdom speaks
That innocent, immortal tongue.
What laughter rings
That cracked bell of Time.
So this is you,
Young one,
First born in love.

Child, give only yourself,
For that is the matter of the Universe.
Seek not others thoughts
For your tongue,
Yet hold wise thoughts
To yourself, and such
Wise thoughts you will know.
Be not frightened by that fugit Time
For it can be held
In the palm of your hand
For an instant.
That is your joy.
Mine is you.


KIRSTEIN--A PRAYER (My second daughter)

You are a daughter of Time,
More beautiful than Nature's
Most delicate tear.
May peace and love keep you
Lest the tear dissolve
Into Life's harsh burden.
May your mind perceive
The intricacies of the Universe
And find peace in searching.
Question all about you,
Even my love.
Find happiness, sweet soul,
Where you will
But be not taken in by Man's desires,
All motives are not good ones.
Let Nature make her way with you,
Then let the Allness of One
Enfold you.

You will be a daughter of Life,
More beautiful than Nature's
Most perfect tear.

May Peace and Love keep you.



HOUR GLASS

Speak not to me words of love,
For love is as a lost child,
Crying in a wilderness of discontent.
And the sand of that wilderness
Is as the sand of an hour-glass
Of infinite depth,
Of infinite height,
Running into oblivion.

Yet, then, who is filling it?



OBSERVATION

Think of all the music written
Yet never heard by you.
Think of all the words written
Yet never seen by you.

Think of all the music
That's yet to be put down;
Think of all the words,
Never put to paper.

Think of all this, and wonder.


SPIDER

What finery you weave
In the cold morning light;
What intricacies unfold
As you, your matrix make.

What delicate, hoary frost you spin
As sun rises to stars;
What majesty your throne
Of deadly threads.

Wonder not what the day will bring,
Stay not your work;
Let your fibres speak for themselves
Lest you do not eat.



EIGHT FEET

I saw a man the other day
He was talking to the world;
He stood alone amidst the crowd
Who turned the other cheek.

I saw a woman the other day
A bible in her hand;
She stood alone amidst the crowd
Unknown, unloved, unheard.

I saw a dog the other day
A leash about its throat;
It stood alone amidst the crowd
Lost and far from home.

Today I saw those self same souls,
I passed them in the street;
They stood alone amidst the crowd
Their shattered world about their feet.



THE VOICE

The voice sang in the wilderness;
A sad song for the desolate.
What weary feet have trod these steppes
Searching for Life.

A voice spoke to the Universe;
A poem, sad of words;
What weary chords were asked of that Infinity;
Searching for the truth.



REMEMBERING

I like to remember
The yesterdays;
Tomorrow I'll remember
Today.



APHORISM

Write not the written word with a pen;
Speak not the spoken word with a voice;
Write with your heart--
Speak with your mind--
Thus the blind can see,
The deaf can hear.



YES, NO

Can words be the internal parameters
Of the Self?

Can feeling describe
the soulful gaze
into one's own mind?

Is it not dangerous to look?

Are lysergic means necessary
for this inner trip?

Or cannot we get there by
conscious introspection?

Is it because we are afraid?



INDIVIDUAL

Look to yourself---

HE, is their salvation.



OUR - SELVES

Is not the man
A myriad selves
Each at conflict
With each other?

Could not an understanding
Of this,
Reduce the embittered
Opinion we have
Of each other?

Moods belie the belly
Which belie the man
With gastronomic fulfillment.

Man's myriad selves
Could be the moods
To which he is subject,
Dictated by the gut.



APHORISM

Wisdom is born of age;
Seek not wisdom,
Nor try to buy it--
It comes not cheaply,
It is purchased by living Life.



OLD

So the young man spoke
And the old ones laughed--
They were of greater age than he.


MYSELF

As a thinker,
I suppose I write
in hope
that there are others
who might get an inkling
into what I mean--
what I am trying to say.
After all,
writing is only a Rosarchian inkblot
to be interpreted
by the few
who understand.

This most difficult life
cannot be determined easily.
The more one thinks
the more egotistical
it is easy--
I say easy! (not lightly)
--to become.
Yet one begs to be interpreted
as oneself--
to stay the madness
of a great fall into the abyss
Of being misunderstood.

So the soul cries out
without words.
Yet without words,
little interpretation
is felt to be seen
and we are lost in ourselves.

