The Centre

We had carried plows and carts to draw the charts of our eventual return,

Where astral readings would review the dawn of our early reign;

Hoping just to see the morning star beyond the sign.

And absolve the shadowy mistakes that offended the design.

And ushered in by sunlit faces, that spoke the language of our dreams,

We asked if we were really separate from every fish that fled the stream,

As we sat in hidden caverns, and wrote our thoughts in clouds,

That dissipated as the moment went, and rained in celestial shrouds

Into splendid clothes that we could not wear, and a fruit we had to chew,

As the mathematicians of the heavens wrote the answer was not one or two:

Where our deepest desires flourished into auburn lands,

And every unborn leaf was loved in autumn splendour,

And the patterns of our parents reframed the meaning of a man,

Within the inter-stellar cosmic vendor.

Where our father let our flesh be eaten by the cannibals of old,

Who had read in ancient books of how devoted whips are sold,

And a cow of untouched gold, had known her silent majesty,

Who had once announced that everyone who’s here is free.

Where our dreams of climbing to the moon were extinguished in terrestrial vision,

Of E.t. chalking on a metal board of our inherited aggression,

Asking just the flowers to arise in compassion’s bloody tears,

And restore communication in salvation’s ear.

Where we walked in empty, free processions, through these fields of wheat,

And reconciling with our mother that had lain beneath our feet

We sat within the garden and were washed by golden glinted trees,

That had given to the rain and drifted in returning seas.

Where we sat among the circle, and saw the centre of the sun,

That asked the corn within the earth to grow,

And absolve confusion until opposites are one,

And ask the skulls of the deathly kingdom just to show,

As the moonlight lays its whitewashed blanket down

And everything was recreated in the morn.

Where we sat around the timeless well and cupped the angel water

That had manifested as the essence of a golden face,

That glistens in the heart of every person’s matter,

Who become what they already are, if they retrace

The droplets to the centre of this timeless seat,

And let the purest flower imprint the heavens on their feet.

The Journey

As we spoke through clouds of billowing smoke,

And gave our frozen hearts back to the centre,

Where, reflected from assembled faces,

The fire illuminated history’s traces;

And begged the wheel to spin a new beginning,

To ride upon these music notes a remembrance

Of our deathless grinning, and fold our features

Into the sand – of how the moth and light do understand.

As we left our sleepless nights so serenely wrapped,

In canoes that rafted through eternal autumn,

Of a realm before the search was mapped,

As we blinked our baby eyelids on the purest auburn shores,

And wept to find how the wheel had turned before

To bring the outcasts to their shelter,

And drench them in such heaven’s weather;

To leave their loves behind, and be reborn within the tide,

Of timeless people woven in a net of skin,

Who read behind the signs and found the kingdom touched within.

As we begged for more, but had to face the films,

Of how we were stranded on the shore,

And had to gather our things, and become the people

Who had seen with teary eyes and braven heart,

And could peacefully pursue the roles that we had wrote.

To hold the lantern just for those to learn;

Of how the ghosts ascend the stairs.

Children of the Earth

The garden in the sunshine hid the elements of creation,

As the shadows in our body begged for useless speculation;

To find the touchstone that the lantern ghost had hidden in our eye;

To reveal the planless space of how the moon had drifted from the sky.

The endeavour to be freed from notions in our brain,

Had left us most untouched by streams of time upon the planes,

Where the eventual winter washes us in frosted rain,

And the unborn lamp is dyed until the earth is whole again.

As auburn leaves displayed upon the ground,

Circulates within the body to explore the faces that we found,

Until divisions drift into the purest well,

And mountain tales pour rain into our painful swell.

Songbirds sing of signless lands, where only the enlightened dead may cross,

To figure out the truth at hand, that purity is held in judgement’s loss.

The keys onto the kingdom are held within the bleeding heart,

That helps the limping man ascend the stairs,

And washes in the well his might, to be correctly standing there.

The father tells his sons of the burden that he bears,

To arise in absolute forgiveness of the confusion that we wear.

Until we peel away our faces and fall into the centre,

And find within ourselves the being of our mentor.

I cannot stretch my mouth but to explain,

How the heavens dripped their hollow rain,

And the light extinguishes again,

The progress that we made.

But the scripture that is crumpled in our shock,

As the masses ate our body,

Have revived in absolute forgiveness our luck,

To conceive another story.

