Cormac who Lives

Oh the thought of you being gone, and wondering where you are, and looking back on how I was with you, and the affect that I had on you, and my influence, and perhaps even, your influence on me, and in my sleep, you come to me, mostly when you were a child, when I had spent the most time with you, I have been turned down, refused, blocked, but in reality, this is deviation, and seeks to turn me from you, but I will not turn from you, you will be my companion, and you will walk with me, as you do, and I will never leave you, nor refuse you, and I will continue the search for you and where you are, and in any case, I feel you are here with me, right here inside me, in my heart in my spirit and my mind, this is my prayer to you, to let you know that I will never let you go, nor forget you, and although I left you, I really didn't leave you, I just walked to the side of you, and then one day when I was walking to the side of you, you were gone, and I didn't accept it, and I don't accept it, nor will I ever accept it, as long as there is life in the body that I walk with, as long as there is feeling in the heart, that is my heart, as long as memory, of my memory is true, you live with me each day, and each motion, and I will love you always.

The Single Note

The note is just a part of the chord, on its own it gives, and yet it asks for more, for accompaniment, and then the harmonies of the chord, give greater life to the single note, but still the single note is not to be wronged, for its just being a single note, and like the single note, the chord seeks accompaniment, and there are other single notes, within other chords, seven notes and one variant, and then keys, and then when you put it all together it is infinite,and it is Music.

Shapeshifters on a Railway Track

Shapeshifters on the railway track, going nowhere in a song, and the hangman refuses work, as the bell jar slowly fills, and then today begins for real, and I declared 'kocham cie' to a blushing smile, and then memories invaded my mind, on a journey to the east, and then when I returned from the journey, I found you waiting for me, inside of the area of my time, the clock has escaped is studying the life of trees, and where they might venture to, at the end, and there is stillness in the day, and it walks on a rainbow, music hangs on the breeze, undefined and open to itself, the shy smile repeats itself to me, and my reaction to it now, is an inward smile that meets it in equality, and dreams are in motion, walking their walk into the real, there is spirit, and it is searching for the feel of the spirit of ancient times, bright colours shine into the moment, punctuating, and giving freely after great care and deliberation, misinterpretation has to be understood overwhelmed and then mocked at, the messenger is gazing at the sun, and the messenger understands, the meaning of the message that they embrace enough to seek to convey it, to preach it, to enlighten and to protect, the search is on for real this time and there is nowhere else to go.

She of the Memory

She lurks in my memory, invading the privacy of my mind, in another kind of reality, because, that is where she dwells, in her psychic place, and I rarely accept her, until that moment that I recognise and accept her, and she is the imput of dream, and keeps me from sleep, and then the day begins, and I am lost to the dream, in another world of myself, in another part of personal existence, and then I deal with my relationship with a new day, and I work at awaking from sleep, and from my memory, and there is anger in the pangs of feeling, and they surround me, to the point where I feel that I need to escape, and then in the day, the day in which I should be free, I still feel enchained, and I am in your prison, and you are guarding the cell, and you march back and forth and you are silent and you repeat the things that you once said, and I, like a fool, listen again, and I know, that you are a distant voice, and I can only be the memory connected to that distance voice, and then I walk through doors to the day, to the present day, and I am free.

The Preacher

A simple expression, challenging the 'so called' profound, as if 'profound' is more insightful, has greater understanding, and that it could not be expressed in a simple way, when there is no ultimate, we are all just strangers with ideas of grandeur, there are only ideas, there are no statements of truth, the kind of thing to inspire, to change a heart, reality can hold a cold feeling, it may not be a lover, it has though, to be addressed, to be met, and is unlikely to come in a vision of dream, and being alone is a lonely place, until you understand what it really is, and it is about the absence of fear, and it is about courage, and it is about acceptance of a present situation, and then the preacher hides behinds the curtains of his unknowing, he stands up there on Sunday mornings, pretending to be in touch with truth, and he stands there emptily, as in his heart there is no assurance, and out of his heart there perhaps may be some kind of dread, but its alright, because he is the preacher and you trust in him, and he would never think of leading you astray, he takes what you were slightly thinking of, to a place of spirituality, he is your ambassador and could even rise to become your own personal saint, so what do you have to worry about?

Literature

I guess its the difference between writing and writing literature. Anyone can write, most people do, or many people do, but to write literature, is to let the soul take over, it is not about writing for a reason, or a cause, it is about writing for the soul.

