Celtic mystery call to me
with leaf and knotted lanes
with high hills crowned with ice
and fragile spiders weaving the
mountains of Paradise
with hazelnuts and walnuts
with quiet steams and honey coloured dreams...
Caribbean charm you beguile me
Much more than any other
The grandeur of your mountains,
Your undulating plains
Your majestic trees
And beautiful flowers
Golden beaches and aquamarine seas
You have a hold on me
And no matter where I roam
I long for you my Kairi, my home.
We think what we see,
what we think and feel belongs to us
but we are wrong
- all our thoughts and perceptions
come from a Divine source,
how can we claim them for our own.
Every thought or word we speak
proceeds from an unfathomable mystery
and will return unto it
just as dust returns to dust
and light returns to Light.
Who knows, perhaps the two are
ultimately the same...
Everything is loaned to us for just a while
Just as we are lent to others.
The trick is to know what gifts have
Been given to us as we make this earthly journey
And to appreciate them fully.
An ungrateful heart is like salt in a wound,
A complacent one that takes everything for granted
If we are salt for others Master water us down
And if we are complacent, remove that outer crust
So that when we stand before You
We shall have two less transgressions on our slate.
Hours advance over my shoulder,
sometimes lingering at my writing elbow
but then it becomes restless
and plunges on towards the edge of the precipice
leaping on towards futurity'
leaping on towards joy or disaster.
What is time and how might it be measured?
At times it seems we do not have enough
at others we fritter it away without a care.
Where does it come from,
where does it go,
sometimes quick, sometimes slow.
We do not know and can only guess.
All that is certain is that one day
our store of it will come to an end.
Once a long, long time ago, deep inside the woods
There lived an elf who was very, very good;
Each day before sunrise he’d jump up from his bed,
Say his morning prayers and plan the day ahead.
Then he would take his shower in the dawn’s first dew
Wash sleep from his eyes until he felt brand new.
He’d cover Lady Moon so that she’d fall asleep
Counting fading stars instead of leaping sheep.
He’d dust off Mr. Sun, make sure his face was bright,
Polish leaves and petals much to their delight;
Then he would sweep off sadness, dark thoughts and bad dreams
Into a river fed by a thousand streams.
Next he’d call out to the birds so that they could fly
Up to and across the morn’s still sleepy sky.
He would wake up drowsy creatures, saying to each one,
"Get up sleepyhead, the night has long since gone.”
"Just another forty winks!" said the sleepy squirrel
"Wake me when its dinnertime," said a yawning Sphinx
"not too late mind, I have a game of golf to play out on the Blasted Links."
"What?" cried the gopher, wailing in distress
and searching in the hollyhocks for a summer dress,
"is it summer already, is there any mail
- I ordered two new videos and a brand new bushy tail!"
Once he’d got the flora and the fauna awake
He would find a toadstool, take a little break,
Then he would gather fruit, picked from a nearby tree
Sip nectar from a bloom, and then sated he
Would spend time with the flowers that danced in the breeze,
Listen to the stories of the ancient trees;
Then he’d store them all away so that he could weave
Them into the daydreams of those who believe.
Soon it would be time for His Sunship to go down
He’d turn off his light, take out his dressing gown,
Then wake up the Moonlady so that she could shine
All over the forests, her brilliance divine.
The stars would be next as slowly they would come out
To decorate the heavens, twinkling about.
A plateful of mushrooms, a cup of dew, a yawn
And the elf goes to sleep ‘til tomorrow’s dawn.
"Dear me," whispered a dreaming lizard in his ear
"is it night-time again, I must hurry down to the old rotten pier
and leap onward the Ship of Dreams before it leaves.
The night is made for lovers and thieves,
not geckos, newts or even kimonos.
farewell, Elf, until next time
- with a bit of luck I'll be back by morning,
in time to wind up all the clocks
that regulate the hollyhocks,
to clean up the daisies with spit and polish
and sing to the tomatoes with gusto and relish..."
The Whispering Rose
The whispering rose infiltrated my dreams
and told me a story
but when I woke the next morning
I could recall little of its details
though its sweetness and perfume
remaining with me all morning
and much of the afternoon.
The story lies embedded in my heart
And although I am unable to relate
It to anyone
Every now and then some thought
Or feeling fills my being and I
Recognise it as if from some distant dream.
It warms my heart, brings comfort on dark days
And smiles when tears threaten to fall...
The whispers linger on.
One night as a child the Rose visited me
and, lifting me gently up in her arms,
carried me to a wonderful land beyond the North Pole.
A family of happy Inuit fed us on different flavoured ices
and cakes made from tender herbal meat.
They had a little replica of the Pole in their garden
and we danced around it with snow-gnomes and several Reindeer.
When I woke the next day I thought it was all very queer
as it was still only May!
I never got the chance to go again
But unlike the whispers, those memories are crystal clear
And sometimes I just sit and revel in the past.
And must confess that I regret that those
Times did not last.
Life is short – any day now I expect to hear the call
to leave this fragile land
and I will be reunited with my mystic Rose.
Intelligent beings throughout the myriad universes
acknowledge her supremacy in all things.
Remember me if you will
as one who knew and loved her,
although I hardly knew her.
Farewell my brothers and sisters
- cultivate her presence
and seek to see her everywhere.
Farewell and happy travelling..
Rainflowers open to catch the storm
all the earth is thirsty
I open my arms across the flame-coloured sky
where it is ragged and worn
- shadows descend quickly
and night rushes in to claim the earth,
staking out his kingdom with a thousand stars.
If I could just pick out the central star
and pull its silver cord
all the universe would unravel,
falling like a bedouin tent,
already forgetful of yesterdays oasis...
The flamboyant tree sends out
Her radiant blooms, almost
As if to offer thanks
For the sorely needed showers
Which are drenching the parched
Mountainsides, filling its rivers.
Our world is green again,
Fresh life emerging everywhere.
Soon our near empty dams will
If only the waters could wash
Away the ugliness that
Festers in the hearts of men,
The scourges that taint our world.
I feel the rain pelting down
And raise my face to receive its
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