The Flower

Why do I love you?

Why have you remained through the pain and shame of birth

As the redemption on my shoulders; the inconspicuous angel?

Why did I understand you, unlocking the secrets of your heart,

That not the hounds of hell had heard in hundreds of years?

Why are we both older, but still the multifoliate diamond glistens in those tears?

I was moved to move you, as honesty had not heard before;

I pleaded you to keep me in, and not close that door;

Because I was made to withstand storms and shipwrecks,

Preserving just the rose hidden in a glass-bell;

Or else nothing I have said before has been of value to society’s lips,

And we shall all remain fools of happiness.

And your sweetness as the product of a damaged world,

Is a lesson to us all that remains unheard.

And though your devotion to society has not strayed from its path,

Your essence is untouchable through the aftermath.

How did I know you?

Like the auburn colours of your autumn hair,

Strolling so sedately through the masks we wear.

I thought I found you, amongst all the people you have been,

But sometimes words cannot reach through manipulation of sin.

I loved you then, because even though you spoke so little,

You held a sturdy candle at your heart, and continued shining

For your continuation and a new start.

Rivers of Time

I am the candle that lights the darkness,

The boy running amok amongst his misty corridor,

The candle shards waving goodbye to strangers left in dust;

The hours that fade, as the sunrise must.

I am the hooves of antalopes, parading in the sand,

I am never going home again, to where the magic wand stands;

Giving up the shelter, for foreign forests must come;

Standing alone beneath an umbrella, in the tornado of the storm.

I speak in riddles I myself do not understand;

I change with the fashion of the seasons, and become another man.

Going home, where no one knows me, for the light I am;

And secrets flutter incandestently between conversations,

Like the sunrise appearing on the table, in intermittent constellations.

Forgive me father, for I cannot speak;

I am not done doing the time that I keep.

I am the answer that rushes like the wind through closing doors;

I am falling to my knees, before the world’s most beautiful whore;

A truth that has not spoken, since we were reincarnated, before, before, before.

I am the eclipsing moon, on the auburn African shores;

The arrival of a rebirth, a shipwreck stranded in paradise’s core.

I was left before my last words were spoken, or my hand could clutch;

And did not ever end speaking to myself, of that sweetening touch;

And did not finish changing to what has always awoken;

But is still doing time, in prisons of rhyme, to melt that desirous token.

Hide & Seek

I manifest within the luminous folds of a forgotten phrase,

The unknown story of memory’s television maze;

The future cast within the curtains of the sleepers stage.

I soak into the roots of charcoaled willow trees,

To blossom as the cycle of nature’s changing spree,

And flower as the multifoliate heart, in which the coldest winds are free.

Intertwining the division bell that ripples through the sea.

I swim through eggs unborn, to the masts of the shadow’s storm,

Fading through soils of death into the restoration of the spring’s breath.

For I’ve died a thousand times in every eye I meet,

I swim through rivers of time to the shores of infinity’s feet;

Falling through a golden stairwell onto the ellipsis of an unformed guest,

Who is never fully here, nor there, but everywhere; in the centre of the nest.

I manifest as the dreaming searcher on the shores of now,

Asking to reveal the candle of my silent vow,

To embrace the lightening of our final fear,

That curtains in the mist from which we hear

The single drop eclipsing in the opened ocean door.

To ignite the multifoliate design, and dissolve into the cure.

Evolution into Endless

Where does the endless journey go,

But from the foothills to the head;

Where honest lavished love does end,

And all eventual treasures awaken dead.

Into unknown channels where the darkness drinks

The full amusement of how our head may think.

Endless highways of sweet secreted dark,

Consumes the forest leaves right from the bark;

And all our great and noble plans dissolve to

Where the journey’s end absolves

The battles that we fought,

And finds such endlessness within a universal thought.

What unimagined kingdoms rise

From momentary glances in the sun,

How limitless, the ocean cries,

From where unimagined streams do run;

Where palaces of undiscovered worth,

Clamber in the mortal struggle

Of evolving from contemporary mirth

Into immortal magic’s muzzle.

Where nothing but surrender shows

The way these lizard streams may flow.

That gate beyond the silence that we never crossed;

The final ending, with all our riches lost;

In subaquatic channels where the crest does lie;

The open darkness, where horizons meet the sky.

