Wake ! though the West still fitfully counts sheep,
the East’s ablaze, there rising rays do steep
the far horizon, phasing stars away
phrased out by R obin Jay and Sparrow’s cheep.
A bird soft sings - one Robin is enough -
to sway ten trillion stars as ball of fluff
is scored by millions more - cheep’s cheek astounds.
as echoes all around swift shyness slough.
Earth thereto lends both orbit, ear, - at ease
tunes into echo riding on the breeze,
its warmth wells from flat fields and hilly mound,
bees gold abound, they buzz while kittens sneeze .
Eternal silence sleep prevents, world waits
on spider spinning, dawn anticipates,
while we may ask what sense is made of sound
by church and steeple, aisle and green stile gates.
What feelings hound retains for hare he’d chase
and what the hunter for the hound ? What pace
does interest g(r)o(w) when it is mind compound ?
What feels roundabout, when rests its case ?
How feels the Tao for circling day and night ?
what for the centre feels surround, dark, light ?
what of the bounce when words once more rebound
describing robin breasting air in flight ?
What feels for fractal any given point ?
What feels the oil for King who rites anoint ?
What feels for tree the Autumn leaf thats browned ?
Both throne and leaf soon tumble out of joint.
What reads the clearing into red deer’s (t)race ?
Do star count light years with insight ? bad grace ?
How may red blood react to heart’s flesh pound
when foreign smokescreen floats round beauty’s face ?
Stars seek love’s meaning, spinning hot and cold
on Cause, Effect, reflect, how orbits fold
around their half-life cycles and around
on ‘always’ as they fight the aeons’ hold.
Bird song still seeks its Way upon Time’s wave
Stars spin off Mankind’s blind, ambitious crave, -
cross star-crossed dream, by mortal sadness bound,
crowned deathbound by a gaping open grave.
Dawn filters fragile memories from the mind,
few surface, most, unconscious, stay confined
behind the film that shadows dreams from day -
which to the inner eye is almost blind.
The magic lantern which does nightly sweep
its picture show performance, light or deep,
is in abeyance waiting till the fray
of daily combat’s waged, unwound in sleep.
For wave on wave of subtle interplay
that nightly entertain the soul, by day
dissolve beneath a cataract of fact
that covers practicalities and pay.
Yet pay and practicalities do reap
a barren harvest, bitter tears to weep.
when in the final act ‘les jeux sont faits’, -
then who is mocked upon what moldy heap ?
The moving finger which directs the write
must fight for flight to rise, not fall through flight,
take not temptation to mistake wood, trees, -
the dotted line should sign truth none indict !
Fate's ball no question makes of Ayes and Noes
but here or there as strikes the fancy flows
and [s]He that toss'd it down into the field,
[s]He knows about it all ~ [s]He knows ~ [s]He knows !"
All knowledge is but intuition’s wink
responding to the cues that let mind think
beyond tryst rendez-vous of time and place
to trace the spans which Past and Future link.
So be it wide, or hide-out's tiny chink
through which soul spies the skies without a blink,
there is no chaser, chaste, or chase but pace
as Poet's dream streams to Man’s river’s brink
So don’t fill lines that spill would understand
allow the heart to chart the spirit fanned, -
no drips let slip but sip the rapture rich
in giving in a manner under...hand.
Though giving can attract the underhand,
and leave soul wrack, a lack which does expand
as time feeds need to flood Hurt’s tear filled ditch, -
the sods there thrown, the stone, let Promised Land
at last appear as vision clear can tear
away the veils of this world’s wails and wear
a halo bright to fight off night begun, -
web spun which one MUST cut not run, aware !
Awake, aware, no vision e’er should be
one-sided, - clear should steer, with energy
to focus through insights holistic, wide,
perception prizing authenticity.
Invention is extension catalysed
or role reversal, vistas reapprized,,
what complicated seemed is later seen
as simple step towards a goal disguised.
