I grow tired of the lies -
the personal, the protective,
the demonic, the divisive.
The tangle of deceit is apparent,
the diverting fictions cheapen,
the debauchery is ever more crude.
From the depths of the soul
there is clarity:
every thought turned to truth
is an act of war.
4th June 2020, Somerset, England.
A Gift
Who else could have imagined a gift so wide and bold, as emptiness abundant for all from young to old? Each home a sudden cloister into which we are installed - take note, this points unswervingly to whom we are now called. Seize the chance to seek release into the real embrace, of that which fills the depth and breadth and height of every space. Stilled England, 2nd April 2020
Authority
No preacher No professor No policeman Nor police state No prince No president No prime minister Nor pope No general No journalist No expert Nor idol I know No authority But God. Stilled England, 24th March 2020.
Small Mind & I
I have a small mind. It is accustomed to working with concepts, to solving and fixing. It is satisfied with its questions, and proud of its answers. It becomes uncomfortable when placed in a container of silence. It perceives the possibility of demotion, and begins to fuss and fidget. It shows itself to be an insecure child, the amnesiac offspring of a secular world. In defence of my small mind, and to give it its due, it has generated much beauty, sculpted words, crafted sounds, refined spaces. It ensures that I have cleaned my teeth and paid the bills. I am glad of its companionship, and grateful for its service. After much strife, we have reached a conclusion: we are on the same team, my small mind and I. So now, engaged in the patient art of not-expecting, we sit together in quietness, without activity or movement, and slowly learn what we were not taught. We meet ourselves as we are: a singular lens, an awareness, an emptying vessel opening itself to the breath of creation.
Today there is no furrow
Today there is no furrow,
not even yet a plow,
only movement unestablished
with no what, nor where nor how.
A package of uncertainty,
a weight to savour straight,
unburdened from the duty
of location, place and date.
Reaching into no man’s land
through fetters, chains and threads,
persisting and perspiring
as the unknown folds and spreads.
With delicate maneuvers
aimed to heal and then re-make,
which paradox will open up
the route that I must take?
Shoreline
The chrome ocean,
a motionless ripple.
The fisherman's boat,
a craft of reflection.
A pure moment held
in the divine presence.
The immensity of despair
In the excruciating monochrome of daily chores, the savage and the predatory feed. Ignorance and deception move hand in hand, enfolding their barren forms into human thought and action. Across the land, familiar pairings of victim and oppressor engage in their carnal battles of distraction. The avoidance of generations unravels at the seams. Fast, fleshy temptations slice through the hollow loop of the modern and the mundane - this mortal vessel is vulnerable to the call of oblivion. Parasitic, painful and strange: here is the splendour and obscenity of our descent into the material. We dwell in boundless landscapes of futility, stifled by the immensity of despair. In subservience, such fathomless sadness. In vanity, such beautiful diversion. The weight of the unfelt rests heavy on sensing shoulders - it is hard to be in this realm. Set apart in the intimacy of suffering, we remain at liberty to learn. 4th July, England.
Cursed and yet free
I say now quite frankly to friend and to foe, the end is upon us, the tide it ebbs low. As insipid weakness breaks open the cracks, in dreamland and daylight we see what we lack. The bare brittle ego, the nation, the tribe, the scared, cornered beast with claws out to survive. In this polarised climate of love, hate and quirks, each shall be given in line with their works. For labourers chosen and heeding the call, a place of great balance comes after their fall. The beam of divinity cuts to the bone, shatters their selves and collapses their homes. Bloodied they rise from the dust with a cry, to continue the gauntlet of arrows and lies, where the star and the pebble, the brook and the tree, guide them to touching the One found in three. As souls born of light, here in darkness they see the template of paradise, cursed and yet free. For N.K.
Frail Skin
Frail skin holds the organs
in pink bags of flesh.
Incredible really,
this vessel enmeshed.
It comes with no manual,
it lives and it breathes,
it hastens to dying
and actions my deeds.
Expanding through feeling
with soul wings it flies,
to learning and vision
my vehicle gives rise.
This matter in motion,
a here and a there,
and loving brings to it
the Truth all stripped bare.
Look at these fingers,
they move as I ask!
And when I flow through them
they dance with each task.
A one-off uniqueness,
a fine joyful mess,
a tangle of loveliness,
chaos and rest.
For those who come closer
I offer my best,
embracing them wholly
I find myself blessed.
For M.W.
The privilege of pain
On the shore of a lake I sink to my knees, with blood condensed from the coarse weight of being. The earth subsides, and a burning tide flows into me. Like a bloated vessel I crack. Alone and broken, the brittle form built of fallacies and frailties cannot play with the flames. Every pore opens, scalded as certainty retreats. No singular thread of resistance remains. I stand unhoused in dislocation. Listen. The privilege of pain has blazed through me. As she lifts, a flicker of light beams through the haze. Refined, I rise and weigh my memories. Look! They are lighter too.
Being a walking question mark 