lyrical poetry – Traou an Dour

Haiku-esque, lyrical poetry, Poetry, Zen

Zazen – on the farm in Hampshire

a memory evening

forgotten in the sunset

burnishes copper kettles

–

holding linen gloves

performing léger de main

with destiny’s child

–

hidden pathways unwind

each nascent moment

ever pregnant pauses

–

judge and jury mind

hears not the birdsong

resenting coming dawns

–

a tear meanders lost

on a forsaken face

quenching desert lilies

–

sandcastle dreams ebb

and flow, with the

incoming tides of life

–

under the arch’s curve

fate shelters a while

as the earth drinks deep

–

raindrops softly caress

verdant carpets drawn

on canvas fields

–

watercolours paint margins

for the Soul to journey

a leather coracle in Dao

–

the profound silence of ponds

hears water boatmen

tickle trout with song

–

the winds play flute

a chimney blows smoke rings

beech logs in the fire

–

cows chanting mantra in sheds

the prayer bell chimes

a farmer brings fresh hay

–

the kestrel hovers hungry

seeing beyond horizons

keen for future dreams

–

the woodcutter’s solitude

cuts axe blade sharp

through logs mundane

–

spiced wine warming

the veins of golden ore

pumped only by heart

–

the acrobat squirrel

crosses the swaying canyon

between century’s pylons

–

semaphore trees

waving long naked fingers

in winter’s winds

–

the point before mind

waits for the ripple of

a passing thought

–

stardust falls silent

for those who wait

no footprints in the snow

–

a match scratches a back

a hint of phosphorous

fire eases the itch of cold

–

moss on the trees

hiding from sunrays

growing only aeon’s beards

–

the wise old yews

cracking knuckles in the breeze

have watched millennia

–

the moorhens plink

pennies in a fountain

wishing for luck at dawn

–

a carrion crow plucks

a hearty breakfast

at the roadside café

–

omniscience counts

each Autumn leaf

the actuary of Souls

–

how does dharma teach

the fiery core of stars

only by feathers in the heart

–

what lies before now

only the present sleeping

waiting for the cockerel

–

what lies after now

only persistent dawns

irradiated with dew

–

what lies in the now

only forever born eternal

in the womb of moment

–

singing songs in the bath

no-one is watching

a child starts to walk

–

as naked as spring

a flower unfolds its flag

saying only welcome

–

the candle shimmers

beacons burn on the hills

eyes glisten with living love

–

an owl hoots in laughter

at man’s busy lives

pondering on their shadows

–

a spider’s web tense

sees the ants commute

yearning for love

–

soft down in chestnut shells

beyond fish hook barbs

cradles possibility

–

red holly berries

write in their font of hope

amidst the thorns

–

wide empty paths

leading to the cosmic causeway

where bamboo bridges flex

–

the Dao bends the reed

to fit the clarinet

and Gabriel’s oboe

–

Dao tunes pianos

in the darkness of night

a quintessence is born

–

a river carves Souls

whilst brooks chuckle softly

over the mossy rocks

–

mayflies tickle the eddies

willows bowing humble

under azure skies

–

scent carries fragrance

of lotus blossom

cherishing tender Sakurai

–

a single petal floats

wafted on pillow dreams

cotton wool soothes with a tincture

–

cutting carrots fine

a sliver of perfection

crisp and juicy with joy

–

sliced ginger pervades

more pungent than any dawn

a newborn deer forages

lyrical poetry, Poetry

Deep in the Silent Forest

in the silent forest,

the sage counts thyme

with the Mary Rose

–

backwards it flows

towards a moment

in a see, saw, life

–

that prescience of

a single second,

hanging on a barb

–

where a face sways

the more demanding

on a ramshackle swing

–

again, in this life

a game of dice

with so very many losers

–

past bedtime now

and so to sleep

under duvet cosy

–

une épave qui reste,

au fond de la mer,

en état de non-flottabilité

lyrical poetry, Mantra, New Age, Poetry

I am a Magical Being of the Universe

Before the beginning of time

the seed of cosmic stardust

was sown into the primordial Aether

there to create all the incandescent gold of me

–

Forged on the very Anvil of beingness

I am folded fine, thousands of times

the edge of my Soul shines sharp and brilliant

a clarion bell brimming full of galactic potential

–

My consciousness is not transfixed here

it encompasses all that there is and has been

it extends far, far into the aeonial future

I, the real I, know no limits

I have no chains

–

My beingness is seeped deep profound with pure white Magic

I have capacities which transcend my limited imagination

my power as both a God and a man knows no bounds

I, the alpha and omega, am a fiery circle of God’s ineffable intent

I am at one with His will and I burn within, a desert bush on a mountain side

–

I seek all the wonders of creation beneficent with the gifts most sublime

I hold each treasure, each sparkle delight of 24 carat gold dust in my innermost core

the essence of eternity coats my translucent dragon wings as I soar among nebulae

I sail beyond the event horizon of this mundane life into dimensions without parallel

I have no chains

–

Known, unknown and unknowable

I am a Magical being of the Universe

a star child born in space

who dances each second of his time

here, on earth, where it really matters.