As innovation themes explores, sends shoots
to test fond dreams beyond both insight, roots,
the route seems open, ready, preprepared
by past and future playing, in cahoots.
Where both left brain and right do intertwine -
invention, innovation, - from design
mind tunes to innate patterns which possess
no walls « to grasp this scheme of things » divine.
Therein are there circumference or points ?
is there one truth, one priest who priest appoints ?
is there a bible code convergency
or is cusp waiting on point it anoints ?
Each generation in its turn believes
Earth’s mysteries will shine before it leaves,
that synchronicities will watershed -
or shed the light, and each the next deceives .
For rhyme and reason often are withheld
till time and season pass, their winter knelled,
true timing is essential where the mind
must channel forces from the future welled.
Who would evolve must choose from many doors, -
each offers either fame, or blame, doom draws,
each offers health or wealth, advance or pause, -
must think the link between effect and cause.
What fame is, what is doom, though, who forsees ?
what choice reject, what opportunities
take for, or take as, granted, who can tell ?
Time twists or tows each current man would seize.
What matters, and to whom ? What gravities
apply when anti-matter equals tease ? -
conundrums which a life-long paradox
entertains until all memories
Are atomised upon a karmic breeze,
blown willy nilly till, like honeyed bees,
they bumble on towards a homely hive,
they stumble on till patterns by degrees
From angles wide frame, focus, offer keys
For who between the lines can read, and these
the waft and weft of substance can discern -
can draw the line dividing wood from trees.
So grasp the moving finger as it writes
wait not on Time, but tune to timing – flights
of fancy twin with opportunity
which may not seed again feed dreams’ delights.
There is no world to hold but one to share,
there is no word in bold, no blank to spare,
there is no end and no beginning, none,
but just a line which seeks expansion where
vibration is the tune to rune the play
responding to an inner interplay.
Response and not Reaction is the key
which liberates while give and take gainsay
the meanings take and give are often lent
by those who blind behind their screens, lie bent, -
if on the ball then all you write shall be
a legacy which ALL may represent !
Ambitions are but empty boasts to bind
Man to what he too soon must leave behind.
when curtain’s rung, act’s over, - all admit
wrung hands can’t cancel Fate once Fate’s designed.
Too many spend their time on Earth asleep,
don’t dare to dream, don’t dream to dare, in keep
secure enclose the flame they claim astray
until that dread appointment all do keep.
The moving finger that directs the play
itself in pawn is to each coryphée
who for a spell puts on a little act
‘till Lethewards is sunk’ with no cachet.
And yet those precious seconds which divide
warm bed from breakfast should not be denied,
once trained, the train of conscious thought turns fey,
rei(g)ns in the lines that let the brain decide.
Though chance the dice of daily choice does load,
no sleep no judgement voices, faulty mode,
a dream or two recalled can during play
let Man rejoice as answers he is showed.
Yet answers in themselves must be allied
with intuitions acting as a guide
interpreting the runes that won’t betray
effects and causes, each identified.
The fourth dimension’s secret passageway
has hidden exits, entrances, thus may
be breached by forces magic which attract
true instincts, set foreknowledge on its way.
Time is not blood but bud that inner light
may nourish, bring to flourish [st]ring delight -
the road soul takes makes light of 'here' and 'now',
realities are tease to freeze insight !
Dreams thresholds are where strangely side by side
Past, Present, Future, somehow coincide.
Tomorrow’s cake with flour of Yesterday
is (k)needed by Time’s hands, whose flowers abide.
Dreams with fresh dreams collide, ideas explode,
most petty, but some able to decode
the active grain from static chaff and weigh
imponderables within the mind’s geode.
Like ripples in reverse that override
the ‘natural order’, time-trap thrust aside,
Time’s warp and weft implode, and inklings spray
ink jets which think they playrights are world-wide.
For some dreams stand out crystal clear and stay,
some nightmares ride through fear that fades away
when « self » is drowned in tensions which exact
the working week’s attention, fears allay.
