Phoenix new life poetry
NEW YEAR CLEANSING Wildly blowing out the old year, blowing in the new
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NEW YEAR CLEANSINGWildly blowing out the old year, blowing in the new.The last days of December and wet stormy weather, yes, our world and lives have become so corrupted, befouled by tragedy and everlastingly disrupted that it is not enough, a still tranquil transition between the old and the new, Earth & humanity cries out for cleansing and needs a driving storm and oceans of rain to wash away all our past hurt and pain ere a fresh cycle can have its beginning, a Spring time of restored harmony and peace in which all our wars and afflictions my cease, blowing in from dark oceans whence all life was born our old debris scattered, away by their wet gales torn before we can stand again joyful in cleared-sky dawn from the wild oceans of Eternal Creation!
fresh resolutions to be made, just like the old ones that we knew the last time we completed the circle in the same old repetitive cycle, like Resolutions of the United Nations to end all wars, bring peace between all Nations till the next conflict erupts, ruins this fragile peace going round-&-round in those same old circles without peace? Will those made this year be kept or will they be broken,
yet another wish-fulfilment, in reality forsaken, this High Point of our “Good Will” again to fail, on our own weaknesses, pledges of no avail- or can we rise up higher on a cleaner spiral, in Times better than before each and all to dwell?
when we can progress no further, though aye beyond lies the final Vision or are we like the last stage of a probe penetrating Outer Space jettisoned out initial booster-rockets, cruising free on invisible grace, with no further Self-Will’s propulsion, drawn imperceptibly to our goal with but the transmitting receptors of each’s pulsating soul, its coordinates our karma, our dharma, its energy until the whole of the Universe it can perceive & see so that others there may follow in the path of this pioneer- is this the Nature of each and every timeless seer, whose Wisdom is there to guide us, even when beyond this, their mortal path as beckons ever to us, the Cosmic Christ of our faith freed from physical limitations by its immortality, Light whereby other seekers can ever worldwide see!
The fruiting Tree of Life has been pruned and all its harvests gathered in, as we approach this year’s cycles ending, thence another to re-begin, all the trees that have died cut down, ready to be, to warm us, burnt* in these, our Winter Solstice bonfires, our satisfactions, here and now, well earned, in the longest night-time’s darkness, as we await a
meanwhile in good mutual company, carousing and feasting to delight, drinking from Mother Nature’s Vine, that ageless gift from the Divine, each and all our circles sharing, beyond all concepts of yours and mine,
friendships to come, in Creation’s self-renewing cycles, dormant seeds buds, fruits and flowers to become, most of what we had sown and awaited, in warmer day’s, joyously reaped, Yule logs for hope’s everlasting fires, giving all warmth heaped, this gate of old and new years, the most communal and cherished hours, since man’s earliest times primeval, in these, our Eden’s wooded bowers! *This metaphor could also be applied to our worldly societies, politics and economics, as well as our personal selves and lives in general, in these times of needy to clear to clear and overthrow all that is dead and fruitless so as to stimulate the regeneration of a newer and more humane world!
changes, reshapes, constructs, destroys, a flood of News and heaped up queues of messages until - -a sudden stillness falls in Sabbath morn or dusk at end of day; soldiers of fighting weary go away to bivouac or barracks to sleep, except in Israel- Palestine where escalating hell of conflict ever seems to spread and grow and bitter weeds of renewed miseries sow- is it then, to us, such a great surprise that from that war-torn land came our Prince of
with his teaching whereby all violence should cease, a compassion born of its endless sufferings? For most of us as chance to rest, unwind and leave all helter-skelter schedules behind, as to each other for, for a day, be kind- a few of us to listen to the Voice of God? A sudden stillness falls, the air is clear and still, the river scarcely stirs the swords and tools of Will laid down, with moments for reflection between our outbursts of activity’s passion and our desires to achieve beyond this now in which we live! Our heart’s pulse beats more steady and slow enjoying songs of Nature that all round us flow so to fill our minds with such serenity in which we know that we can simply BE, a sacred Sabbath for poetry, to be from survival pressures free, to fly as light as birds into the sky bathed in a Light of beauty from on high!
