Thoughts from a Drowsy Evening

In the drowsy evening, boozy regret, the naked trees of late autumn, passive, without expression, there is nothing to be known from them, seeking to be inside of time, to lose anxiety, the flickering flame of the candle, teaching tranquility, within, complex simplicity, it mourns in a particular guilt, concerning feeling, and yesterday still appears to be present in the today, and freedom urges abandonment, and a smile rises, and there is something in the picture that speaks of time, and all that it can mean right now, and speak of, is of ages, and this is the kind of time, that has no government nor movement, an eternal thing without beginning nor end, And God is lateral to the life, and the movement increases without recognition, I guess, that however God is peceived, would prefer it to be, there is now no light, nor is there darkness, this is a place of wonderment, and there is silence there, and it is dignity, and it is alive with compassion, and there are no questions, and there is no conclusion, not now, right now.

Magic, the Beautiful Extreme

Extreme beauty enters into magic. Becomes miraculous, for the pure of heart, the true lovers. And in the place of magic, the world explodes, and for the discerning, the seeking, a homely place in on hand. And all kinds of love are available in this place, that you have arrived at, the love of lovers, and the love within friendship, the key to the magic is love. I was informed of this, and I will never forget the wisdom of the lady who cared to share it with me. And I abandoned her and set myself free, just like I feel, that she had wanted me to. She believed in prayer, and she prayed for me, and I wondered if prayer was also the casting of a spell, a psychical wish, an act of love, asking for magic, to colour the spirit of the cared for.

Almost Twice Upon a Time

Almost twice upon a time. The collision of the sameness. And separation in the sense of the real. And yesterday, long ago, the simple love and the simple sorrow of the young, and later on, a smile of kind understanding. The same things arise. They feel the same embrace, they have the same need, but development has made things richer and greater. And there can be no condescending to youth and its age, and its mind. And December just before Christmas has a sense of time about it. It seems to stand still and wonder. The chill and the people in haste, the traffic in the city, the fired eyes, the expectation, the dream, the imagining, the anticipation, There was strength in the feeling within me today, I turned away from her, and I turned to truth. Somewhere inside of this wilderness, there is warmth, and it speaks from the heart, and it loves. And nighttime darkness, is shy on cheer. It asks to be considered for the way that it obviously, apparently is and no more. But within the darkness, stars shine in optimism, seeking not to be ignored. It may be winter in the seasons of the year, but blinding to the dark, the sun shines within, smiles, and provokes. And the cold, can only still one into warming. And the warming air envelopes, and challenges one to prosper. There is something in the air this evening, and it cares, and it desires. It refuses to stand still, and it prompts, and it teases, and it looks for answers.

The Dawning of Tomorrow

Far away, the future, my intention, my being in another place, temporarily. Beckoning, I gaze into the eyes of wonder. Dreaming I gaze into the eyes of unreality. And then there is the distance between the dream and unreality, and the distance between the dream and reality. And the mind, the thinking mind, is short on truth, and it stills in this awareness. And in the world of spirit, the feeling rises, after a world of living in a world of pretend affection. And the attraction lives, is still wanting to embrace me in its apparent lie. And in an ancient time of life, a face reemerges, clearly before the eyes of my memory. Truth, is on its own, in its purity, in itself, in its perfection. And I look into the eyes of her heart, and all I can see is delusion. Love is nowhere to be seen, and inside of me, springs unease, and springs antipathy. And I have seen the words and the feeling of the words that her apparent soul spoke to me, and I'm stirred somehow to reject any kind of anger. And the music is silent, has changed its course, and is searching for itself, quietly yet again. Inside of life, the eyes are firing, and everything is yesterday, and tomorrow, must be managed, entered into. And I wonder why she was there at that particular time, and why I was also. And I look away from yesterday to the dawning of tomorrow.

Witchy Love and the Priestess

Witchy love and the Priestess, on the Sunday morning stand. We go our very different ways. I stand alone in a world that she does not know. I remind myself not to close in on her. Still, I have to remind myself of what might have been. It was all some crazy dream or was it some possibility? And did she listen to the words and the music? And did she understand the things that I tried to say to her? And did she realise that the things that she said to me, spoke to my soul? Turning away in the aftermath, if there really is an aftermath, and if it is really a turning away, haunts my commitment, my honesty, my truth. And I was thinking of her appropriateness and I cared to think that she was going to be ok. I had heard the word the word before, and I was informed that it meant destruction. And tonight, all the world in my world wants me to care for her and hold her in my caring dream. Somewhere, away from a certain reality, I sense her, and feel that she senses me also. And is she dark as the nighttime? And is she apart from love? And am I a part of her truth? And where is truth as regards the magic? And what happened to that magic anyway? Did it disappear or did she ignore its possibillity? I guess that the end is the end, but my feeling can have no end. My feeling is real, and it is with her always.