The only door we never heard the answer for;

The other silent side upon the rocky shores;

Where ghostly hands caress the core;

And none but everything does lie

Within the undiscovered chamber,

Where lullabies express a sigh,

For Elysian fields to press an answer

On the mortal mystery we found our logic on.

Where limitless our dreams did breathe upon

The story hidden in the ink;

Where again the darkness drinks

Our sense and noble understanding

That wither in the candle’s wick,

To where the endless ocean calls,

For awakening the slumber of our threaded lies;

And leaves the leaves within the sky,

To flutter into death’s awakened eye.

Sounding of the Dawn Bugle

Amidst the wildest mountain range,

Where human sleep just plays and plays,

There are woven in archaic strings, from watery enchanted springs,

Tales of ivory and ebony, the tide of unconditioned infinity,

Where, within the echoing of sunrise bulbs, are sung

The stories of the furthest sighted star,

And mixing elements of now and very far,

They retrace our deepest streams to where our ribboned dreams may run,

Narrating ancient pathways to the origin of our sun.

Sneaking through the moonlit paths,

Where willow trees just whisper and laugh

Of narratives retold and told,

Through winding pathways of older and old;

Our vision seeps beyond the clockwork of our sleep,

To splendorous and honest nature’s work,

That binds in spells the golden threaded bark,

And corrugates ferocious elements,

As rattlesnakes of mottled skin, do flesh the elephant’s awakened stare,

And tiger claws envision in the dragon’s share

A stagger in the unintended equal eyes,

That have unlearnt conditioned ties,

And sweep into such marvelled scenes,

Where sun and moonlight balance genes;

Their scattered fragments of mosaic code,

Into the painting of embroidered gold.

The sounding of the dawn bugle,

Does sooth the balance of our cosmic studio,

And herald out the great-awakened song,

Of how a nameless space did breathe upon a throng of intermittent fibres;

And thaw the myth of animal survival.

To weave the silk in threads of ink

Where alabaster silence does drink the milk of everything,

And elements do fuse together in the harmony of balanced weather,

Out of the boiling fire and receded rain,

Of eastern winds and desert jewels,

And envisions how the earth will raise again

In connected, showered diamond fuels.

Letting Go

Letting go of preconceptions in a mentally conditioned universe;

Let the verse direct the architect of pure reality;

Let the silence wrap its butterfly around the wings of sensitive mythology.

Letting the sofa, chair and stare unravel in the mystery of what it is to be;

Where empty eyes commune in momentary looks the space in which the I does overlook the very silence one can hear,

Letting flowers flourish in the sudden scene of glowing air.

Letting go, as waves run down into the caverns where our dreams begun;

Where the taste for truth was hid and underfed,

Fixing up the instead, the weary crawling soul,

Bred to stuff imaginary holes into the faceless mass;

Where conformity becomes a must;

And your deepest spark is turned to dust?

Letting go with deepest trust that the inner lantern of your life was made to glow in incandescent waves, and fan horizons,

Where the space & presence behave in ways of cosmic interplay

The architecture of adventure begs to blur the boundaries between the number & the sign,

The momentary and divine,

Where identities seek the skyights of a dreamscape city;

From Atlantis to infinity.

Letting go into the clouds of careless being,

Leaving even names behind to enter realms, remaining undefined;

We often cry when our breath speaks blissful emptiness.

Letting go of worlds that all the people,

Buiding in the sands, had named a steeple;

Stooping low to harmonise the glow, until the ocean swept onto the shore;

And constructions were no more.

As nothing stands within the sands;

And action does not form at all;

Every moment is a corridor along the hall.

So letting go into the unborn breath,

Open to the whisper of the tide;

Let yourself exist and enjoy the ride;

We may be tourists on this Earth,

But still give birth to dreams;

Just let go, let it be a mystery.

A primitive mythology

Of original intuiting.

Becoming what we are

It’s been a longer time than we can count or climb the timeless mountain

Of our garden shrouded home;

It was before the world was dreamt, or known.

Our empty handed heart left trembling leaves upon the tender threaded needs of embryonic fish; quivering in the lake of morning dew;

The sun did always rise this way, but now it does renew

The webbing of our empty minded ocean,

Ebbing to the shore of always & before;

We turn the page, let time spill through onto the shore,

And breathe in space, and swim within the vapours of an ancient face;

And all may change, as the sun does swim, but certain speechless waters shine within,

And weave a tale no one can hold,

Because it always is, and never was,

Beyond the stories we were told,

Of spider webs, and how our souls were sold;

And moths may spin their ceaseless dust, around our lantern with their lust;

It does not matter, nor even is,

For all was seen within our dream of bliss;

The taste of life within our sun pavilion kiss.