Are Immortality and infinite Eternity like a windless sky, on a still cloudless day, in mid-Summer or in mid-winter, where only our consciousnesses drift and stare like silhouettes of bird’s wings, for motion alone is Time, stimulating action for change, so tremulous one’s awareness ever starkly wide-awake in Space until we move, a stillness only to be found deep in our Souls and Spirits, for our restless mind ever urges that we move on, in ceaseless action, disrupting the stillness, lost to we mortals and yet ever-present, though, when we are still, our minds but briefly pause in serenity’s illusion? Yet we being human aye insist on such movement as sets up a breeze thereby the cycles of our mortality to create! Our Inner Beings Hidden Beneath Our Masks Through the stoic mask of my face only my eyes, now, perceive and speak, but rarely my Inner Voices nor any other sense, except in my poems+ in which emerge brief glimpses of my dreams (or in paintings); otherwise, I remain still a stranger locked into varying images of what some might call a ‘saint’ or a ‘sinner’ and only the masks we wear are so black or white, in alternating colours of night & day, dark and light, while within us all churns an endlessly fluctuating chaos
of memories, emotions, passions, submerged , of all our past lives, through which we grope, from our myriad yesterdays as all-sensitive beings, neither ‘saints’ nor ‘sinners’; thus, you cannot truly know me, nor can I know you, only what we have inside us a story to tell that’s true! SONGS FROM & FOR THE SPIRIT
IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER FROM 1963 TO THE YEAR 2000 by David Allen Stringer £6.50 or $10US/Euros Make cheques payable to “The Universal Alliance” To a Singer ‘I have woken up, listening to your joyous song,’ I said. ‘Don’t stop singing when the door opens.’ I came out and stood face to face with her and continued, ‘You are a morning songster trilling this sweet note to awaken the people lulled by a wintry breeze to sleeping on and remind them the day-tide shall pass away, very soon. Familial peace accrues off fulfilment of familial needs and, second in importance. familial ecstasy off falling of flowers from a tree and singing of birds and of bards like you about the heroism of our traditional heroes we have almost forgotten. I shall, I assure you, wait the note you trill and the meal to share with you. I cannot leave my duties unfulfilled in listening to your song, the duties I must do. You need not go anywhere else. Sit on in the garden till I have done my duties and feast your eyes on the flowers blooming and your ears on the birds in the trees singing! In the evening the flowers will wither and the birds will stop singing.’ ‘Don’t let the noon go wasted!’ the singer said, smiling.
What are we now? This enigma I feel myself assailed with, left to myself to philosophize on the meaning behind my leading a life in the wonted social milieu, often flings me catapulted into a fit of wondering deep inside me what I have got born for. When I was born and grew up, I was taught to acquire a certain qualification, not less, not more, sufficient for an ordinary job and learn to lead a familial life and cater to the needs of the family that I have inherited. I did not heed the parental advice, since leading a familial life nonchalant to the social needs is a curse. Father’s own advice backfired on him and he died a frustrated man. Actual peace emanated from the family and disseminates itself Father did not know what life is really meant for. An incident of a neighbour’s house catching fire did not worry him much, closeted as he was with the happiness of living a familial life and ignorant of the effect of the environment disturbed on human life. ‘What are we now in the modern age?’ I habitually ask the loneliness and the loneliness as usual replies, ‘Look inside for its answer!’
PO Box 51 Agartala 799 001 West Tripura, India Email: bhakarroybarman@gmail.com
I am , a working class writer. I have a tattoo of a chip shop A dog who may bite you soon as look And I know people who work with their hands. I was born on St Swithin day and it rains When I start to write. Even inside. They I invite me on chat shows for the ambience And because I say fuck a lot. I make it sound like a blessing , they envy that . I am a working class writer I look down on everyone and up to no one. I live in a house with no front door And a well dressed rat stands on guard. I have standards. I got a word of advice , it was Shut the fuck up. We ain’t going to publish you. I bought a typewriter from a dead man , It transmits warnings I do not heed. I can’t sleep at night , only in the day With my eyes open. I still think it’s interestIng to breathe when I write. Fool that I am. They want me to become a middle class writer But I’m holding out. Why should I live in the middle of nowhere And buy a refrigerator ? And grow my own Prejudices .? I would rather be an upper class writer And have peacocks on the lawn And write about my arse as if it were my elbow. I will change my name to Helena ya ya biscuit barrel. See if I don’t. Man changing duvet Is one of the finest sights of the universe Almost finer than a lunar eclipse. He has already said he needs no help So , sitting back with a cup of coffee.. Feet up ..is I feel fair enough. Radio on ? Why not. You are a dispassionate observer, no more. It’s not every day you watch someone Turn into a deranged octopus Before your eyes. Sometimes he decides to climb inside The duvet , this