Monday Morning

The angel cries, the mirror beckons, a reflection that is not of another's success. Dark haired Hispanic bella, and she is so inviting, and I greet her with a sympathetic smile. Yesterday faded into today. The morning sought to awaken me away from comfortable simplicity. And on Sean McDermott Street in the middle of the morning, I recognised a face as it recognised mine. She says I should visit, be familiar, and I smile, and I remember that she remembered, with some kind of impressiveness. Dark is her beauty and light is her heart, and loving is her countenance. Memories of ancient love, envelope and the sun comes to play, looking me straight in the eye. And in the dream there was a Spanish Galleon, and in the dream there was fire, and outside of the dream, all was illusion. And the dream and the reality found unity with themselves. And I heard a sad song on the radio, of love that had walked away by itself, where destiny had refused. And on O'Connell Street, she stood there wondering, about her memory and the words that she spoke to me with. And I tell myself to be easy and turn just slightly from her, to what I believe is my truth. And the authorities were on the raid on Moore Street this morning, and they were weak in their strength, and I was secretly pleased. I walked my way home in the early afternoon, with a smile and a memory of ancient times. Love was in the air and its colour was magic.

Prayer

Paint me with your love. Let your soul close into mine. Eyes to the sky, and seeking the gift. And this moment of this day, let it exactly be all that there is. Let there be no nighttime. Let us be indivisable, let the moon enter our hearts. Let there be love, and let the love be righteous, and let it strengthen and let it run wild and let it be free. and let the music listen, and let it find harmony, and let our love be a prayer, and let the prayer be heard by the God of love. And may the God of love embrace our togetherness, our selfishness, our aloneness, our oneness.

Yesterday

The changes of her heart invade her mind. And I discovered through her that romance was a spiritual thing. And fleeting seems to be truth within her apparent insincerity, that I accused her of. And had guilt thereafter and couldn't be easy with conclusions, which were never meant to be conclusions. I can't quite manage to steer clear of yesterday, when she was around and around me in her prescence. I thought that I could look somewhere for answers when in reality I knew in the truth of myself, that the truth was all within myself. And yesterday has moved on, and has taken its own course, yesterday doesn't dwell in today, it has turned its back on the present, and in the present, she is around somewhere, although nowhere to be seen, without the prospect of being seen. And I wonder if today can really be true of yesterday. Yesterday when there was the feeling of love. Yesterday, when her eyes shined in mine. Yesterday when she was here.

The Music and Me

after all the muzak, I am in a Godly place listening to the delights of the art. And at the fingertips of my good fortune, I luxuriate in the beauty that is close to me. Still though, I haven't given myself to the beauty of it all, like I have and I can. Somewhere a voice is calling, as in the words of the old John McCormack song, or at least the song that he sang, and am wondering to myself, 'just how suggestible am I?' I am provoked by my non compliance, and my thoughts turn to love, the love that dwells deeply within the art of this beautiful sound of sounds. And the evening envelops me and looks at me in a precarious place, and it gazes in the eyes, and it wraps its arms around me, both in comfort and in warning me to go to the place where it feels, and possibly I, feel where I belong.

The Question

I remember when she told me that 'the only magic you will ever need, you'll find in love' and in that moment I wondered if Christians believed in magic. And I wondered then and I am still wondering now, and I believe that she has shared her magic with me, and her eyes told me to pursue the magic that she held within her, and in the distance between our eyes, the magic spoke to me of love, and she walked away on that holy evening and my eyes followed her as she left, she had given me enough to make me follow her, and I went home in the evening, to find myself alone with her in my mind, and my mind consulted the heart for feeling, and the feeling spoke to me both of mind and heart and the oneness of both, and then there had been a question, a question that I didn't realise had been asked,

Children in the Rain

Children in the rain, with no eye on the past, a thought explodes, causing a momentary ambition to be fulfilled. The old people now are but illusions, attempting to destroy the brilliancy of childhood. They are largely ignored as they should be. There is thunder in the eyes and the spirit speaks and screams and the spirit dwells and is present in each moment. Children in the rain, where there is no darkness. And the rain is but a cooling concern, the sky is yet not crying but gently embracing in empathy. And in a swingpark there is excitement and togetherness, and communion. Laughing eyes explain to the world, that the world has got it wrong. And I think that the world had better listen, because this world that the children have hanging over them, does not know. And I look in at the children in the rain and I remember when I was a child standing in the rain, but didn't realise the power or the beauty that I now perceive.