No need for sundry saint or lotus sect,
to paint these coloured verses circumspect,
where joy and rainbow aim to blackout grey, -
no soul knows faintness which would self perfect.
But self no sense retains if for a year,
ten, or ten thousand is our sojourn here !
THE Question lingers, will not go away,
once gone what will become of all held dear ?
Once gone what sun will other eyes reflect,
what son to what fair bride will genuflect,
what ring upon which groom or fiancée
will glow, will grow, to comfort or protect ?
In these short stanzas we shall seek a way
to weed out false philosophies that prey
upon fair truth - if « Truth » be not abstract ! -
to plant a garden fresh beside the « Way ».
Dismiss all doubts, advance, evolve, elect
a path regardless what all else select, -
free spirits seek no quarter don’t display
uncertain, undue or unearned respect.
« Unto thyself be true » yet never fear
to undo prejudice, the way is clear,
« there’s none so blind as will not see ! » yet each
deserves a passing sigh, if not a tear.
Formality must never intersect
a mind that’s open, tolerant, direct, -
yet tolerance is not a takeaway
excuse for man’s refusal to reflect !
Though there’s an inner conscience to obey
it must be sound, not papier maché, -
respond to Future, ne’er to Past react,
reflect and yet encourage not delay !
We draw upon a framework long foretold.
All groundless fears are ground to make new mould,
where energy is timeless - yesterday
tomorrow’s future could today enfold.
What lit that spark to differentiate
Mankind from ape, the eater from the ate ?
the energies that fuse refuse to prey,
refusing fusion fuses primal state.
Ignore all who a moment are extolled,
who when the wheel turns are as rough rogues roled,
reject role models, and by conscience backed
mistrust bland fads and carpets red unrolled.
Work thus towards a future faraway
knit Time to rhyme with rhythm's calming lay,
and thus outplay time’s croupier who’s stacked
the odds against enlightenment’s entrée
Beware ideals that feel not, hot and cold
would blow upon ideas which, uncontrolled,
could open up new vistas and convey
new patterns for Life’s petals to unfold.
Beware Religion’s dogmas, those the State
instils to brake or break the will to wait
upon a world unbound which won’t obey
blind power plays, would Man emancipate.
The door of Hope can open, fearful, bold,
can find scope’s key that can’t be bought or sold,
for equal opportunity why pray ? -
each would more equal be in luck or gold !
For equal opportunities don’t stay
untamed by use some make which most affray, -
The West’s religions and the East’s are sacked
by vested interests which the piper pay.
Though some there are who through true flair do float,
and there are some with multi-coloured coat
who help adapt and keep an even keel, -
most overboard do fall when rocks the boat.
Oh ! fragile our environmental note
blown by el ninõ to, fro, remote.
climatic change climactic range does test, -
today’s mistakes tomorrow’s fate denote.
Each day fresh opportunity awards,
new generation umbilical cords
of saving cuts to spend, to spend and sign
loans back to back, to gain quick cash awards.
Who seeks desires must stoke the fires which
inspire to higher levels, somehow stitch
the links which join “(s)he thinks, (s)he acts”, enhance
the chances of ‘success’, avoid all kitsch !
Observe commuters in the early dawn
eyes bleary, weary gait and stifled yawn,
day’s duty done in turn each does return
at night to comfort slight they left that morn.
Most for a pittance serve and thus maintain
a system biased which won’t long remain
intact – attacked by innovations that
unchecked will ransack while they entertain.
For entertainment services somehow
an inner wilderness where “buy, buy now !”
is seen as compensation by minds void
avoiding questions such as ‘why ? and ‘how ?”
For “how ?” and “why ?” must search the living past
to learn, mark and digest, its net deep cast,
while indigestion does consumption brand
with captive hand throughout our land so vast.
Time is a theme as current now as ever,
a pattern waved by youth who’s brow knows never
time beats out timeless hopes, till in dismay
age ploughs life under foot to chain links sever.
Time calls the tune, the moon with gravity
pulls in the seasons, yet the cherry tree
reblossoms every April come what may,
as May returns to (sp)ring time’s verity.