Have we then lost
our animal spirit of communication
or are we to find it
on some indefinable plane?
far into the eternity of the Future?
Have we, the Thinkers,
been born 'out-of-time'
or are we the product of the times?
Or, are we never to be?
And thus speaking
am I not falling into the trap
of my egotistical downfall
by such lofty thoughts?
If I humble myself--
prostrate myself before Humanity--
am I still not interpreted
as egotistical?
After all,
who am I, that I should dare call myself,
anything?

Each man is unknown
until discovered.
He is an island
in an undiscovered sea;
the sound of a clock ticking
in an empty room
when there is no-one to hear it.
What then am I to do?

I cannot say that I will become famous
since I am not yet 'discovered'.
Until 'discovery' I could not be famous
(and to be famous I mean to say
only to have one's ideas accepted--
or infamous, not to!)

As others before,
I am having to wait
to be discovered,
to be interpreted,
to be understood,
or their contrary.
Thus, I will not be considered
to be egotistical.
My position to myself
is not clear;
I fear--trough misinterpretation
to rank myself with the 'famous'
who felt and feel as I do.
Yet such it is!
Thinkers are alone.
They are a ticking watch in the Universe
with no-one listening.
One can only treasure
the odd moments of rapport
with another
amongst the trivia
of everyday sense-perceptions.
They don't come easy
(moments of rapport).
One works hardest
for the Simple Life.
For most Outsiders
Life was too expensive,
and they paid for it,
with their Lives.
For them, the Ultimate 'YES',
was 'NO'.
Mutually attractive
and sad.



APHORISM

I could weep
with the dischordant tears
of Nature's tune.
Such, as Life
moves me thus.
Does not poetry,
or artistry
transcend Life?
Nay!
We should all be
artists and poets.

We all pretend to be.



APHORISM

What poetical fancies
move us!

Then are we lonely,
artistic, creative.



APHORISM

Music is great, yes!
It moves the beast to tears;
It moves the soul to despair,
to euphoria;
disturbs the organs.

But when it is used
for hidden persuasion,
then, is it decadent.


SOLITARY MAN

O! ye solitary man!
Is the world against you?
Do you not feel the pangs
of the death of humanity?
Yet do you not rebel
against the yawning chasm
of Self-destruction?
Is it you, who is sick?
Some would have you believe so.
The Beatitudes In Bungling
Lamenting Eternity;
does this not sicken your soul?
which is your very Self?
Do not then the sightless followers
make you nauseated
and fill you with contempt?
Yet do you not still love them?

Is this not one of your problems?
Does not loneliness trigger your melancholy,
when living wears heavy and your thoughts
feel too deep to reach?

O! Solitary man!
Weep not for Humanity.
It cannot find its own level.
The moon of its collective soul
draws them as the tides.
They ebb and flow as their passion
(which is theirs),
borne of others.

Therein lies your danger,
solitary man!
For if they, with their collective wisdom,
their collective hate,
are against you...
beware!

Find your life from within.
Find your goal from within.
Find your passion from within.
And let the passion for your goal,
be your life.
Do not fight it, let it
overcome you.

Thus you may be solitary
but the Universe is waiting for you.
Each star is alone,
Millenia from the next.
Only you solitary man,
can contemplate them,
and make them One.



SOLITUDE

There's a darkness alive
with the myriad plastic fantasies.
Night comes;
borne of the last notes
of daytime's flute;
where harsh  notes have mellowed
under the player's fingers
and the sodium lights.
Alive! I cry,
where darkness shrouds the desolute,
the frightened;
the results of Society's hatred
lurks here;
the dark corners of the world.
For solitude is epidemic,
a neoplasm of the world.


PASSING

What is Life, but a passing.

A passing into,
a passing through,
and a passing from.



SLEEPING

Night's lilting shadows creep
and eyelids flutter with gathering sleep;
stories merge with night's own dreams.
The world is never what it seems.

Soon the body's tensions scatter;
days events don't seem to matter.
Sleep's arrived! with fresh new schemes,
which play with mind in cool moonbeams.

So are we drifting...


floating...


quiet...


...asleep



WAKING

Daylight.
A scurry of dust in the sunlight.
A liquid warmth
of sleep's tender mattress.
Orbs sticky with sleep;
an unfresh mouth to rinse.
Alive! dreams are gone
like sobered candle flame,
where once was light
now creeps a whisp of smoke.
Alive! rumpled clothes fall about the legs,
no longer stifled round weary shanks.
Barefoot to the misty window
prismatic light invades.
There is a peace;
a stillness;
not now the birth-cry of the day,
but yet another calm before the storm.


