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...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? 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 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!

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