​biting frost awakes us
springtime lulls us to sleep
wisdom is emotion
not quenched or quelled 
but reversed...

we were speeding along the highway 
to the ceremony
to nowhere
wrapped in hurried robes
in a beautiful, moist spring morning
in the mountains

a dead fox lay on the road 
caught like a mirage
and meeting the sky
on the wet, grey tarmac

my heart flashed with release
'oh, my friend,' I said inside
for it was my friend
my saviour
from the worldly beauty 
of that morning

oh my beloved fox
glorious wreckage of my life
spoiling everything
and shining with a heart released

oh my own beloved corpse
glorious wreckage of my life
spoiling everything
and shining with a heart released
there is no greater joy
than you

and he knew he may not think of the blood
that he may not think at all
only remember
in the silence of his death 
and in the death of the fox

taking a short break on the journey
he stepped into the trees by the roadside

in the fresh forest of truth
the spring flowers 
growing so delicately from the earth 
were already on the shrine
the scent of the pine rose like incense
and the morning light was truly lit 
in the heart

right here 
long before the ceremony in nowhere
there was a deeper ceremony
in somewhere 

perhaps we truly live in a sacred place

'thou art not there in the sky
my saviour,'
he thought

The traveller stood at the gates
Of the great city of knowledge
And called out with all his heart
“Purple blue mystic
White black witch
What is the face
Of the cosmos?
I have travelled a long way to ask
There is a long way to return
Pray tell while strength remains
I would know the mood of the whole
Beyond the single colour.”

No answer came
All colours were the same
In the skies above the city
Before the prism of focus

And so the journey of doubt continued…

Meanwhile the mood under the ground
Stirred in its sleep

Caverns yawned within the greater body

And between the earth and the meaning
Moved a great alchemical mood
Tossing and turning with learning
Beneath the metaphorical feet
Of the journey

The traveller was returning
And just in the return
There was a knowing
In the familiar path alone
In the memory

The ground beneath the feet so sound
Had in its presence already remembered

The village approached
And in it’s history
Stood for everything

The mood rose out of the ground
Beckoned by a sense of belonging
And held in the goodness
Which posed the truest question

The answer lay in the deeds which followed
And happiness borrowed from the earth not taken

His rhythm was present in the given heart beat
In the taken respiration
Fading from his thankfulness in empty repetition
His rhythm noticed in the wonky gait
Of the winter morning

His theme was present in the echo of the autumn woodcutting
In the scent of the ripening fruit returning

His melody was as present in garlands of hope
As in wreaths of sorrow

And as the music of life is played
And as we are played by the music
How can we look to know the whole?

For looking from the inside
He was present in the music of the world
Looking from the outside
The music was present in him

And the meeting of inside and outside
Was forever out of sight
Until conscious movement
Gathered intuition

Marking a time
Not our time
There from the very beginning

Only then was feeling superseded as the centre of being
​

I am born inside
To the sight of the moon
Mother moon
In this misty night
Of bats and trousers
And baptised
By settling dew

It is the night of grief

Eyes my father
Sentenced to be joined forever
In depth of sight
Twin spheres in their own right
Are only their own
And dying

My children
Are mere sparks in the night

To the sky there is return
We know
The dead will tell
New light opens further

Grief is yet the beginning…

There
Where swallows swoop for souls
Beneath pewter cloud
Where grey stone fills
Death is woven
As softly as slippers
And white mist
Is spirit lost
Lifting into the last warmth of dusk

As colour fades
I see nothing remaining
Over or under the tombstone
Of the mind

There had been anyway only little
Until tomorrow’s
Vast blue was remembered
And after yesterday’s
Crystal blue had been forgotten

And until in the greater sense
Of the migrant swallow
Unweaving through direction only
Through love alone and lonely
There was heavenly home
For souls above

Home
Here where grey stone empties
And is in turn emptied

Where words of remembrance
Fade to the wind and rain
Of centuries

For higher
Was the heart
And higher the home
For those remembering above
And forgetting below
Between grey rocks…

The past is here
And not before
And welcomed
In fabric densely woven
Is the richness
To my soil
Of a heart well traveled
And as easy as old shoe
The body as such
The most intimate clothing
In this garden of history

There is a richness
Too to my air
Where I may be found
Even in the times most lost
By the scent
Of mother
And father
In the covering
Of blankets

Such is the memory
Just of presence

There is here also many a name
And many a story which stays
Through the ancestral line
To call the meaning
Without a word being spoken

The ships
Built for the voyage
Tell the story of the journey

So there shall be fruit
In the fullness of time
Even in the silence
And here is the past secured
In the greater ground
Of greater truths
Before the dawn of new life…

His rhythm was present in the given heart beat
In the taken respiration
Fading from his thankfulness in empty repetition
His rhythm noticed in the wonky gait
Of the winter morning

His theme was present in the echo of the autumn woodcutting
In the scent of the ripening fruit returning

His melody was as present in garlands of hope
As in wreaths of sorrow

And as the music of life is played
And as we are played by the music
How can we look to know the whole?