THE DAWN

I passed through the forest looking upwards;
sunlight flickered through the trees
leaving after images in my brain.
Save for a slight scented breeze...
silence...
leaf-mould squelched beneath my soles.
so I trod tenderly.
Nature's wildlife was waking now, noisy, wordless.
I dared not speak,
                  even to myself.
Here was happiness.
Suddenly, a squirrel leaped..a gray squirrel.
Such was the only activity.
I passed a stream, gurgling; tiny lives within.
Stones glistened, wetly.
I broke a spider's home, sadly,
                               with my clumsiness.
Yet I was, trying to be careful,
                               but wait...
No values. Vales of an unnatural world.
I must concentrate...
                     no, not concentrate;
take it all in. Savour it. Experience it, proudly.

I wandered on, aimlessly.
Two ducks flip-flopped into a pond.
A tree bent to it
as if to drink
              the muddy water.
They hitched up their webbed feet
and paddled gently
into the ripples of fish, mouthing for air.
A lark sang high in a tree, it was happy...
Values, again! Human values!
Personification.
Twice I looked back; I'd covered a lot of ground..
I'd...
I glimpsed a buck rabbit, darting for cover,
...t had spotted a doe
and ran back.
Field mice scurried towards the corn
as I came into open country;
the forests behind, the fields in front.
Were such moments as these gone,
only to be remembered?



INTERSECTION..one

Who knows, where it begins
or where it ends;
that non-existent line
that is each one of us.

So, in saying that,
it follows that these lines cross
and bear upon each other.
at the intersection.

these indefineable lines
start in the infinity
of the Universe,
where Time does not exist.

They are born in us
and cease in us;
when Oneness is born in Death
at the intersection.

There are no words to say
that these lines are thick or thin;
not that they are continuous
or tangible in form.

Yet they do exist;
they flow through us
and join, in an instant,
at the intersection.

Each part of what we are,
is such a line in space;
a constant broadening matrix
through which we ebb and flow.

Yet each line is a purpose,
decided by some Fate;
of which we have no knowledge,
but point at the intersection.

The ships that pass at day's due death,
all travel on that line;
and out meeting with another Self,
create the graph of friends,

And each day that passes,
each bloom that bows to us;
all meet some time or other,
at the intersection.

There is no parallel of lines;
they criss-cross quite by chance;
and such a chance of crossing so
is incomprehensibly large.

Yet in that immeasurable chance,
we find that many lines;
can find each other and meet
at the intersection.


INTERSECTION...two

I came down from the mountains,
within the cold and courseless stream;
I flowed over rocks and gravel,
into a still night's dream.

In trees tall leaves and shady nooks,
I sought the light of day;
my sun bet down and heat's rays fell
upon the misty blades of hay.

An ant climbed wearily,
though forests of green/yellow grass;
a mystic instinct drove it
to a hill outside the pass.

And in that bare, lonely clearing,
a deer gently grazed;
it started at some sound within
and ran away amazed.

I found others waiting,
deep in forest glade;
their eyes aglow with freedom;
their faces, wordless, made.

I came down with the summer rains,
and lay upon the ground;
I made the puddles, reflecting,
all that lay around.

I soaked into the blistered earth,
my insects quenched their thirst;
the grass ran green in silence;
the trees, their flowers burst.

I looked around my world,
rain or sun my laughter;
here was the happiness I sought;
my peace of mind came after.

I whistled with the wind,
I blew hard, long and cold;
I crept through cracks and chasms;
I stilled as oceans rolled.

I crashed and splashed on rocks,
I broke upon the beach;
I frightened Earth's explorers;
Lost, yet still in reach.

I glowed in silent hues at dusk,
and crept into Man's soul;
I flushed the youth of faces;
creating each new goal.

My life is never ending,
For I cannot die with words;
I'm not anything you care to name;
I wing on, like homing birds.

Each line, you see, in our bland lives,
Bears a heavy load;
each line of eternal thickness grows;
and meets an infinite road...

at the intersection.



LANGUAGE

'I can speak all languages, simultaneously.'
sad the wise man.


'How?' asked the student, perplexed.


The wise man placed his hand on the student's shoulder,


and smiled.



GREY

So, one comes from the darkness
where even one's thoughts
seem unfriendly;
and that darkness hangs heavy,
loaded with perturbed spirits.

But yet where there is darkness
is there also light;
and that light is too bright...

Yet, close the eyelids
and it is dark again.
We can turn on the light
and switch on the darkness;
not so easy in despair
can we turn on the light.
Perhaps thinking is our curse,
that we can see
neither the darkness,
nor the light,
nor even the shades of grey.



FLY

I've just killed a fly.

Just like that!

Shouldn't I be sick?