Dreams, lyrical poetry, Poetic Prose, Poetry

Floating Things

On the wind,

Carried by the wings of perception,

It comes.

—

The words of another,

Telling of how you feel.

Convinced and convicted in the beginning.

—

Tenuous and stretching,

Well meaning but wrong,

Painting themselves in impressionist points.

—

The message and the shield,

To massage and deflect,

Holding that point in sea of the floating things.

—

Formed in the rust of trust,

Sewn into the fledgling in the nest,

And rewarded by the worm of the early bird.

—

The clamour of the glamour of it all.

Life is too short to be right.

—

Dressed in dead-letter logic,

And the twelve-bar blues of again and again,

The so-called facts question.

—

But hidden beneath and,

In different clothes,

The sound echoes an empty tone, going through the motions.

—

Under the carpet,

Where all the fears lie,

Are brushed the fragile bones that hold the tissue intact.

—

The cabbage patch dolls,

Huddle to write their play, to have their say,

Performing to conform and looking at their cake.

—

Consent and compromise,

Coerce and corrupt, rob the spirit,

And drive the man from the parapet.

—

The courage of silence is not.

Life is too short to be rite.

—

In the clay cup he puts the Tea,

Pours water and takes the brush,

Deftly he stirs.

—

In the swirled of the floating things,

Searching inside for:

The meaning of it.

—

The raft of bubbles breaks,

And foams in the Maya of it all,

Yet another storm in a teacup?

—

Words like tiny purses,

Score double top, as sharply,

As the dart players take chalk in hand.

—

Five hundred and one,

Itches under his skin like mosquito bites,

On a summer’s night.

—

He never liked the Joneses anyway,

Their white picket fence and pet crocodile,

Were Saatchi and Saatchi.

—

The salt of the Ganges is ours.

Life is too short not to write.

—

What is a truth,

And how does it taste?

Clear on the palate and fresh on the tongue.

—

Far from the pre-packed and processed,

Wrapped in cling film

And sold at Sainsbury’s on Saturdays.

—

Personal and specific,

Not agreed by committee,

A feeling of feelings and a knowing of knowledge.

—

No less than a flame,

Kindled inside and singular,

An island in the floating things.

—

Seen in a dream as in the dream,

Watched in the circus,

Without puppeteers’ strings.

—

There is more to life than process,

Immeasurable and imprecise,

No key performance indicators here.

—

The air that we breathe is free.

Life is too short not to read.

—

The pages of Kells,

Illuminated with love

And decorated with care on the journey of the Dove.

—

Set free from the Ark,

The un-caged bird in search of the olive branch,

Comes back in sea of floating things.

—

Soaring in gentleness,

White with vulnerable beauty,

To tell of its travels and share of its fare.

—

The memory of before,

And the sense of the divine in each,

And the eyes of a child, awestruck and in awe.

—

The warnings are there,

The cloying sterility of the Vulcan mind

Overpowers the beating passion of the heart.

—

I re-member Martin,

And the Christ in each of us.

I have a dream and it dreams me now.

—

Brave heart be strong and beat on.

Life is too short not to see red.

lyrical poetry, Poetry

Allegro Moderato – Cadenza

Lay soft a bed

of Pierot’s finest tears

midst a field of corn

—

As the haunting

sunset wind blows

a cadenza of dreams

—

To stitch the heart

deeper in the glory

of tender tenderness

—

Salve deep ocean feelings

swelling along the trench

of an unrequited love

—

Watching with melancholia

and a most exquisite joy

to put the pins in poignancy

—

And heat the piquancy

of a hanging silence

stroking an eternity of time

—

Climbing the red carpet

of all the blood

spilled in vein

—

A cool marble marvel

etched in beingness

strong and delicate

—

A cake of many tiers

where Angel falls

water feathers

—

The Divine archer

pings his bow

into the core

—

To celebrate

the wonder

of it all