Comets, Ghosts and Sunburned Hands

Over dried creeks flowing 51 States (of mind) in a submerged desert……

Comets, ghosts and sunburned hands, uncut outlaws of the far lands,
Poisonous pastures line the Mexicola border, malignant, circling the desert with crippled thorns,
Amongst vulture and Mezcal flesh, come night time galaxy cloaking lonesome urinations.

Each fading town aflame with howlin’ rains and wolves, a guilt-less crew,
Only two choices in black and white, bible belt bonanza, heaven or the long gone,
Wings or warts, tumbleweed intention brought us here, a fireball with coffee stained lips,
To superhero cemeteries in dead meadows.

The wicked wand, a wooden fist, the flashing lights of the wrong sided,
The neon bible, the fakir void, the portal of adult clouds mean no joy zippers,
Selling sex for seashells,
all imitations,
simulations,
mutilations.

Sunburnt hands, out in the desert motel, facing the powder pink skies,
A fearless wreck of contradictions and tattered Coleridge and poisonous Wilde snakes,
All art melts beneath the perfect sun, the king knelt in saccharine ice cream pools,
The ocean,
the drumming,
the depth.

Not fearing the ticking, metallic rains, corrugated dreams line hanging hovel,
The highway is open season for curious rattlers, voodoo born to strange eggs
In this ashtray of existence, far from flowers or wreaths, fit only
For dancing over Indian bones in flashland. Mr Holy! Are you freedom?
Otherwise, you cannot light up the sky.

Yes strangers, I am ready! Some celestial boogie-woogie rearranging the burial stones
In dive bars serving guilt with sweet cherries straight up, parched wayward at the devils fork in the road,
Manic tongues babble and drawl crude incantations, unfathomable fears, crocodile skins
And rocking chair hobble, all tangle and trapped in the cattle wire, savage mutts and fenced off
Wilderness expanse.

Incomprehensible lazy lizard shoots the breeze, new outlaws hatch reaping sour smokes,
Light a match, gather sticks for warmth, plant a cactus whole, don’t drop out, without kicking on, without laying some roots.

Barn doors creak in the storms, asleep on fresh hay, beautiful people in burning man child melodies,
Make no trouble, lay low, skin crawling with potent deviations, judgement day has passed on by, warped
And wakeful in Santa Fe.

Dead ahead,
Sunset over barren expanse and bullet holes.

In the reverb of no man’s land,
The killer wakes, loose in crimson vision.

Feel a rising, higher,
No one is watching this cosmic romance,
Blood thirsty no more.

 

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Bardsey Island – The Island of 20,000 Saints

Yesterday we walked around the northern coasts of the Llyn Penisula (North Wales), braving the high winds and feral seagulls.  There is something quite dramatic about  the Llyn, with the trio of mountains (known as ‘The Rivals’) forming a gateway to a landscape dotted with remnants of ancient settlements and worship.  It seems that each time I visit the Llyn I am drawn deeper into its story.

At the tip of the Llyn Penisula we find Bardsey Island and there is definitely something about Bardsey.  In English its name refers to an island of bards, in Welsh (Yns Enlli) it suggests an island in the currents.  It sits like a small jewel off the tip of the jagged coast line and has been inhabited since neolithic times.  Bardsey has been a pilgrimage site for many years, three trips to Bardsey was the equal of a trip to Rome.  A hermitage has stood here since the earliest days of Christianity in Britain, although it has been knocked down a few times along the way.  Brave and devout souls floated over from France and Ireland on rudimentary rafts to preach the words they regarded to be true and lead this wild and untamed island nation away from sin, towards redemption.  These remarkable old saints, hermits and pilgrims were very wise, putting a little ocean between themselves and their rabid flock (although that didn’t help when the vikings showed up!).

The history of this isolated retreat is fascinating, its location stunning, but as usual, the myths and legends are what sets it apart and fuels the imagination to imbued a large rock with magical properties and some intangible, mystical allure.  20,000 saints are said to be buried on the island, making the soil rich and fertile.  It has even been claimed that Prince Arthur is buried in a cave there.  To get there, you still need to call a local chap in a small fishing boat to take you there and hopefully back.  If the weather flares up, you can be stranded on the island, where there is still no electricity.  It suggested that you draw up a will before visiting Bardsey, it is said that the Llyn extends into the ocean just as life extends into the unknown emptiness and once we have reached Bardsey, we are relieved of earthly cares (meaning we are now number 20,001).

What can be said about the allure of Bardsey, it seems so close from the shore, we feel that we could touch it, except it is far enough away for us to fall and perish in the fierce waves of the Irish Sea.  I see Bardsey Island as a metaphor for our spiritual journey through life, as we build a bastion from rocks and earth to hide us from the endless waves and commotion, deep inside our soul is ever drawing us deeper towards harmony, as we venture out into the raging oceans of calm and set sail into the blissful unknown.  One pilgrim wrote that Bardsey is “the land of indulgences, absolution and pardon, the road to Heaven, and the gate to Paradise” and on a day like yesterday, I can see why.

I have included some photographs and poetry that I hope captures something of these sentiments:

 

Bardsey Island in the distance

Bardsey Island in the distance

Gorse and Heather

Gorse and Heather

There is an island there is no going
to but in a small boat, the way
the saints went, travelling the gallery
of the frightened faces of
the long-drowned, munching the gravel
of its beaches. So I have gone
up the salt lane to the building
with the stone altar, and the candles
gone out, and kneeled and lifted
my eyes to the furious gargoyle
of the owl that is like a god
gone small and resentful. There
is no body in the stained window
of the sky now. Am I too late?
Were they too late also, those
first pilgrims? He is such a fast
God, always before us, and
leaving as we arrive.

