a maze of words leading to …?

Archive for the ‘Poetry’ Category

The Dance

Dancing snoopy

Don’t drink the Waters of Lethe. Then you can remember the Dance and …

Dive below the surface. No more is the Floyd, a river of green, unseen as it slides beneath the trees.

Go with the laughing flow. It’s endless summer and the Salmon of Wisdom is not swimming upstream today.

Take in the synchronicity moment. Did you see the butterfly’s hurricane-shredded wings drift into your hair as you kiss?

Tune into balance. 90.1 MHz on the medium wave-band: Icarus trips the light fantastic, not too close to the sun above nor the sea below.

Feel the beat. The feet of dharma bums tap out the rhythm.

Be spontaneous. When they dream of foxtrots and bunny hops, sometimes let sleeping dogs speak the truth.

Stay light on your toes. Gravity is for the deluded, who fall away from transcendance, too heavy to be lifted by the crane who takes nine hopping-and-skipping steps ere she leaps for joy into the air and flies.

Engage. May I have the pleasure of this next dance?

We – the Dervishes Naked & Amazed – could jive-whirl the double-helix.

We – the nine ladies dancing and the ten lords a-leaping – could spiral round Yggdrasill, entwining its many world branches.

We – the Green Man and the May Queen – could dance carols round the May pole. The verses spin up and snake along our spines, which each become an Axis Mundi for the ever-turning universe.

Killing Time


Each life,
a lightning flash.

Yet some men
want only to kill and kill again …
as if this brief moment in time is too long,
as if the purpose of living is to take life away.

Blinded by the sudden light, swallowing camels in a desert of mirage,
they make their own short lives both cruel and ridiculous.
For stupidity is a dead-end maze. It does not lead to paradise.
And brutality is a circular track. It does not lead to serenity.
Slugs and thugs are not angels of infinity.

One day, lifetimes later,
as their death storm rages and circles on,
a lightning bolt will hit between their eyes.
The heat will melt their frozen hearts
and they will cry a river of sorrow,
the currents sweeping them on …

Beyond all ‘words of god’,
beyond all prophets and priests,
beyond all religion,
beyond all killing time.

The sweetest look

The sweetest look, without guile or motive,
innocent of its own great beauty,

Glances down like honeyed lightning,
shining, warm, good-hearted,
striking to the sweetest depths.

Worth more than all the money that blinds:
a sweet serenity, focused in a single look, lights up the moment in time.


God is too big too fit into one religion

Global mega-religions, hard-selling the highest power to open-mouthed consumers. Massive Suns of God, pulling in by gravitation the lost sheep (or trapping at birth the never-lost), herding them together through wolves in shepherd’s clothing, crooks beckoning. Sinner-gogs and magogs flocking in fear of divine punishment.

Safety in numbers (the Trinity, the One God, his Tetragrammaton four-letter name). Baby lambs bleating in orchestrated chorus, jew-venile and gentile sounds of paranoia, desperate for daddy, our Father, to tell them who’s been naughty, who is family, who is not, who is saved and who will rot.

Mosque-itos, male parasites avid for victims, borne from the swamps of ignorance, superstition and misogyny, infecting with the fear of jihad, bloodily dispatching unbelievers to meet their Mecca.

Sugar-coated tablets of stone, to help swallow camels yet strain at gnats. Honey-coated words disguising games of earthly power. Mouthing god’s love, yet feeding children horror stories to keep in thrall: paradise for followers, hell-fire for the rest. Holy fear, holy war and wholly in our power.

Say mass. Mass services, mass-scale – an adolescent balance of cruelty, presuming to weigh all souls by some man’s cross-eyed blindness. Monotheistic, monolithic, no one comes to God except by Jesus. No God but our god and our man is his prophet.

Papal edicts, shariah law, General Jehovah’s Ten Commands – the Jesus Army wheels about, his warrior monks’ crusade towards the End Times, when Eve-il will be chained to the kitchen sink for a thousand years and the Church Militant rules OK.

Armageddon, armour chain-mail, no God but a male God and Mohammed is his prophet, straining the blood of infidels through pure Muslim cloth. Arm-a-geddon tired of religious zealots: fearful little boys in men’s big bodies, desperate to crush the last living creature at the battle of the Allah-mo.

Freedom-hating, little souls, frozen in a long queue of witch-burners; faces and buttocks clenched tight, grasping for control under some man’s delusion of God’s grandeur. Mafia foot-soldiers in the Capo di tutti capi’s cosmic protection racket.

Noisy mad-men, deaf to the song of spirit. Clamouring children, frightened of growing up and into the Gods and Goddesses they must one day each become. Running from responsibility, dousing their inner spark of divinity whilst rushing outside to build God’s bonfire. The Star of David’s scorching rays burns out their eyes, thickening their skin with scar tissue, thickening their heads, searing apart their undivided self, fanning the embers of self-pity: Tammy Wynette singing under the lash of the Bible-belt, the Ayatollah’s A-sharp words whipping followers to a frenzy of fatwah, the Jewish scapegoat’s search for someone else to blame. Not me Guv’! Not me O Lord! Thou will is what the Rabbi tells us.

Truth, love, wisdom and beauty … so far from all this. Just as the massive ticking clock of Judgement Day will never find time to see eternity in a grain of sand.

No matter. Nothing real can be destroyed, nothing unreal exists; therein lies the peace of God-ess.

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