Silver – Walter de la Mare

Slowly, silently, now the moon
Walks the night in her silver shoon;
This way, and that, she peers, and sees
Silver fruit upon silver trees;
One by one the casements catch
Her beams beneath the silvery thatch;
Couched in his kennel, like a log,
With paws of silver sleeps the dog;
From their shadowy cote the white breasts peep
Of doves in silver feathered sleep
A harvest mouse goes scampering by,
With silver claws, and silver eye;
And moveless fish in the water gleam,
By silver reeds in a silver stream.

Dedicated to Arna, the wonderful Silver Poet, who’s first poetry book is available.  Arna is a beautiful poet and superb artist.  I feel very lucky to have Arna in this blogsphere and multi-dimesional mystery –

“I deeply love and believe we are not a multitude at all, but one massive beast of pure conscious awareness.” The Silver Poet

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The Child

This process in which we are transfixed
By the lacy mirage of happiness,
Finds us constantly befuddled by a pressing,
Yet distant engagement.

Like wine poured from a clay jug
We are falling crimson sweetness,
One day to wash away the grieving, sticky
Shroud and see things clearly, as they are.

I was not born a wanderer in these
Industrial fields, a marginalised rage
In the gutters of mechanised truths,
We alone are here to tell our story,
We alone will rise or fall.

We may lay back and view the synaptic
Firework show, the arabesque commotion
Of the dreamers eye, freed now a child
In creations infinite arms.

The echoes of imagination are the conduit for joy,
For love, for finer twists of life,
To bring our souls down here and
Tuck it in at night, then study the many
Faces we hide.

There are new ways of living, new ways
Of loving, and as time wears us down,
Whittles us away, we are born anew
In the darkness we gave away.

The child, returns to nature
In the timeless language of laughter.

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We Come To

I had fallen from the skies but refused to land,
I was lodged in the green canopy of wilderness you see,
I had dropped through the patterned grains of a dreaming tree,
Just following the passage of water, drifted down
Murky rivers, drawing me out of the jungle,
The salt in my blood and tears craved the ocean.

I was 121 species of ants and unfathomable
Species of nocturnal butterflies. I was the crocodiles eyes
Slipping just beneath the surface.
I awoke in a hut.

I realise that nature fears me and rightly so,
I am rarely consumed by her.
But I can’t get in line either, can’t wolf down,
Can’t call for Mother when she seems feint.
It’s as if our hands were not living and our hearts
Never beat and we cared too little to look up
Or kick out and scream.

To another’s snake-like dream tryst I’m wed,
Eyes closed and grooving, feeling the forgotten acoustics
Of exploding histories, a poke square in the instincts.

Sometimes it’s easier that way
Y’know. To bubble.

The Amazon is a gateway, each tree a message, the birds,
Our punctuation to assimilate with natures rhythm section.
The howler howls,
The shaman’s feather drums,
The ether,
We raise our sail.

But what is illusion?
To avoid the banquet of vine soul humming, not to
Stifle the fire flies of pent up mayhem, flickering; I reach down in, then out,
Chest expands, deflates, unassisted.
“Is this my heart?”
Each time my vessel is emptied, it refills with purer moonshine.

A human sacrifice. Experience, just vibration.
Crude ripples escaping without source, rhyme nor reason.
Without destination, meaning or hooks,
But maybe a melody or a jam,
Maybe the sound of a distant flute echoing within
A beat drunkards haiku.

Why not now?
Rip our hearts out, the black eyed priest
With fangs and deformed jaguar thumbs.
Life has always been the greatest offering
Beneath the blinking star maps.
Why not now?

But who lives the game? We are all gamblers in
Tormented ignorance of the stakes.
There is death beneath our life and only nothing to win.
No risks. No dealer.

Warm blood, airbags, radiohead.
Small huts and feathers shed, blown sour smoke,
Naked games in the steaming hysteria of polyphonic insect symphony.
The pinnacle of beauty, our forms, the depravity of our being.

We must hum together to cleanse this space.
We must hold hands to form new beings, new shapes.
We must take our clothes off
And pray for heightened states of gibberish, feel our way through
The shifting symbols of language and flesh,
Melt these villages with the power of volcanic insight
And mist.
Then, with the white hot ash, cauterize our wounds.
The destroyed, freed by the destroyer,
As we dance in circles, holding hands,
To the tune of silent laughter.