There are those here
not given to prayer, whose office
is the blank sea that they say daily.
What they listen to is not
hymns, but the slow chemistry of the soil,
that turns saints’ bones into dust,
dust to an irritant of the nostril.

There is no time on this island.
The swinging pendulum of the tide
has no clock; the events
are dateless. These people are not
late or soon; they are just
here, with only the one question
to ask, which life answers
by being in them. It is I
who ask. Was the pilgrimage
I made to come to my own
self, to learn that, in times
like these, and for one like me,
God will never be plain and
out there, but dark rather, and
inexplicable, as though he were in here?

“Pilgrimages” by R. S. Thomas

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And that’s why I have to go back
to so many places in the future,
there to find myself
and constantly examine myself
with no witness but the moon
and then whistle with joy.
ambling over rocks and clods of earth,
with no task but to live,
with no family but the road.

Pablo Neruda

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We passed the ice of pain,

And came to a dark ravine,

And there we sang with the sea:

The wide, the bleak abyss

Shifted with our slow kiss.

Space struggled with time;

The gong of midnight struck

The naked absolute.

Sound, silence sang as one.

All flowed: without, within;

Body met body, we

Created what’s to be.

What else to say?

We end in joy.

The Moment – Theodore Roethke

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Sweet Child on the Road

Oh Atman! Oh soul!
Sweet child on the road.

Oh mother who feeds
Her family with peace.

Oh father in sky,
Can’t you hear the lowly cry?

Oh truth, oh lies
All unfolding in time.

Oh existence, oh knowledge,
Oh bliss absolute.

Oh teacher, great silence,
So loving and wise.

Oh yoga, dissolution,
Ascend material resolution.

Oh guru, pure light,
Resting easy at your side.

Oh wisdom in life
So many ways to delight.

Oh death, take me home,
Leave with grace these skin and bones.

Oh Atman! Oh soul!
Forever love this mortal stone.

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When Blood Greets Earth

Up in the early morn on the mountain glen,

From the wild woods, many strange sounds ring.

 

The morning fire lies smouldering by the old rocks

And moss lies heavy and true.

 

Around this grave a wanderer, knelt by the cairn;

A pile of skin and bone, rapt by natures affairs.

 

The heather shakes in time with the silent seas,

The mountains surround are throne and protector.

 

When blood greets earth, may we no longer roam,

The silent storms will cease, as beauty unfolds.

 

No legend greater than this myth that I hold,

A giant alone in a universe of sparks and molten dreams.

 

And the sun arches in glory upon the heavens we build

Up here in the lonesome valley hills.

 

Blessed with such a sloping vantage point, a crag not far

From the buzzards steady gaze,

 

Encamped on dappled autumn plains, where the glacial streams do cleave,

Spirit swirls and evokes, perfumed with brazen gorse.

 

When blood greets the earth, the battle recedes,

We are destiny emblazon over these hallowed peaks.

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The Flames of Truth

In the flames of truth

Ash litters the way;

Falling as shadowy motions,

Stirring in the depths.

 

The perfection of whole moon

Draws tidal sap to the within,

To the crescendo of beating hearts

And shortening breath,

As craving ecstasy melts within the peeling bells

Of finite love.

 

In this hidden stream

We trace the mystical;

A clear vibration, a fearless dawn,

A plaintiff lullaby in the clutches

Of earthly beauty.

 

We are revealed as the force of passions

Incarnate, far from origin,

A species of finite seekers

Well placed in the void of night.

 

Reveal yourself!

Open to the sense of unity

And eternal moods,

Stirring the formless coils of supreme

Existence,

We are close to the quaking muse

But cannot dream her graceful countenance.

 

To enter the heart, as naked as before,

With the courage of a dragon,

Feeding on our narrow horizons

And transcending instinct.

Fit to give ourselves to the fire

And lie in peace amongst the flames.

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His Soul Dream

His soul dreams in shapeless clay;

A dust filled rapture

Ever calls a momentary bliss.

 

The unconscious music resounds

Where hearts are torn in flux

And radiant the sleeping sound

Pressing blind truth earthbound.

 

And man is free in form

To join the wind’s unknowing breath,

A bottomless well of joy

That greets the union drift.

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Inspiring Vegan Quotes (pt 1)

leroywatson4:

Some food for thought from my other blog ‘the beach house kitchen’. I thought this may resonate with you guys. Peaccccceeeeee

Originally posted on the beach house kitchen:

Hello Lovely Ones,

We normally let the food do the talking, but have been reading into veganism of late and unearthing some real pearls of inspirational wisdom.  We thought you might like them too.  Here we present a selection of our favorites (part one of a two part series!)  

Sometimes a good quote can really focus your mind on an issue, another persons voice, a like minded echo, can cast new light and energy.  These assembled quotes will be made into the new B.H.K. page ‘Inspiration Library’  (see above).  We hope you find them as challenging and uplifting as we did and that the message of peace to all beings rings true, far and wide.

Lee and JaneXXXXXXX 

“The greatness of a nation and its moral progress can be judged by the way its animals are treated.”

“In matters of conscience the law of majority has no place.”

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