Time cows Pauper, King, the simple, clever,
pleas disallows ‘spite advocate’s endeavour,
weighs souls with feathers, smiles at disarray,
from Life’s bough one more apple plucks forever.
The Tree of Life evolves as day by day,
fresh changes ring the seasons’ roundelay.
Though many sicken, most are trouble wracked,
the same would kill to lengthen their short stay.
« There is a tide in the affairs of men
which, taken at the flood » is Fate’s amen: -
« take then the current when it serves, » some say,
why worry ? What will be, will be again.
« To be, or not to be » the question’s put,
who cares if skin be ivory or soot ?
Life’s caravan wends on its weary way,
and tramples generations under foot.
Why put the questions « How, Why, Where, and When ? »
Embrace Life’s lease with vigour, grow, and then
depart contented, welcome don’t outstay, -
yet leave a trace another race can pen.
Life’s not a prison, but a holiday
to be enjoyed as long as spotlight’s ray
can light emotions which remain intact
untainted by applause at matinée.
Each innings may be karmic interlude,
a turn to bat, return to feast or feud,
another cycle pedals into play -
yet insight’s lacking, - though for thought leaves food.
While black holes funnel light as on they spin,
whole galaxies in flight are spiralled in,
a mirror image universe can stay
without reflection waiting, sure to win.
Yet victory, defeat, are notions crude,
for Time as maestro can reverse each mood,
though a,nti-matter threatens us today
tomorrow all’s forgotten, sense elude.
One hole one cubic mile could hold someway -
sum total of Earth’s biomass at play
today, and, yes, the figures are exact,
and highlight life’s fragility bouquet.
We come to birth through labour, in the nude,
for bed and board we labour while, pursued,
by fears invented to set fears at bay,
in turn we’re boarded up, then bored for food.
Dust into dust’s absorbed which knows not sin,
nor cares a fiddle for a toothless grin.
Good, Evil, both are absent from a play
that ends before its ready to begin.
Through time some after conquests vain pursued,
still others patient, stood in line and queued,
alike for those who’d pray and those who’d prey,
before too long one gong, - then exits cued.
Yet there were those by high self-pride imbued,
and those there were who after hermits sued,
and when the sun rose later where were they ? -
hay making for another multitude ...
Each spirit is a time-strapped castaway
upon Earth’s island, routeless émigré, -
yet Pot and Potter both are carbon b(l)acked,
seek clay’s perfection ere half-lives decay.
Fair blooms enjoy before the petals fall,
in all draw trumps ‘til trumpet’s curtain all,
life is short, once caught our strength is spent,
Time thirsts to swallow all in hollow hall.
So quickstep through the dance, uncertain ball,
and pleasure take in all things, great and small,
tomorrow ? Spend tonight in merriment -
who knows when sorrow knocks, what may befall.
Why care a fig for bowler, bat or ball,
an innings independent live, in thrall
to no false prophet, priest or sect hell-bent
on making fear a breeding ground, - forestall
Attempts to bind the mind to concrete slings,
to rabble rousers or the cause of kings,
temptation which would substitute rich cream
for wholesome water, fetters for free flings.
Seek not to barter best for better things,
nor fret about what freedoms future brings,
each karma drifts towards a downy dream
furled in the feathers of Time’s fleeting wings.
Ignore what others term Time’s wanton stings,
live for today, the heaven here that sings
unto your inner heartstrings with Love’s gleam,
nor jealousy espouse, nor golden rings.
We’re born, we breath, we suffer, then we die,
in vain most seek to know the reason why, -
the finite to the Infinite appeals
but seldom gains the ghost of a reply.
We breath, we seethe, impatient, then we sigh,
so few stay snug, complacent, ‘neath the sky, -
the Infinite the Book of Judgement seals
without a hearing Fate to rectify.
Who, bold, would Death’s cold clutches dare defy
soon stalls for storm or worm makes all comply, -
Eternity ? - a changeling who conceals
Tomorrow ... whate’er that may signify !