Looking from the inside
He was present in the music of the world
Looking from the outside
The music was present in him

And the meeting of inside and outside
Was forever out of sight
Until conscious movement
Gathered intuition

Marking a time
Not our time
There from the very beginning…

In the little town
Their eyes followed the spire upward
In love and hope
Through times of toil
And this gaze was duly honoured
In the heavens

Yet as clouds of love blossomed in the blue
Their cherry tree hearts
Were still tippy-toeing in the garden

Their hearts were rather small
But had at least been made so
And seen so by heaven
And having been humbled
They better they knew their duties
Of watering and weeding

And so delicate were their feet
Of soft pink petals
As the sky distilled a mirror
To reflect

Once I sought the love of the young lady
Burning
consumed and consuming 

Now I seek the love of old men
Cool
saved in the grave

A different kind of love


​

he was looking for a home
where he need no longer roam
somewhere at the end of Sunset Lane

he was travelling far
and life was weary 
on Sunset Lane

he kept his eyes on the road
as he carried his load
on Sunset Lane

but that night
the mist was mysteriously lifting
in the silence of his tired old mind
there on Sunset Lane

and revealed was a lane of endings
a lane where he was always arriving
a lane where his heart 
was always 
at home

for it was always sunset
on Sunset Lane

​Hearing winter call

Golden leaves fall

​Into a heaven of the heart

​A heaven not apart

But found

Here on the ground 

​Of love




​

Here
​
In heaven and above






​

Here

In an above beyond words

Where sky is made of birds

​And birds are made of sky

Here above a heaven

Where the heart shall learn to fly
​

This creation is also available as a PDF.

I want to be solid and shiny, don’t you?
I want to be solid and shiny
I want to be solid and shiny
I want to be solid and shiny, don’t you?

As solid and shiny as steel
Or maybe even more
Like the light that reflects 
Like the shining heart
Shining for ever more

Shining 
From the silence

Softly, subtly, lovingly showing us the way

for so often we are blind

blind to our own light of truth and of love

yet opening the blinds to our heart window
we glimpse a light within
a love of truth 
and a truth of love
and we will look for the light

Breathing in
Passed his fear
A bundle of lies
As thick as thieves

Breathing into the dark body-house 
Descending the stair of the watery air
As quiet as a mouse

Toward the light
the light inside
ever bright

​

he was in a playful mood
although the garden hose was not the most exciting thing in the world  
the composition of the scene looked right
with the shadow
and with the mark on the floor
appearing in a sense as though it were the clothing
of the humble hose
he took a picture for fun

dwelling a little longer on the scene
his mind went surprisingly quiet
the sense of order in the scene seemed to be gently stilling his mind
he also began to see a similar sense of order elsewhere in the scene
when the angle was right

he could not explain what it was that was right
and the fact that he could not explain seemed to be part of the reason for his silent mind

somewhere he remembered somebody telling him that computers don’t understand such things as artistic composition
perhaps the computer part of his mind could also not understand
‘maybe this is the way out of the never-ending computer mind,
‘but I had better not touch anything,’ he thought

‘otherwise I will be trying to order the whole world and I couldn’t do that, 

maybe just in my own room,’ he thought

he paused and sat down
something rather monumental was arising in his mind
he was realising that he had been trying to put the world in order all his life

‘so is the answer to do nothing?
no, that is not right
the world needs to have some order 
for us to be safe,’ 

‘putting things in order is part of looking after them, isn’t it’

‘but I can’t put everything in order so what must I do to find peace’

‘I can do what I can, changing what I can change and have to accept what I cannot’
he sat a while longer

‘and if I can see a deeper sense of order than the colours and the shapes
even deeper than a moral sense 
if I can see that everywhere
then I will be at peace,
such is the peace of true Dhamma
where we see everything as natural,’ 

‘but seeing Dhamma is like finding order through peace
rather than finding peace through order,’
he thought

​