Journey

The Gentry walk their path incongruous to the peasants, they walk a separate way, and the sky is full of grey and blue, and sometimes there is sun and sometimes there is dark. Truth escapes the confusion, it will not be subdued, it rises, and all that it needs is to be sought, and it is there, right there in the thought, right there in personal belief. And sometimes, there is warmth, and sometimes there is the cold of indifference, and sometimes nature is unjust and some other times it is an embrace, and sometimes nature is unjust in the same place over and over, and it provokes question, a question that cannot find an answer, and the sky is filled with the wonderment of the questioner, and it stands still, although there is change in its motion, but yet it refuses and it contains just itself, and then it is all left to the place of dream, of a place of feeling, of a certain place of mind, that knows more than the thinking mind, and this knowing, is not of thought, and this knowing is just feeling given by a certain kind of spirit, soul. Eyes engage, they have recognised the search, and are tacitly complicit, they do not blink nor yet wink, but they come on board, and on the ship that they are on, is the oneness of the crew, and they walk in the same direction of search, of moving to the goal, and life is on edge, cornered, unsuspecting, until it too recognises, this search as being a closer part of itself, there is magic in the eyes, and there is beauty in the magic within the eyes, and there is love on the journey, and it will guide and it will steer to the place of truth. And truth is where the arrow seeks to land, because it knows that this is the place of, insight, and this insight is the one of generous friendship and love, and of kindness and it creates a love and a warmth and an understanding. And today is exactly today, and the moment of this today, is exactly this moment of this today, and the now of this now, is only of this now, and peace has arrived and the world is easy.

Memory

Trials of the mind of memory, abstraction of loose connection, thoughts of false love, and of ill conceived love, and questioning love, or questioning the declaration of it, years hence, and the spirit is in place, it sits easily, is very accepted, and all around is only today and its vision and its feel, anger is suppressed, somewhere close to reality dictates it to be, and it guides to a place where angels dwell, and in this place, there is a world of itself, it is unselfconscious, and it is easy and it is in movement, and it is striding for a righteous place, between the orient and the occident, between the then and the now, between the me of then and the me of today, and between the person that you once were, and the person that I once was, and the dream is of sincerity, in a world of deceit, in a world of lies, of deception. I turn from this area, and visit myself and my real panorama, and I return again, and again and again.

Katarzyna

Curtained, bright eyes within, threat of implosion, hidden within yourself, inhibition, deviation, looking inside, refusing, ignoring, and the world gapes, but yet it smiles, tangled in your moment, in your movement, and your eyes know truth, personal truth, away from a world of question, I looked at you and I saw your attraction, and it stays, it lingers in me, and it looks for a future, we are all just strangers here, just making our ways, and you are the greatest stranger, far from home, and I wonder how the world is with Poznan this evening, and I caught another glimpse of you as you walked in another direction, imperfect, and real, and kind and open and curious, and receptive to my dumb questions, and modest and true, and somewhere in the evening of the lack of ideas, you live like a storm, and you penetrate, and I can't but think on you, and I was in the day with you, once, and we didn't have the time, and now I have the time, it is wide and it appeals, and it is gentle and it seeks embrace, and only you can be the embrace of this particular time.

Measuring the Wine

As she poured out the wine, in a very studied way, the thought came to me, that I should go out and buy her a measuring tape.

Magic

That quiet thoughtful moment, you sit there on your own, she is gone, like she almost always was, the soul rises, it comes right into you, you say something like 'its ok, so its you again' and the room is in wintertime, but your acceptance is low, the eyes of this soul, sparkle into life, there is nothing to wait for anymore, now is the moment, and in the moment, you are in the light, you can not escape, the focus is on you, and now you are aware and now you have a choice to make. do you look the moment in the eye or do you attempt to slither away to an easier place, the brave will look at the moment and confront it with their ambition, others, may look in another direction to a place that is in the distant, in the past of distance perhaps, magic places itself before you, provoking you, tantalising you, and yet it doesn't speak a word, and yet it screams at your passivity, and questions arise within you now, about this apparently passive part of you, that isn't passive at all, the magic is waiting for you, to meet it with your own personal magic, and do you choose to ignore this magic, or the potential for it, or for the chance to make it more, or do you sleep? I think you meet magic with magic, and then there is the place where angels sleep, and feelings of heart, be them of today or yesterday, and magic contains all of the things that you cannot see or touch, it will only touch you when it feels like it wants to touch you, and it will ask you very tacitly, if you want to be its friend, and then this night of wintertime, becomes lost to itself, it must have another place to go, it doesn't belong here anymore, in this moment, in this moment of magic, in this moment of you.