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.

Birth Dream

Flourish, fair wanderer, for the earth has not forgotten you,

Let the streams invite your stride into the mystery of evening dew;

Let the pendants of a moonlit tear receive the earth anew.

Let the silence of your step envelop in the mist,

Whose eyeless gaze may sift into the shapes you’ve kissed,

And reappraise the harmonic pendulum that swings to lunar bliss.

Let the midnight moment scatter into interstellar spaces;

Where the ennui of darkness relieves the maker of our faces;

Where the dream of death does soothe the tangled birth of our confusing living,

Mere etchings of a superficial understanding,

Posed against the ever changing origin,

The orifice of faceless men.

Receive the world in moonlight, as in honest sun,

For when the balances of waves have blessed the baking shores,

A revolution’s done.

Receive the light of molten rock,

And do not ask beyond the fragments of our reasoning,

For in the cycle of a season’s spring we may perceive the weaving of a golden painting, Breathing everything into an Esher, lunar, solar order,

Once the tide has told its tale, and time’s a little older

Receive the figments of such fluttered images anew,

For In sounds of spacious breath we drew the misty waves of our own beginning,

A majestic mystery is swimming;

For the crystal flower diamond prism has arisen in the jewel of our eye,

Now there is no one to see the light-revolving cry

Of ever burning souls, yearning to be born,

As myriads of clay-soaked creatures,

Swimming in the valley’s dawn.

Flourish, fair wanderer, and do not hold a map upon the path,

Rather sink into the compass, and the crested dreams of birth;

To behold is being in the trust of truth

To hold is to impose the past,

It is not the moon that changes

It is us, fair moon-children

And we must change

We must begin

To step into our own beginning

Sign o' the Times

Once the piercing sound of blazing horns

Has spilled into the shells where we were born,

And the makers of this music let these selfless chords just run,

Then the calling has arrived, to be embellished in the sun;

Once improvised magic has drawn the sickened soul to rise,

And let salamander sentences overwrite an old disguise;

When seeds of sound sow light across this room,

And we are crowned in drowning waves of a lunatic monsoon;

Once the webs of our retina yoke have been soaked in starlit night imagination,

And angel tears besmear our painting of creation,

That smudges into forms of unborn solar clay;

A whisper in the ear-corn of the valley’s day;

That explodes into the naked sun-drops of our sacred rituals,

Swimming in apartments of imagination pools;

Filtered through the snooze of mother earth’s creation tree,

Whose archaic branches unfurl into the foliage of all that we can be.

Once these sightless dreamers have abandoned seeming destinations,

And are formed into collective crystal constellations,

Gathered in the fire of this central commune flat,

And extinguished in desire that this is where its at;

Embrace the path released from higher drapes

And following the flight of incense candle shapes;

Are marooned onto the moon, where voices fall into the flow,

Where timeless travellers have made their nest, in the centre of the glow.

Once this weathered burst of thirsty wanderers

Are washed onto the shores of their creative sorcerer,

And fill into the caverns of their Emerald light display;

Where cosmic chords weave planetary lords

Into these soldiers built of clay:

To let the dust of ages rain onto the pages of every uninspired eye,

Until the rock & roll has burnt our soul,

And shadows merge around the light, where they embrace to die.

Once these homeless prophets have been led upon a pilgrimage,

And felt their forest feet into the foliage,

Where forgotten silence whispers through the poppy fields,

Leading ravished eyes into the marble temple, where their lips are sealed;

And all their heart burnt smoke returns into the golden Buddha statue,

Flourishing into the light mosaic that we knew;

Where on fallen knees we greave in gratefulness

For a return to human emptiness.

For once these doors are drenched in light connecting nodes,

That swim between the veins of our sane abode,

We roll back into papyrus scrolls,

A sanctuary for our souls,

And in the aftermath of where our ego must release its hold,

We sink into the ink of ancient tales we always told.

And once the void has shed

Its voice onto the ocean bed,

And shared its silver mist

In which the ancient image does insist

To see this dawn arise in snow,

We step into our own beginning, where faded voices flow

Into horizon’s holy morning dew,

And recognise ourselves as all the same,

As enchanted endings sing the splendour of the circle,

And hidden in the light, arise without a name,

To see the revolution of, eternity’s awaited cycle.

The Turning of the Sun Dial

Here our faces find the clay which we had formed, when born amongst the sand and sea, we had crawled on trembling lips upon these temples steps to find how very free, our deliverance could be.

Here where we were never formed; and weeping children, so forlorn, had placed their drops upon the ancient web, where Indra had beheld the ebbing oceans of our naked selves, as a sunshaft through a broken column

Here, where shadows paint the image of a page, and fling their flicker dance across the curtains of our age; as the ceremony of the candleshrine bathes our roots in sunken light, and the breath of incense smoke writes the pathway of our flight.

Here these molten hands of clay seep back into the mothswept day; into splattered sunshine musk that dances in mosaic masks of darkness through the dusk, where threads of stillness intersect, and shafts of sunlight do reflect.

Here the golems in the stone pavilion quench the silence of their secret stillness; gathering a sentence out of this molten mystic mess to stare with open mouths of music into the heart of the mosaic; amongst the vapours and the desert drapers of the ancient Tree of Life, hung in tapestries around the columns of our former strife; and the pregnant earth is drenched in rain.