IDEA

I sat and contemplated
on the idea.
It had no form
but yet was so real.
It drifted through the breeze
of thought,
out...beyond our universe,
yet at once,
parallel to it.

Sometimes it took shape
that idea.
Sometime it took flight
and I could not grasp it.
Sometimes it was lost
in the plethora of body sensations.
Yet it was still there,
somewhere,
and would not be lost;
since nothing is lost,
that is not discovered
by some-one else.



REMEMBRANCE

Dawning.
Waking memories.
The old ones,
Not the new ones...
You know,
When I was a boy...
But that's what I'm supposed to say.
Here I am, feeble hands,
Yellowed teeth
(Those that are mine),
The new one..
Well they don't make them
Like they used to.
Well, anyway,
Here I sit, scribbling
These jagged lines,
Trying to make some sense
Of it all.
But there isn't,
There couldn't be.
I've lived, yet not lived.
I can say that I've passed through,
Searching always for the rainbow,
The pot of gold;
But finding only the drops of water.
They say that wisdom comes with age,
Yet I'm not wise.
Somewhere I'm sure I've missed the point.
You know, I remember the time...
But you wouldn't
Want to hear about that.
You're young, fresh,
Yet so old in many ways.

The light's fading,
Or maybe it's my eyes;
Denuded of experience
To keep me awake.
Yes, I'm sleepy.
I remember when I was...

Only my memories,
(The old ones, not the new ones)
Blanket me and keep me warm.
Even the fire doesn't warm me
Any longer.
Life was better in the old days...
No, it wasn't!
Remembrance only makes it so.
I'll put the kettle on...
I'll use a tea-bag.
See how modern I am.
I remember...



REALISE

Here I lie,
bounded by these eight walls.
Lined. Yes, lined!
I was bourgeois, realise.

I had nothing to do with it.
My own universe is bounded
but infinite.
Though my bones rot
my hair still grows.
My nails are grotesque;
I used to have them trimmed.
Yes, trimmed!
I was bourgeois, realise.

My clothes have departed.
Yet I'm not cold.
I was never cold.
South of France.
I was bourgeois, realise.

Above me, the seasons pass, gently.
Flowers grow, winds change.
I can feel the vibrations in the ground,
it's own life within.
I never noticed these things before.
I was bourgeois, realise.



OLD AGE

I sit here, in this old armchair;
its arms ingrained with age,
my age.
She, sat here, many times.
Mum, I called her;
that's what everyone called her,
although she was my wife.
Her picture's there
on the wall, next to the clock,
fading, like my memory.
I used to mend clocks;
I could mend any,
at one time,
providing the main-spring wasn't broken.
I think I'm wearing out,
like that clock.
I write poetry.
I wake up in the long night
and I scribble it
on odd bits of paper;
they're in my wallet.
Mum gave it to me.
It doesn't hold much;
my pension book,
a few odd stamps
out of date,
(postage went up again last week).
I used to collect stamps,
now I'm too old;
I only collect memories.
I always feel I'm nearer her, now;
every creaking board
holds her footsteps, ghost-like.
But I don't walk much,
I usually sit here thinking
and perhaps writing;
but it's too shaky to read.
I have to use my lens;
but even that's an effort.
I suppose my memories
are like looking through a lens;
distorted,
some standing out more than others.
She used to be here to listen
to my ramblings.
Now, only the paper listens,
in its own way.
She would listen,
look up from her knitting, or a book.
We didn't have much in common,
but we cared.
We made a go of it
and it wasn't easy.
At least I always worked and we ate,
not much, sometimes;
but we ate, when times were hard.
So that's it.
There's a lot more.
Probably you think it's a bore,
Old Age.



INTO THE LIGHT...one

Oh! there are books written,
poems scribed,
music played.

There are plays acted,
voices raised,
marches marched.

There are discussions held,
wars fought;
people, crying, trying, dying.

It doesn't make a blind bit of difference.

Let's take it from the darkness,
this world of ours;
let's take it, for all our sakes,
into the light!



INTO THE LIGHT...two

I trod the blistered road,
searching for the light
and from whence it came.
The path was travel-worn
many souls had gone before.
Sunlight hid the wind.
It was grey, the world,
overcast with blatant clouds,
some heavy, pregnant with storm,
some light, joyous in their freedom.

I came upon the castle,
aspiring to the sky,
its windows, dark,
forbidding.
Yet I was not afraid
as I came to the portcullis,
(lowered these aeons since).
There was a silence
I dared not break.
No life stirred within.

I left the portalled entrance
to the sentry of Time
and trudged in,
the fatigue of a life-time
(heavy as the ruddy clouds)
announcing the impending storm.

