Thoughts fade.
The tunnel
opens
you tumble
in.
The play begins.
The set appears.
Lights are dimmed.
Music plays.
Characters appear.
You, actor and audience,
have your part to play
as the dream begins.
A power holds you,
You writhe,
you toss,
you turn,
to no avail.
Until,
come the sweet dawn.
the bonds relax, release.
and the sweet kiss of sleep,
descends at last
Nightmare or delightful idle.
Gone. Barely recalled.
Until the next time.
Wikipedia states that
a knot is an intentional complication
in cordage which may be practical
decorative,
or both.
To that I would add there is a mystical
dimension to the tying of knots
which imbues the resultant
outcome
with complexity
and awe.
An example is the hangman’s knot
A gruesome exercise in symmetry, and
another kinder yet equally complex one
is the wonderous wongle beloved of scouts.
I like the sailors knot, sometimes
called a Turks head, and puzzle over
who in the world invented the little known
corn beef knot used in the cooking of said meat?
Also don’t forget the granny knot
a heartwarming name for one
that can slip under load and
let you down at the crucial time.
Mathematicians love the trefoil
and there is a whole body of
learned work on the subject often
calculated in n-dimensions.
Meanwhile the endless knot
or Shriivatsa dates back five
centuries to the Indus Valley and
represents the eternal wisdom of the Buddha.
And finally I have to mention
the impassable Gordian knot
of legend cut through By Alexander.
The seeming impossible problem solved
In such a simple way. If only life were like that.
Behind the door,
light, warmth and laughter,
dwell.
Outside,
the evening breeze whispers,
calls my name,
and says, it is time.
The valley lights mask
star and sky, and urge me on.
Upward, ever upward,
to where the horizon joins the sky
and the stars beckon.
The wind, no longer a gentle breeze,
extends its rough caress,
of tree and fern,
to remind me,
that I too am alive.
A shuffle in the grass.
The fox stares indignantly.
What right have you to walk these hills at night?
You do not belong here.
The hoot of the owl,
the restless motion of sheep,
tells the same tale.
Go back, go back,
but I cannot.
A net of stars guide,
but Polaris directs,
and soon,
the Queen of the Night
will light my way.
From beneath my feet
I hear the cry of ancient hills,
a deep rumble of stone upon stone,
accompanied by the somnolent whisper
of long dead forests.
Once we too looked out upon the stars
even as you do, the voices sigh,
their stories echo to the heavens,
tales of times gone by,
seeking but an audience
Come join us, they say,
quench the thirst of your soul in our grasp,
The miner sits, pipe smoking,
Staring into the fire,
Face aglow from the coal
He has hewed.
Wife and children
Sat nearby, are quiet,
each to their own,
Cocooned in the fruits of his labour,
Clothed, fed and content.
Tomorrow will be as yesterday,
Dust filled and dark,
500 feet below,
Where gas, water and fall
Exact their toll.
But tonight he can allow himself a little satisfaction,
For it is his labour that has provided for
A home, a family, and
A moment of peace in a world of noise.
In the Dark Wood, slumbering still, lies the Deep Magic,
created, at the birth of the world.
Its power lies dormant, until called upon by those few,
who have understood its mystery, and learnt, to unlock its power.
A Wise Woman, one of the few is she, to have solved the riddle
that unlocks the fearsome power of the Deep Magic.
Yet she sought nothing for herself, no rewards, no riches,
freely giving of its healing power to those who sought her help.
Acclaimed by rich and poor, she gave unstintingly,
her reputation growing with each healing.
A Witch, the Church called her, though she asked nothing,
sought nothing, and does only what they cannot,
despite their books and candles.
The stake was piled high, with wood and kindling
when they led her out, to be burnt.
Those that had sought her healing, condemned her,
jeered and spat as she passed, her good works so quickly forgotten.
Silent was she as they tied her tight, and wheeled a burning brand,
towards the pyre that was to be her fiery fate.
Her body still, only her eyes spoke of her sadness,
for the frailties of humankind.
As the kindling was about to be lit, she began to sing,
to sing the deep song, the one that had brought the world to birth,
creating sky, sea and earth.
Entranced, the crowd fell silent, their mischief
revealed to each and everyone. Yet, in their shame,
none spoke up for her, or ventured
to release her from her bonds, despite her good works.
As her voice sang out the words of creation,
the Deep Magic heard the song, took pity on her,
and displayed its disgust with the perfidy of mankind.
And so the flames that roared and leapt all about her,
consumed village and villagers, leaving only she and the pyre untouched.
How did it happen?
I woke up, and there he was, in my bed.
Wearing those shabby pyjamas my mother complained about
You know, patched, holed, seen better years.
And do you know what the bastard did next?
He took over my shaving mirror.
There he was, staring back at me.
The grey hair, the bushy eyebrows, the wrinkles
The gall of the man.
Well I said, I’m not standing for this,
So I stumbled down the stairs
Wobbled to my chair and spilled my tea.
Just like Dad did.
Today I buried the tulips. That’ll teach the beggars I thought.
I’ve always found their arrogance quite irritating,
So I put a layer of soil in the pot, laid the blighters down
And added a foot more earth, just to make sure
They couldn’t see the light of day.
Around me the sun was shining, the birds were singing,
But I’d really had it was those damn brown bulbs.
Just lying there doing nothing while the rest of nature
Is being busy. Trees dressing themselves in green
Flowers parading their colours to the bees.
Well, I thought, that will teach them to lie there dormant.
When the noise of the world is too much for you,
Just be.
When life is too hard on you, find the space, and
Just be
When the storms and visitudes of life surround you,
Just be.
When problems insurmountable face you, find a quiet moment to,
Just be.
When friendship and love desert you, find a place of solitude, and
Just be.
Just be still
Just reach inside,
Know you are a child of the universe,
And just touch love
Bridges of sighs
Bridges of joy
Bridges burnt
Bridges built.
Of sighs.
Regrets,
who doesn’t
have some.
Know, they are
The best of teachers.
Of joy.
To be treasured
In a world of illusions
Drink deeply
And feel,
How you are blessed.
To be burnt.
Courage. Wisdom
To know when
enough
Is enough
and then to move on
To be built.
Be ever curious
Of self, of the world
And of others.
But above all,
Continue
To seek love.
Well God I’ve looked for you
In Sunday school and in Buddhist temples,
Amongst dark hills and in deep forests.
I’ve sought for you in the beauty of the flower
And in the depths of the firament.
I’ve cried your name at the birth of my child
And at the death of my friend,
Yet I am no wiser as to who you are
Or where you are.
Ah!
I found you of course,
Where you have always been –
In my heart, Lord,
Deep in my heart.
Reflections on life in Poetry and Prose. 