The sweat is pouring down my wax mask.
The river is bursting it’s banks and tears flow across
The horizon.
I look down to my nails, have I clawed at the red earth?
Everything is gossamer pulsation and nothing is missed.
The poison arrow frogs come in slick numbers,
Reality so densely humid, we are breathing in brackish fluid
With lungs the texture of plastic shopping bags.

On palm stilts, above the murky wash and tumble,
A height where we believe we are safe. But for how long?
And what’s the cost? And who’s counting?
Our foundations seem to fade,
“We don’t even know you!”
Then something and twists, down near the heart
And into the wash we scatter jacks.

Before dawn, we come to.
The plants blew mystic clouds into the
Conch shell and we heard her quietly weeping.
Then a voice from the back row booming; “It’s Tuesday.”

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Mother’s Fire

She risks her life to give us life
She cannot know the depths we cry,

We tear our flesh to prove ourselves
When all she wants is a lighter spell,

When killing is a memory
Where we may sit in symmetry

And smoke ourselves into a dream
Of natures patterns and singing streams,

We cast shadows on her light
For the sake of broken love,

Painting ourselves into her womb,
To bury our hopes in a fearful tomb.

She gave her heart to him for life,
With faith she fell into the fire.

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Lightly Creeps My Father’s Wagon

We all wake up a little creased
Sometimes,
We’re all broken by the rules,
We cannot be pure in
Coca cola,
Our dreams are whiskey and ice.

Lightly creeps my Father’s wagon,
And blood moon
The undertow.

The palm leaves torn like pages,
We are loving like foreign animals,
Live between the lines of storms
And poetry,
To find our hearts, what a thing,
Alone in the wet dust
And ink.

There is a crippled road where
No trucks pass,
A forgotten drum that leads man
To the heart of the forest
And stone ceremonies.
An eagle feather freely given
Cannot touch the ground.

A distant fear like pollution
Or murder, cuts when the
Path is clearest.

Sometimes in the morning time
I like to write my first thoughts,
They’re like babies
In a pond,
Looking back to their mother.

A sweeter page with light strokes
Of poison. Dawn chorus;
Stirring chaos, the hum
Between the anvil and the hammer,
A swallow in flight
And frozen dreams of Venus,
Where the lightning fingers
The tattered flags
And his eyes are clearest,
His touch is static and faceless.

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Reflecting by the lake

Winter has come for many of us. A time for endurance, truth, creativity and most of all, reflection. Have we lived well in 2016? No doubt we have been doing our best in difficult circumstances. Being here is tough!

I love to watch the seasons pass, each has its own characteristics and gifts. Nature offers a beautiful reminder of my own lifes journey, from spring to winter, and guidance in how best to live well in the seasons of this life. In winter I appreciate stillness, learning to forgive and heal, myself and others.

The world is a rocky place, filled with distractions and conflict, but a healthy connection with nature and the earth is central part of contentment, happiness and fulfilment. I have a great relationship and responsibility when I realise that I am an essential part of nature and life cannot be sustained without the vitality of the earth. My life, in so many ways, is a fragile harmony.

I was reading this this morning and found it focused my mind on a simpler path of appreciation (many traditions refer to the earth as ‘her’ or ‘Mother’ and I like it):

‘Every particle of us comes from her
Through the food we take from her daily.

We all start out as tiny seeds.
We have grown to our present state and status
Through what she provides.

She is truly our Mother
And must be acknowledged and respected.’

– Ogala Peace Pipe Ceremony

We once, as a human family on each continent of the earth, lived in balance with nature. With this approach and sentiment maybe our collective love of money and power will be transformed and we can reclaim our own balance with love and respect for ourselves and each other; Mother Earth, wise nature and every living thing.

We are all highly sensitive beings, it is no wonder there is so much fear, anxiety and feelings of isolation and resentment. The way that our societies approach life and treat nature is rotten at the roots. We are treated like cold machines, when in reality, we are warm breezes.

Each morning brings fresh opportunities. So many chances to change, build deeper and more sustaining relationships, making ourselves stronger with unity and love, giving ourselves the strength to ride out even the roughest of times with dignity and respect. An example to follow. Each one of us a great leader contributing to a brighter future.