The darkness wrapped itself round
my soul.
Rain began to fall.
He, sat in the corner
of what I took to be
an ancient eating hall.
Moss grew lazily
between the flagstones.
The cold sapped my body
of its remaining strength
and I sat down.

My company, opened a weary eye
and a voice filled my head,
so profound was the silence.
Sharing my frugal meal, we talked
And spoke of many things.
He gathered his cloak about him,
starring incessantly with his deep eye
(as though to see a mirror of himself).
I felt a sadness;
he must have felt my aloneness.
I slept.
Outside, the  rain weathered the stones.

Next morning, my joy was dawn.
Gladly, I followed the ragged stairs
round and round a tower, inside;
until I came out on the parapet, outside.

Already he was there.
He said he'd been there
since before dawn;
he was frightened
in case he missed it.

I could still not see him well,
even in the daylight;
except  for that same eye,
staring into me.
We could see the landscape
before us, stretching. Nothing else.
Yet it was alive.
It was powerful
and power-giving.
Full of its innate self.
Confident.
Risen from the desolate night
it was cloudless
and I felt I couldn't be alone
even if he, wasn't there.

I wanted to be off.
Despite our talk
and the seeming reliance which I felt
towards him,
I took my leave.
I didn't say goodbye,
it didn't seem necessary.
His cloak closed about me;
I closed my bag
with the few possessions
(which I'd come to love dearly
on my travels).

Then it was gone.
That castle might never have been.
I turned with the road
and it disappeared.
Some of my melancholy returned,
I don't know why.
I was happy.
I whistled a nameless tune.
I stopped; found a spring coldly exuding from a rock,
and washed the night from me.
The day grew exquisite and hot;
but later it grew cooler as the sun turned off.
I'd covered a good distance.
My feet, which had been light in my joyous state,
now felt heavy,
and with this, my sadness returned.

I hadn't seen a soul all day
nor has I expected to.
I had been in open country.
I'd killed a rabbit earlier;
more by luck than skill.
Yet I had enjoyed it,
laughing at myself.
Not the killing (I'd hated that)
but because of the sport.
After all, it had given me quite a chase!

I prepared to camp for the night;
trees, rocks and a fire for company.
The crackling flames
played with the very shadows it created.
My sated belly was telling me
how contented it was.

I started.
Glanced with a sudden animal fear
over my shoulder.
He, was sitting there;
calm as a tideless sea;
sitting in his usual manner, by a tree;
that unwinking eye, staring.

Again he shared my frugal meal
and we talked, deep into the night.
I didn't ask how he got there,
it didn't occur to me.
We just talked, until I fell asleep.

When I awoke, he was gone.
I washed in a stream,
greeted the day with a cheerful grin
and went on my way.
The road began to grow colder.
I had been climbing all day into the mountains;
isolated patches of snow fused into drifts,
much as my ideas.

My happiness seemed to stay longer with me
that day.
I was seeing things.
I was not looking, I was seeing.
I was living each minute
instead of even thinking
of being sad and alone.
It was evening. The wind was chill.
Mountains cut the sky and were lost.
Yet I did not feel alone.
Cold, hungry and thirsty,
but not alone,
as I had done previously.

I found the cave quite by chance.
The previous occupant, a lion, I determined,
had been killed, or had run off.
Soon I had a fire going.
Another rabbit had found its way
by luckless graze into my pot.
Smoke drifted with my breath.
I did not even start.
He held out his hands to the fire,
although I got the impression
he didn't require the heat.

Our talks got shorter, I noticed.
Or I was learning more quickly
what he had to say;
yet  they affected me deeply.
I did not have the same melancholy,
that same aloneness.
He didn't seemed to mind my falling asleep
and I didn't think of it.

I awoke to a blizzard.
My fire was out.
As usual, except for that first morning,
he was gone.
I had to go on.
The road became more difficult.
I was freezing, but I continued,
high into the mountains.
And I was happy.
Later the sun broke through,
but I only seemed, warmer.
Not having been able to see my way
through the swirling flakes,
I now determined the valley
into which I was descending.
Low fields, picked out by hedges
and a few farm-houses,
snow-covered, yet familial,
populated higher ground.
I'd travelled almost in a daze;
now, some semblence of self returned.

The village seemed deserted
and lost.
I picked my way through the streets
and found an inn.
It was my first meeting with another human being.

My room was in the attic,
close to the cold;
but a fire burned happily in the grate
and a warm ale coursed my blood.
Dry clothes draped my person.

