Friday, January 28, 2011


As the years pass.....

Life’s pure, luscious wings are spread;

As feathered days on dusty nights prepared,

To herald now the passing of our slowly drifting years,

An honouring of all that has been shared.

Surrendering of day and known self,

Softened folding, drape and fall of skin,

We shed the images of old and sadly drooping dreams,

To show the shape so long and truly hid.

What lives behind the shining mask is

ego, soft polished with mind's worn rag;

it holds us, fearing, back,

with bright, death-awful glare;

Blinding sight to what lies lost and rare.

Desire to seek lies limply lost;

There is no call to hear or strive to find,

No dream that leads us on to mightier, noble truths;

We wait, abandoned by the rule of mind.

In order, to be led by heart's true voice

beyond the realms of thoughts and

structured rules; into a world where

all is as it should be and where we find

the truth which always was.

“Thank you for coming,” she said.

Pillow-huddled, curled toward her own imaginings,

The bones held loose in panting flesh,

She lay upon the self-breathing bed.

This bed of life could rise and fall,

With one sure touch, with pure and practical intention,

Prepared as it was, to hold lightly

The shrivelled soul that sought sanctuary.

Sounds of breath and sounds of bed,

Drew patterned hopes in steady weaving

And eyelids closed in weary fall

Upon the days, the dreams, and visitors.

How many years had drifted past

Upon this stark white cushioning?

No answer, for she had none, and neither did she know

If she lay upon reward, or punishment.

If truth be known, and it rarely is,

The answer must embrace both offerings,

For in the suffering lay peace,

And in the sanctuary, brewed torment.

But such things had all become as one

Through years of curled imaginings,

And now she simply lay and breathed …

In what was life’s last offering.

Saturday, January 15, 2011


The split in self is seen so clear,

And yet recoils in mortal fear

From any touch that seeks to bring,

A healing to the wound within.

Twixt good and bad the players set,

And rise to make their triumph, yet,

A tiny voice keeps up the cry

That truth is found within the I.

So peace and wisdom, love and truth,

Stand on one side, placed well aloof,

And rage and vengeance, basest thought,

Will hold their ground, no matter what.

The I rides Grace and then will leap

The fence to fly upon Deceit

And all the while knows neither can

Hold sure, swift hoof on flimsy ground.

That day will come when each will find

They disappear in new-born mind,

And truth of each is made anew:

The I becomes eternal You.