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.

Changes

From the periphery to the middle of the picture, observation finds itself a new perspective, a spotlight gleams, and now there is a consideration, do I really want to be here in this 'here' or do I want to slink back to the sidelines? Do I accept the onus and do I think that the onus is prepared to accept me? Perhaps the answer is simply nothing, but to ignore that there ever was a question, and where did the question come from anyway? from negative mind? from doubt, and unlove? Seems to me that the more you do, then the more that you have to care. There is a tyrant inside and is like a leech sometimes, and his criticism is questionable at times, yet at other times, pretty cool. This leech or this tyrant needs control, he must not be allowed to become the commander, he must be a lesser player in the act of the self. And dreams explode into the waking consciousness, they leave their impressions they too need control, and this can be found in understanding, and with them understanding is the present interpretation, although this will change. Change is forever present, it is constant, and it is acceptable. To accept it indeed, creates a comfort, and the world keeps on turning, and to be in time with the turning of the world, is to be in touch with the changes that it challenges you with.

Waiting for Tomorrow

All of my money in the suitcase, and I turn away for a moment and it is all lost to me, all of my paper money lost to me, I've always wished to smile at paper money, it probably looks more interesting that it actually is, it doesn't own any of my feeling and it dies as it goes into another's hands. And midnight angel, with darkened eyes, looking like darkness, speak to me again, and sometimes I look at her sincerity and sensitivity with all the care of money. A jungle is alive with minds of thought and hearts of feeling, and in the jungle there is both ecstasy and depression, reality is inconstant and to be in touch with it, you have to change along with it. And sometimes as I change I can be hurtful, and sometimes as I change, I can be kind, and twilight will gaze at my soul and question and will advise on direction. In the barbed wire evening, other angels sing of love, and they thrill with their sound, and they have no eyes, so it is futile then to seek the truth within them, and I guess you just have to make some kind of sensual judgement, and afterwards at some critical point, questions arise, within the uncertainty, within the not knowing. Someone seems to look downward with strings attached, denying liberty, I wonder if John Calvin was right about predestination and how it is a mystery? And I thought that I heard an angel cry, and she shied from a comforting embrace, and then I became lost within myself, in that moment. And tomorrow sometimes takes its time in arriving, and it creates suspense, and some kind of anticipation. It sometimes isn't so easy to wait until tomorrow.

Not Knowing

There is warmth in the home of the heart, life is beguiling, and perhaps sometimes in the place where you perceive the home of your heart is, there is less than peace, and the feeling can touch frustration and anger, and very often you fix upon another person to rid yourself of this within yourself, hoping somehow, that it really isn't anything connected with the self, and with this antipathy for someone, you can be close to acceptance of them in the most positive way, nothing is that definitive, but interrelationship is a great truth, a reality. One idea and one thought should look for other related ideas and thoughts, there should never be the feeling of 'I am correct' for it a falsehood that deludes with its deception. And any personal opinion should not be considered any more than a present idea, and should not be taken to heart as being the 'end.' Thought and life are circular, they are eternal, there is no beginning and there is no end, and there is no knowing, and I guess the problem ultimately the insecure feeling that 'not knowing' may bring.

Fools

The perceived to be fools, are working their magic tonight, they would seem to have had enough of condescension they live in a quiet way, they are apart and they disallow touch, Pearse wrote about them and considered himself as one, as I do, we are the fools, who have no idea where we are going, we just tend to go, and the Tarot fool always tends to come back for more, does he really go off the edge of the mountain with his dog? or does his dog hold him back, does it enlighten him? And does the fool listen to the words of his dog? I guess that he has to listen, and I guess that is why he might be considered a fool, perhaps the fool is the one who listens, who has nothing to say for a while, until he has something to say, and the fool is without opinion, he stands alone, apart from the crowd, his world is a world of his own, he is alone, because, who else would like to join him in being a fellow fool? And at some point, just some point, you may want to look into his eyes and inquire, 'what it it about this fool that makes him such a fool?'