Here the origin of Sun Gods are raised in the birth of Raja’s flame; as silken Persian music empties out our soul and name; and only in the eye of every pupil is the truth both found so still, as it is scattered through the solar well; and the carving of a laughing legend on the wall tells of Nothing in the End…as All.

Here the streams of every ancient heart string flood into the blood of everything, and separate sides collide like river banks of diamond gold, spilling through these folds of illusionary skin into the temple of within, where lanterns and infernos dance with stars and supernovas; and the summit of our scattered worth explodes into the mirth of multifoliate inventions, breathing from the heart pavilion centre into infinite dimensions.

You Can

 You can disentangle the forgotten jungle of your earliest dismay

You can peer past the leaves, and taste the light of day

You can journey down into the great abyss,

You can return with your own redeeming light of bliss

You can quench the disaster, of your tragedy’s master,

You can define your own way on the misty, risky road,

You can chase your dreams, and forget what you were ever told,

Of how our freedom’s sold to circumstances,

You can reinvent your visions and romances,

You can create your ritual, and make it so habitual

To be a wheel that rolls of its own accord,

You can drown the smoke of darkness, and the lessons of your lord,

You can let your whisperings escape into the open pasture,

 And light a candle for your tomb-stone master,

You can make amends, and skirt the bends of a whole new world of fun,

You can ride the chariots of the past into the brightness of the sun,

You can release the anchor and the anger of ever needing any other,

And cry exultant as you re-name the earth your mother,

You can dispel the demons of your darkest fever night

You can arise, and stand alone, and feel yourself so bright,

You can take the lantern to the ocean blue,

You can breathe upon this earth anew,

You can be the step into your own beginning,

You can hear the reunion of the forest singing,

You can be the light that loves the candle shadows,

You can swing your wings into the lightning of these blessed arrows;

For where else is the sweetness of the marrow,

But in the sorrow of our wounded fears;

Swing your head up to the sun child, for now we’re really really here.

Dark Horse Hero

The dark horse of the pack, has an almond habit of never looking back

Into the kernel of the core; and sweep its silver mane among the dusty shores

Of moonlit waves; and let the wind be, just as it behaves.

From the womb into the grave, its silver stream does run,

As wildly as the morning sun, whose elementary rays alight the path,

To confront the master of the aftermath;

Of time’s inseparable mirror, scattered fragments of the silver kept in every strand of one unceasing mane; a beauty once so hidden, it may drive the moon insane.

Of shattered habits crashing on the crest of every wave, chasing through the slivers of unceasing worlds that time forgot; the empty wishing well where stars begot the beauty of the pauper’s pot; where a gallop under earth has heard the birth of timeless wonders kept in candles of a lantern; held by spirit children who bespeak the answers of their worth;

Unspeakable trafficker of worlds;

Unknown prince of herald’s heards;

Undivided love for time forgot;

Unintended miracle of how your love was fought;

Missing just the broken chesspiece of the killer’s game;

How her silver beauty was kept without a name;

How her majesty had left the moon to blame;

With guilty treason of the traveller’s shame;

How it would always be the same;
Again & Again & again,
To drive the brightest boy insane;

Of how there is no shelter from the rain;

But this horse it has no reins;

And will drive and drive and drive this great divide into unceasing cesspools of the day.

There is no one who wears this cloak, or has authority to say;

Of how one stands beyond the mirror, and bathing in the blackest silver,

Finds these robes a little older than the stony corridors of time;

Of paradise’s pentagle, forged out of love’s lost crime,

Of how these rotten dreams were kept within the shine of moonlight streaming through the blind;

And there is forgiveness in the unintended invocation,

The horse’s pilgrimage and incantation,

Paved in purging words that have no home;

Of strength that imitates the bone;

Of impossible demands; of where a horse may find its stand;

If only to admit that it may never be, still, until it rides into eternity.

From whence we came

The waters where we shimmer are wrapped in secrets kept so cold,

The mirrors where we meet, reflecting entry points of old;

From fortresses of fancy we peer into the traveller’s gaze,

From the shadows of our memory we leap into another phase;

As from the furthest shores of our homeland

We clutch the secret of our bone hand;

Descending down the spirals of an infinite identity,

Down the echoed footfalls of our staircase personality.

Our pilgrimage on roads of musk paves the dust of ancient dreams,

That beckons our enigma to the task, and disintegrates what we have been,

In phantasmagoric fingers, which we dare not ask to see,

We are drawn into the sapling of the sleepless willow tree; 

Caressing an eternal question, as a fever coursing through the mind;

If only our insignia is to be a phoenix for the blind.

A ghost in lantern guise dispels the burden of our wages,

Promising with solar light to heal the horoscope of ages;

As camels trace our faceless signs back through the desert sands,

Into the lands of origins, where the morning star does reprimand

The temples of our treason, erected in a prison land;

Salamander skins are shed amongst its multi-coloured season,

If only to revolve and share beyond its face of reason,

A talisman of constant evolution,

Resolving rivers of eventual expulsion,

To their source of absolute and final fusion;  

The odour of another solar order, permeates the butterfly,

That slumbers in its nameless embryo,

Before its wings had even sought to sigh;

The centre of all cosmic things

Ripples through concentric rings,

As ethereal beginnings flood

The shadows of our being.

Before, before, before, we even saw the door,

And left our features on the shore.