So bring the breath of birth anew,

Upon our moonlit caves where trees behave, just as they always do,

When there is nothing left to save,

And sighs of prehistoric freedom flood the fiction that we knew,

Those winged ways for all to see,

Within the alchemy of you & me,

Let all these lonely people see the sapling of their sunshine,

Leave the spider fangs of our time,

And crave their twisted crime;

Let them drink the magic of our incense ritual,

That echoes down the palace hall

Of cloudless temples raised to crimson trumpets;

Of example’s revolution born in blissful nothingness,

Hear it now, we rise once more;

As the guardians of always and before.

Soul Attitude

To awaken to a droplet that cascades into the pool of the present moment;

And many moments dreamt before in existence’s shell;

Into the honeycomb and well of harmony imagined suddenly;

Flourished, surfaced, intuited in the remembrance of the past as nothing.

Created in the thing;
An evanescent plume of eagle wings.

A pavilion diamond whose corners are carved in faces more ancient and timeless than the tracing of acknowledged forms may grasp;

As the stones lead through such forests of ancestral murmuring;

Of yearning scrolls and shores that wept the waves in folds of clairvoyant brilliance,

How eventual emotional emptiness sweeps across the sands of time into momentary castles of sun struck illuminations paved in rhyme.

The features and the structured faces, bricks and sunset spaces, pavements and timeless gazes,
Beheld within infinity’s hourglass that nothing in the sand would last;

But every grain of sand does breathe the ocean into a dance, a swirl, a motion;

A dream so deep it almost seemed awake;

But is it real, or does the dream create these hands so made of dust;

As scrawling hieroglyphs, sketched into Egyptian lanterns halls,

Across the skylines’ eye drop crawl,
Seen across a dandelions sigh,  worded in the deserts of an Arizona cacti.

It is a sense, a touch,
Where unfamiliar eyes gaze back across the mirror into the nameless lands where sight began.

When sages forge a purpose out of the stars and earth,

Dancing through Imagination’s death Kingdom;

Forging out of magma, meaning in a baby's breath

Where silence seals the circle on those forest elves,

Whose selves eclipse, in hoods and staffs of wordless wisdom;

Whose designs sweep worlds into our vision;

Conceived in caverns deeper than man could dream a sphere;
In the mosaic of all moments here,

Where the dream of death is light forever light,

And silhouettes of alphabets shine forever bright.

Lunar Words

Allow the honesty to flow in hieroglyphic form to solve the mysteries of never-ending language carved on timeless trees;

And left as sightless clues for all to see.

Allow the choiceless sight that every word responded

Is respired in the diary of deja vu;

Replayed in human memory as a recorded, sacred, clue.

Allow the trees to whisper names upon the windowpane;

Hear the movement of pacific shores;

A Backdrop alley core;

A supermarket war;

An elemental drizzle on an urgent car.

Allow the unintended images to speak the Mayan lungs of mountain breath;

For in the shedding of an outer skin,

The sages of the alphabet do flourish from within.

Allow this flux to conjure up creation,

As a dedication to the silence written, in the motion of its flow

On post-it notes of speculated temporal time;

Whose core does soar within such secrets tuned to rhyme.

Allow the truth to be in every falling grain of sand that sifts in every river to a timeless sliver of the great eternal clock;

Where wanderings depart into the bricks of pyramids;

Where star ships find their dock.

Into insane hotels, in which our masks are spelled

As winged words who wrote their meaning as a travelogue;

A synagogue of interweaving answers,

Sitting in the ward where words began,

To bear their birth upon the shores of human tissue,

Where silence is the seat from which these worlds of words are issued.

As rusted syllables nest in crystal dew,

And each do reinvent the world, in momentary light, anew.

Allow the fiction of our life to plant a seed of breath

Into the birth of earthy tokens;

Of celestial ellipsis suddenly spoken,

Where the sanity of sight sees within its dream of being

The hidden language of reality conceiving;

A metaphorical devotion to the motion of an interwoven space.

As a gesture to a golden painting, emanating from nameless place.