It was as though I expected him.
We did not greet each other,
we never had.
We just began talking.
The conversation wasn't long.
In fact, it was  our shortest.
Soon, I fell asleep.
I must have found the bed.
or he'd put me in it,
I'll never know;
except that I woke next morn.Dawn was empty of him.
I dressed quickly.
I felt so strange.
Not joyous,
not happy, even;
but euphoric!
I did not know why,
nor did I question it.

As I stepped into the blinding snow.
I saw a cloudless sky;
a warm, friendly sun...
and two dogs rolling around
on the frozen ground.
Ahead lay the light.

I never saw him again.
But I now knew who he was.
He stalks each one of us
on our journey through life.
And as the journey grows more difficult,
so he grows less in our minds;
since our difficult journeys have a purpose,
which comes from within.
Then are we closer to living.
When we have achieved that purpose,
he comes back,
until we find another;
still more difficult,
yet in completion,
even more rewarding.
So we must continue to find purposes,
which are attainable in the near future,
and that way,
we never confront
Death
until we have exhausted
our reason for living.
Yet, even in Death,
do we come
into the light.



IN BLINDNESS

Sightless sounds tap
their auditory message.
                       The feet follow.

There is no darkness,
since darkness is only relative to lightness.

And there is neither lightness or colour.

There is only the touch of
                          of experience.

The sweet odour
                of the world.

The harsh taste
                of Life's reality;

all much stronger
                 in blindness.



WIND

Night seeped through the shabby shutters,
soaking silently into the room,
along the wind.
That hissing wheeze
bespoke my condition;
and the window's rattle
against its frame,
might be my aged bones;
when lungs cry out in painful age.
Its very song, was the cadence
of my being;
and its lonely howl
my epitaph.
As the wind had come far,
so had I.

From eternity to eternity;
uprooting all in its angry path
(when the mood took it);
yet scenting the world
with zephyred perfume,
depending on its drift.

Now, the room saturated
with darkness and shadow;
the freedom of light was gone;
the sabled night had come
to stay,
          for ever.


AFTERMATH

It was a morning's morn.
Night had taken flight, while
stars bowed out to the sun's
awesome limbo.
Yet was the world to awake
and I knew not where to go.
I saw the clouds part
to let me through.
I felt neither joy nor sadness,
my clarity came from unknowing.
Nor was there wind,
only blueness;
a liquid Lethean blueness
of which I partook in full.
A new experience awaited
and I was ready.
My earthbound existence expired.
I sought the very stars
Morning's hand had stilled.
Now I was free.
Free of words that bound me to Life;
free of the encumbrance
of being human.



SPRING

Morning's ginger toes
fled before the morning tides
of cloud.
Whispering trees gave their leaves
(the new-born of Spring)
to the dawn.
Favourite songs rose
in tiny avian throats.
A fluffy life shattered into
the world;
Earth's nest was full.


LOST

If words could only tell
what were Man's real inner feelings.
But words are only objective symbols
of our subjective selves
and are lost to criticism
and misinterpretation.
Yet without them
                 (words)
we have only a natural way of expression;
and this is not enough
for a material world.

Our spiritual world
is only a god,
by definition a mass of ludicrous
nonentities;
and we are therefore lost,
and must remain in ourselves,
locked within
and the key thrown away;
the ragged edges of time
filing us away
with the dead matter of humanity.



THROUGH FEAR

Necessity of the invention
is the mother.
Such it is.

We invent hope  
                through fear
We invent faith                 
							through fear
We invent purpose 
                through fear
We invent all  
                through fear
We are afraid,

therefore we invent our lives

                    through fear.


DOG

Stroke his head;
his sleek, shiny hair
grins back.
His eyes, deeply, know.
Rub his breast
his hind quarters tremble
with biological eroticism.
He'll stand or sit,
with Pavlovian reflexes.
He'll bay at twilight's orb.
Be mellow by a fire;
fetch;
listen with cocked ear and head aslant.
He is natural;
a friend;
a blind man's crutch.
He'll pee up a lamp-post.

Better keep him on a lead.
Stifle him.
Muzzle him.
Break him.
Bend him to sate Man's
obnoxious ideology.
Not now a dog;
rather a personification
of human values.



MORNING

That morning.
It was so cocksure of itself!
It strode in as though
it owned the world.
It was so bright!
Its impudent breeze, fluttered,
as though it had the right
to swish translucent leaves
in a forest of trees,
littering Earth's dome
with acorns and conkers.