A crisis sometimes just needs a shift in perspective and appreciation of what we are and have.
This is my wish this mornning reflecting by the lake.

Peace and Happiness from Pokhara, NepalX

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Out through the night

I

You took us out through the night
And the sweep of indifference,
Toured the bright lights in pretty puddles
And sleeping city streets.

There was always a storm to tell.

Reaching out of ourselves we
Unlocked moments,
That ecstatic ride far from controls
And erratic neon shrouds,
Where no thing rises and falls far
From the pen.

How the rose brings many thorns
Like a careless invitation.

 

II
Leaning aimless, a blur of focus,
In dive bars and bazars we drunk some
Time to kill reason.
The relics and ashes of civilization
Belittle this poor excuse for debauchery.

That man is no Jesus.
Our procession has lost it’s sparkle
And in rebellion,
Too clumsy for magic or sage.
With one loving hand on despair,
Carrying cracked faces and books
Like an ambling prayer,

Filling each desolate steppe with romance
And foreign gestures.
Some are haunted by the word,
Most are cowards at the coal face of freedom.

 

III
Knelt on pews and crystal ashtrays
And slunk in dripping, nowhere alleys,
We rode on song and scraps,
Eating lunch off origami,
Taking shelter in the wind.

Poisoning fear was whiskey and piano,
Waking in a sweat of dew close to dawn;
So sick and shivering
In the scales of mediocrity.

When love and hate stare back
From the drained bottles,
When you analyse too close the tears in the labels,
Then heart descends, in fever and lazy to care
For the love plague and tiring colours.

Weak without umbilical urges the
Greatest tales of all-time
Fill the doubting waste paper basket.

The aching significance of our hidden language.
How discreetly we suffer the subtleties.

 

IV
The battered guitar and cheap candles
Guard the dusk,
Words falling between the gaps,
The mannequin troubadour escaping
The Grecian palate
For a splash of Ganges with familiar friends.

In those worn and polished gutters
I saw what this could mean.
I broke myself because there was no
Poetry in completion.

When I was torn at the loom you offered
A single golden stitch,
That kept me together, that made me itch.
You whistled like the weaver making patterns
With knots and coarse thread and all around a
Heavenly strain taut with purpose.

The ageing stains of wonder have circled us in,
Some call it life, some call it sin.
The inevitable ring of ignorance,
For what we have lost will never end.

No amount of tears will make it pure again,
No more wishing for easy forgiveness
Or homeward whispers,

Our human poem has the eyes of a child
Running away from resurrection.

 

V
You held my hand in the dead of night and
Knew those salty travellers tears,
The roots of my disbelief were not lost
In casual abstraction.

And now. Can you guess?
I don’t buy this depressive holiness.
Won’t carve out bile on a smoking crutch,
Won’t break down in flaming surrender.
I choose a raging isolation,

Irrelevant in this dystopia
I seek a reckoning with emptiness
To fill me heart with clarity,
The rider on those waves is lifted
Closer to reality,

You picked our wars
Without flaming crosses,
Your triumphs were the
Greatest mystery.

How will we find a way?
Without the harp and compass
To keep us from the rocks.

 

VI
So bring again the apple blossom to the
Shivering chills of Manhattan,
Bring the pilgrims papers and warm bread
Wrapped in memories,
Bring the mornings haze of forgiveness and
The scent of parks and hotel lobbies.
For I am sleepy and dawn is when I like.

Throw the curtains back and let me see the
Lines by your eyes that grow each time we laugh,
Your scratched compositions by candle light,
The subtitles of your foreign dreams
And silhouettes of perfect bodies.

No failures in longing for loves
Secret souvenirs.
Your gift was a sympathetic repose,
The way you made each tired glance unique.

 

VII
Now you’re raised
In some effortless simplicity,
What is, just is.
Was that you lingering in a sigh?

Out through the night,
Never weakened.
I hope the stars are kinder now
And your dancing away from all those
Yesterdays,

Wearing your heart in a knowing grin
Freed from the sadness in others beauty
And its faithful chains.

You took what you could,
You kept it close,
Maybe that is enough.

In a low voice, speak of glory.

 

For Leonard

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