Night and Day

Even the night, has the memory of light, as the day believes the dark will soon return, truth is not given freely, except when truth and I are one.

After Sleeping on a Sleepy Day

I wonder what the magpies saw in the sleeping day of intermittent rain. There were two of them, I was sleeping in the sleeping day too, at least my mind told me so, when I had looked back on the recent past of the day. I remember that I hadn't thought about what I had been thinking. I angered inside I showed it to the congregation. The evening beckoned, the rustling leaves were dancing for me. A mighty tree, overpowering showed its strength to me. I could only wonder within its majesty. I am the moneylender and I'm closing the door. I had thought about what I was thinking, and then I thought about what I had done. The instruction book was thrown from me about the day I was born, and from my memory, but the seed within continues to grow and explain to me, perhaps like the mighty tree to its rustling leaves. There is no denying imprint. There is no way clear that is a way clear. I doubt if tomorrow will be a sleeping day. There's a cloud in my head and its raining outside.

God of Life

Dream images, clues or distractions? Variation, diversions? Impossibility? And dreams again, and why the attempt within futility? God knows. The only truth that I only partially believe. And belief in something that is in the world of dream, is ethereal, is foreign, and perhaps is even surreal. The day escapes, and it hides its truth away in a box somewhere. And still, there is longing, and the longing will not be stilled, it is breathing and it seeks guardianship, truth is veiled, is a cloak, its mystery cannot be unravelled, yet the search continues. Art and literature and music and creative ideas, are for me, what comes closest, to getting to the point of understanding, subject is naked, provoking interpretation, and then variations of understanding, of a weakened kind of 'knowing' life is crazy and it lives in every soul, it possesses and it teases and it explains that there is no getting perfectly close to it, that it will continue to be your mystery, and your mystery will not inform you, it will not love you enough to give its truth to you. There is magic in the mind, that can touch the mystery that life would prefer you not to understand, so then there becomes, the fight with the children of life and the God of life.

Words

Words are only words, they aren't necessarily that feeling, the feeling cannot be tyrranised by a simple word, attempting description, the feeling is true, it cannot be perfectly touched by words to describe it, to understand it, to make it feel that it owes to words, mattering most is the feeling, on its own, in isolation, it is naked in itself, and it should turn to no other place, it is right and correct, just where it is, words are like a ship on the ocean and the ocean is a place where mysteries dwell, and how can a ship truly know the ocean? Any more than the ocean can know this particular ship, they are together yet apart, and the night will set them free, it will explain this to the two of them, and women and men are like the ocean and the ship, they are not necessarily understanding of one another, they can have the same close connection and then they can travel apart, love resides in a place of mystery, it does not give itself so easily, is not so available,

The Terror of Truth

Oh, the terror of the truth, that is after all, just an idea of it, virgin ideas, and the ways to escape from them to something real, patience I fear, must be the embrace, maturation is deceit as well, it mustn't be allowed to colour the picture, yes it needs a quiet acceptance, and in the play it has to take its breath, lies are everywhere, especially the ones that you pretend, and don't care to listen to, certainly the certain is more than uncertain, provocative, it puts its body in your way, tantalising offering its cheap touch, a meaningless moment in a world of self, and again self must be controlled and stilled, mind should be easy, the self should be aware of the mind of the self and the power that it can be allowed to have, to overcome to overwhelm, freedom must be king, it is alone as only freedom can be and must be, eyes speak, and the circle is a gyroscope, and it leaves the mind to spirit and to soul to feel and to sense and to judge within this, seems the strongest are the gentlest and the strongest the most weak, and there is weakness within weakness as there is strength within strength, and there really is no being apart for them.

Church

The church is the temple to the God of time, sometimes it feels like an ageless place in mystique of the ages, and one of the cloth told me that I wouldn't find God there, suggesting perhaps that I should turn my searching gaze elsewhere, my church has become out of doors, and my preachers are the voices of soul, and sexual spirituality, I need not look any further for my answers they are within and then they are without, and they aren't answers, that tell you that there is nowhere else to look, they just offer momentary comfort and ease you a little further along the way, and advancing is retreating, to places like ages past, the atmosphere of which I sensed in a church one day.

Distance

She has all the sincerity of a skeleton key, the truth lies within her eyes, and all you have to do is look. She would seek to beguile, confuse your mind into thinking that she is true, she entertains me and I keep her hanging, to me and her delusion, and the delusion that she wishes for me to accept, and she speaks to my agape mouth of her love, and my agape mouth discovers lockjaw, and ultimately I have pity for her, and wish her luck, and sometimes she doesn't want to answer me, and that makes me not want to question her, and I stand to the side, with her on the outside and lost to herself in her imagined quest.

The Sound of One Voice Laughing

A smile and a voice within the laughter of the crowd, the sound of one voice laughing, it inverts suggesting joy, it is in your hands now, the decision is yours, you move in your own direction after the tantalising moment. Wealth and poverty stretch apart both have a need for greed of the former, they have an eye on tomorrow, the moderate mind is in the moment, has understanding that tomorrow belongs with yesterday and the past with the future, so in a neutral place, where there is indifference and ease and clarity of mind, the responsibility of decision arrives, living is moving though, it does not pause for breath, that first breath is the reason for its being, and that first breath, is a life's only breath, and the first breath is a traveller, it moves with and through a life, it is constant with each life, and is often set aside. Discoveries are made after pursuance, and they may guide a life to embrace them further, and each life within life is as much a life as life is to itself, for the knowledge of a life of life is uniquely personal.

Light

Light brings bright breath, it gives itself to subjects to carry and permeate its warmth, they are vehicles of the light of love, to darkened corridors and to eyes that are lost in a moment in time, they will change according to the light and its breath, and at times light dwells in the unlikeliest of places, houses of innocence, of apparent unknowing, but light knows them, and it gives its heart to them, in its fully knowing, it is positive and it is true and it discerns, light of life and of giving your soul, rest your arms on me, breathe your will into my soul, fill me with the madness of your dream, instill me with you, possess me, make me my own and your own, fit your eyes to mine, be my guide and my guard, and sing my song unto me, and I will sing our song to my world.

Orange

Orange is my colour, vibrant orange, it has a great strength, and it knows and it believes in itself, it knows where it is and understands its meaning, yet it is difficult to see its living presence, it isn't really apparent, but it is astral and is complementary to soul, and soul should be invaded, it should not be so sitting so quietly where it resides always, nothing is apart, should be aloof, all things should be considered, should be brought into the picture, I see things like, evenings of lost love re-engaged, tripping to the garden of autumnal blessing, aching sky, laughter in the tears, a world lost and a kiss of eternal grace, questions to myself, and some kind of dissatisfaction with the way I have been acting, there's an intense look, it is inward and it questions, it is looking like it might become angry at some point, it is not at ease, and its finger is pointing only at me, and I, I just look on in innocence, leafing through the book, remembering, wanting to be in a place of the past, lost in this dubious moment, time, in this moment of orange.

September 2013

A song has lost its tune and the dancers are gypsy minds in a day of rain, astral colours exploding like thunder on a rainbow, and spirit is quietly questioning the lack of living in the day, it hides in the corner, on a morning of tranquil ease, it lurks in that corner, waiting for its moment, looking inwardly for the time for its action, and spirit must lose control, and it must be free, its eyes are on a search, through darkness and into the sparkling sky, the sky of the past, the sky of memory, infinity is asking questions of a single moment, a moment that is a single day, dancers still, weave their patterns to the song, the tune will be recovered, it will emerge and it will live again, and the spirit will find its freedom and will not be dictated to by the disappointment of a single one day in September in the year of 2013.