What reason could birds have
for breaking so gestating -a silence?
What cheek, the dawn
to burst so savagely!
And the sun
to so nonchalantly rise
and destroy Night's handiwork
of glittering lace;
and to dispel the loneliness
of Night's desolate soul.
And to do this, after all,
while most of us
are still sleeping!


SONG OF DEATH

Has Death's bland smile
crossed the Earth's visage,
or are we still allowed to search
for ourselves
before we go to the invented
and personified Afterlife?



NATUS

The virgin of virgins,
Mother Earth,
swelled gravid
with the foetus
of humanity.
Her Self died
in her birth pangs,
when Humanity
erupted as the volcanoes,
born out of the caul
of creation.



SUCCESS/FAILURE

Success is poor comfort to a failure.
Yet even in failure
there is success.
The success of failure.
Such are words,
that they make a nonsense
out of opposites.


WAR

They want to remember the war.
Since, the war
(for the better part of it)
was the best time in their miserable lives.
Poor sods.


SQUIRREL

Earth's child,
born of a Pacific womb,
rose silently
against the stars;
tiny universes
shimmering in the cold light.
Frost sparkled.
Night slept
on the scent of a breeze.
All night, the crescent orb
drifted timelessly across the world.
I watched and wondered.

A squirrel; life extinguished
by a bald cross-ply,
lay in the road,
blood trailing into the ground
which bore it.



ANTS

Take ants.
We even give them, a purpose!
Or at least, say they have one.
Do such symbols as purpose
mean more
than that they are ants?
We would do well
to learn from their industry,
which they do wordlessly,
and therefore purposelessly.


DREAM

I was floating
between the nether world of sleep
and reality.
I seemed to be inside one
outside the other.
But I could not tell which.
I could not determine
if I were part of my dream
or the dreary reality.
Each real sound
brought a sub-conscious memory,
another frame,
in dream's motion picture.
My inner eye was
a closed-circuit camera,
recording;
yet its magnetic flux
would disappear
with the erasure of waking.

I was inside the clock
as it shattered in the morning.
I was awake.



SHOWER

Moon cast a crafty eye
over the morning.
Sun, freshly risen
with the hoar-frost,
glanced casually through a cloud.
Moon cowered.
Today, sun had competition
for the sky.
He sulked and shed tears.
September shower
rejoiced in freedom.



NATUS...morning

Sunlight cracked the dawn
of Life's discontent.
Misty breezes
born out of Night's shadow
played glittering games
with hoar-frost.

Morning was born.



TUNE OF DAY

Oh, how morning breaks!
and light of day awakes.
How soon the sun rises
in a crescendo of light!
Play on, tune of day,
shake the twinkling stars away.

Would that I could tramp the hills
and hear larks' full daytime shrills;
that I could feel the scented mist
in places where the sun has kissed;
to feel the wind blow through one's hair
and meet the world without a care.
And when a day of life is through
and thoughts have lingered as the dew;
I trudge the weary miles to home
and gladness in my frame is shown.



LOVERS' SEEDS

Such is humanity.
As fragile as a lover's tear.
As helpless as a womeb babe;
transient as a summer shower.
Not so, solid as a rock;
since entropy quickens even rocks.
Society is the cruel product
of loveless men.
Love is the product of the two.
Yet even love,
changing as it does,
shows many faces;
since we are all products
of some-one else's creation.
Love should bear the changing
tides of love;
even in a storm where tempests rage
and howling winds
blow hard against us all.
But yet, stay!
Feelings are ripe for the plucking,
where lovers' sow the seeds.



WORDS TO A LOST LOVE

So, love has gone!
Yet, was it a love to endure?
Was it not a passion of youth,
wanted not for itself
but for some sub-conscious motive?
If one has passion to allow one to hate,
has not one also the power to love?
Can not a love be re-born
out of chaos?
Yet when another enters
the empty room of chaos,
is even the key-hole closed?

There is a liking and a love.
There is a love and a lust.
There is emotion and passion.
Am I to be accused, of these things?

Nothing is something;
therefore there is hope
that nothing will become something.



WITHOUT YOU

You were the sun of my dawn;
the creator of my shadows.
Now, I am but a shadow,
chilling under Winter's clouds
as they pass over us.
Oh, that the Summer would come,
that the clouds might pass;
but I tremble even as a blade of grass,
for fear my life will be a farce

without you.



SO WAKES THE GLITTERING DAWN

So wakes the glittering dawn,
whose feet, dusted with dew
tremble in blades of green.
Watery sunlight struggles in that morn,
searching shadows, glimmering, lost,
as though might never have been.