From birth to earth we struggle to explain
our loneliness, or seek to entertain
ideas of genes which constantly (r)evolve
round links of change, eternal karmic chain.
As nothing stands to wax that will not wane
add naught to nothing, who can count Man’s gain ?
You from the past stem, passed your eyes dissolve, -
can fallen angels ever rise again ?
The hair dividing reason from insane
remains a concept too few can retain,
the flame of fame flares, gutters, who’ll explain
the reasons for each season’s pride and pain ?
Perfection is Time's mirage breeding fame,
a passion hot and sot, too soon turned tame,
a mummy which, once aired, melts down to dust,
consuming candle, moth, self-feeding flame.
All tombstones call two tunes, "I left, you came !"
all we discover covers mortal shame,
cause and effect rolled dice but both went bust –
insisting each the other was to blame.
Thus loaded are the dice of interplay,
leaden weighted, fêted for a day,
dissatisfaction spurs an onward dance
as stage stage follows on Life’s stage at bay.
Little we learn and even less retain,
leaves willy-nilly blown, where all would gain
election or entry to a higher state, -
ambitions empty, aims and means as vain.
Lotus blossoms for a season’s spell,
lends perfume to a transcient breeze to tell
some unknown sentience XX XY walked
before the midnight came to fill Time’s well.
Like dust blown topsy-turvy by Life’s storm
we whirl around, try vainly to transform
the currents into channelled flow to ward
Time’s blow while Time grins, waiting, true to form.
Life is a chain we hope spite hope to be
linked to some future Eden, - fallacy,
myth entertained by mutual consent,
by nightfall there is nothing left to see
except some stray leaves, litter on the grass,
which twirled with second thoughts that quickly pass
beyond all recognition – ‘good’ or ‘bad’ ?
New dawn, no trace remains, - another fa[r]ce.
Life leads to Death as day feeds into night,
lost is the battle, although the will to fight
may in itself self-justifying seem
when in and of this world we stave off fright.
The wide world spins round claim and counter-claim,
the ebb and flow of which may leave no name
until the will of man ‘n’ times discussed
goes digital within a matrix game.
In what brash pride was rash Atlantis drowned ?
Where are the countless kingdoms which, discrowned,
and sceptreless, whose (t)race Time’s washed away
have foundered ‘neath the (w)aves, remain unfound.
What wound Time’s train and whither is it bound ?
What bound Time’s chain which daily is unwound ?
What will remain, retain a final s(w)ay
when Doomsday's last refrain has echoed round ?
What futures has the spun past run aground ?
What spider’s web is dewly weighted, wound
around what timed flies fleeting as they stray
towards what echo waiting to rebound ?
What unplumbed ocean trench in sleep profound
feels turmoil in its entrails underground,
prepares to dwarf Mount Everest one day,
leave all its snowbound secrets, weather ground,
What rock of ages can withs(t)and Time’s hound ? -
yet what of Time when all but ultrasound
has been forgotten, slate wiped clean away,
when none are left « tomorrow » to confound ?
Tomorrow is an abstract merry-go-round
which whirls upon itself, self gendered stound,
it onward hurls, and twirls, companionway
and ladder leading to itself, unfound.
That strip of mind which separates the known
from the unknown seems desert now, but sown
the seeds of knowledge are, where, latent, lay
some stock of wisdom grafting flesh to bone.
I dreamed a dream, - no wine glass stood beside
no flask half full, half empty, - bona fide
a book of verses breadloaf was, and, nay,
no dulcimer, no damsel, surfed Time’s tide.
There was no need for internet or phone,
there was no greed for gold, no grief, grey groan,
no bead strings, no strings tied, and no decay,
no scythe to tithe tomorrow for Death’s own.
Here ends a brief attempt to take a leaf
from Time the thief, and yet there is no brief,
no leitmotif to savour save the act
that offers in its way some slight relief ...
20 March 1995 & 25th April 2005