RADIO

I don't like the loneliness.
I don't like the pain.
I don't like the bitter refrain.
The radio plays the hours away
as Night's sleep passes;
sad, all should end this way.
What company, I ask,
is there in unheard melodies?
What sub-auditory messages
burst as savage as the dawn?
They are as nothing, yet,
they afford some protection
from the soul-destroying desolation
of a parting.



THE GIRRID AND HIS NAME

The Girrid sang in spindly tomes
in a language no-one knew;
of Summer rains and Winter's groans, he sang
and the sweetness of his war, dark, home.

The sombre sunset, silent sank
as the Frimble led its brood;
along the Great Narcissus bank, they crept,
by the Sunday Lake.

'Come home!' the warm, dark hole,
in flaggrid sotto voce called:
'Come home, good Girrid, save your house
from being stilled of life!'

The Girrid rose on twilight's fringe,
and meandered by the lake;
his head hung low and great his woe
his mind, too, heavy, flagged.

The teeth of night sank into day
as pearls in night's sky shone;
to home and food he ambled on
to home and rest and peace.

When, next day, he rose again,
he groped to find the door;
the light invaded windy eaves of night
and the Girrid lived once more.

The misty moonlight, left the lake,
the sun on Summer Lake shone;
The Girrid, slowly turning round, heard
the dreaded Frimble pawing ground.

When, as Death, the Frimble stalked,
the frightened Girrid lay;
he felt the hackles rise in fear
and covered useless eyes.

The Frimble rushed and sank its teeth
in the Girrid's boney leg;
he screamed in pain and grotesque voice
and the Frimble, frightened ran.

The Girrid moaned and set its course,
at the Frimble's ugly form;
he ran upon that lucid beast
bemoaning sightless eyes.

In sudden anguish, the Frimble's brood,
stirred in hirsute wrath;
upon the death that seemed so near
knowing one of them must die.

The Girrid's anger grew and grew,
the Frimble trembled low;
no longer might he win this game, he knew
until he called the Girrid's name.

The Girrid's independence gone,
he sought a shady place;
for now the world in toto knew his Self
and no longer was he free.

For Girrids, even though they may be blind,
need their lonely ways;
while Frimbles seek to fear the truth
that living brings when blind.



THIS WAS MY REALITY

The screaming bat
fluttered violently
in the night,
screeching its vampire song
against the flickering shadows
of the fire.
I turned the spit;
fat crackled on the rabbit's skin,
browned it; sending juices running
into my hungry bowels.
I shifted my leg,
lest the cramp of the day
break my tomorrow's journey.
The bat was silent.
Only leaves moved, now,
silently, changing hues
in the damp firelight.

I rested my head
upon the pillow of my soul;
my eyelids closed
and the day was gone.
The skin of night had fallen
upon my world.

Tomorrow came.
Yesterday was but a memory,
lost as a shadow
when light shifts.
Life stirred about me,
unknowing.
I drew myself about me
and hastened to depart.
Shuffling the coals of yesterday,
I greeted the shaft of light
that bespoke the sun,
flashy in its newness.

The forest flowed past me.
What I missed I don't know.
What life was going on
I don't know.
Surely, in some other part of the world,
people were dying,
being born,
making love,
fighting,
sleeping;
the whole gamut of life.
But here I was,
tramping unknown paths
only being able to contemplate these things.
People going to work,
people climbing on buses,
talking, walking, riding.
Pistons; millions of pistons,
moving up and down in cars.
Doors opening; closing.
How much to think about!
A staggering multitude
of human machinery.

And here I was;
one soul in this universe
of being.
And what of it all?
Did some ultimate purpose
hand in suspended animation
waiting for discovery,
or was it all 'just happening'?
Flowers budding,
all over the world.
Flowers dying, being put into vases;
vases being made in a factory,
the factory run by men;
each man with his own life,
each life important only to itself.
Itself only cells multiplying;
each gene replicating itself,
endlessly.
And each atom of each gene,
bursting with potential energy,
and that energy pervading
the Whole.
Was this not life?

It was so fantastic.
I stopped...
the world below me,
shining in the sun,
or rain,
or wind;
it didn't matter,
did it?
Life was life.
Happiness could be here;
one must find it, by living.
What of the elements?
all part of the whole.
While I stood here,
ammonia was being thrown
in some-one's face.
A bank was being held up, somewhere.
Dozens of them. Hundreds.
Wives were scolding children going to school;
an arab was bargaining in a market place;
a flea was biting a dog;
a scab was forming on a wound.
It was too much for one person.
I was breathless at its contemplation.
My mind would burst


I stepped into a cow-pat.
This, was my reality!