is a little Freudian I always thInk. Returning to the womb ? No matter. Sometimes he has to have a break and go outside For air. Smokes 2 cigarettes , maybe even (continued over page) (continued from previous page) Moots a brandy for medicinal. When he returns , you are on the crossword And smile benignly. What is another word For rehabilitation , starts with z ? Now the moment you have waited for , he Decides to involve the dog. There was no mention of this on his c.v. All those months ago . . And yet , for entertainment value you would Have to score it a nine. Maybe even 9 and a half. The dog wants to help of course, he is a dog. He offers to use his tail as ballast at the open end But unexpected is his chewing of the toggles At the bottom. What is left of them. Someone on the radio is discussing Fair Isle Knitting patterns and whether or not These are an influence in the work of Hardy. How do you feel about Far From The Madding Crowd you hear yourself ask .. But you are a winter toggage size too late. The man has vanished , the dog stands Cock a hoop and on the face of the duvet. A Mona Lisa smile. And it’s only Wednesday. The Bingo Girls The bingo girls Always frightened dad a little But then he warmed to them. Twice a week they came Unleashed from the world With gashes of lipstick and bright blue Eye-shadow. Shouting and pouting Pointing and cavorting. Clutching special bingo pens and Sitting in their favourite seats. Allocated , unchanging. Shouting house into the ear of the Universe , making sure God heard. Dad got to call the Numbers in the finish. Became a confidante, a lucky charm A friend. They would tip him if they won And he would laugh to be included In this bizarre game of chance. Even bought his own special pen. T he lock in at college When he , the boy Locked me in his room for the Foreseeable , there was Hell to pay. The locking in and the keeping in .. the way we cannot leave Is in itself a place. But. Apparently I had led him on. My lending of a text book that first term. Disaster. A flash flood of trouble heading my way. My standing with my flatmate Eileen Middle name Loyola and whose very Insoles were provocational .. in the bus queue In the rain .. Had led him on . My going to the cinema on the night after him To see one flew over the cuckoo’s nest My use of the same brand of toothpaste A flagrant disregard of leading on Ness. All these had brought us to this sorry state Where after 4 hours he was manhandled From the room. There would be no counselling Just a request by the students union for him To leave and a clip round the ear From his mam. I myself was quite chipper about the Whole thing , a break from Lectures always welcome. He had ginger hair I remember , was small A worrier, came from the East End. Years later visiting the East End I felt sure He had worked through his issue ‘re locking in. I felt pleased to have helped. Although passing Marble Arch a small man With a huge bunch of keys Left me not so sure. Helen Burke Email: ph.hobbit@tiscali.co.uk ‘Apparelled In Celestial Light’ November’s light slyly sidling all the more illuminating-
exploding crimsons scarlet flames parading through a green gleaming all seem to have light within, appear their own light to be generating.
the year’s diminishing even greater splendour bring? As if defeat were winning, depredation gaining?
The inward lighting this viewer is perceiving once illumined a mind incarnate at a point in time (yet partaking of Mind beyond Time) and forth his words-worth sprang,
again now is springing with my remembering: mind chimes with mind in sympathetic resonance across a bridge of Being’s building Time spanning Time transcending All connecting connecting all. Beneath not Bodhi, but Beech with raging conflagration of canopy over-arching came this see-ing, its auspices this in-sight granting, its Author-ity this epiphany giving. (The lake November 10th)
Our seasons like our trains Arrive these days habitually late. Bankside beeches blaze Their bonfires, alive, a-light: Yet we have already passed through The Gate- by effigies guarded incinerate- Of Samhain (however trashily now these solemnities we celebrate) and are journeyed far in the domain already of the stinging Scorpion who into the gloomy deeps drags the struggling Virgin down, down... Into further darkness The Maiden proceeding: thus beginning the bargaining moons of tedious haggling for the soul of Life’s releasing the pulse of Life returning with the light and the sap’s arising in Spring. (The lake 10th November) True Samhain Gaia herself glowing golden bedecked by corpses of the fallen lava carpet mosaic molten gowned in a blaze of decomposition
faery rain-curtain impossibly subtle lakeskin scintillation the body of water undergoing tender light-rash murmured sensation rare, pointillistic, tingling, orgasmic, beyond imagining
never before quite seen Gaiasol, Solgaia their love-tryst renewing the sun paying court for to woo her anew taking in giving giving in taking a visiting wholly of gold of gold holy my protector Yew this view gifting under it I’m sheltering
cloud-court attended fey-rain persists now hoary-hued true Samhain fairy rain fairy reign this after-morn of the night the bane-fire tower vied with the full-bellied moon
bright blossoming booms as if Vulcan’s hammers the sky were rending at the expanding, explosive birth of each otherworld colour anemone brief a smoky skeleton is left after to drift against the sky’s retina
of these last days where Nature seems Herself
to be redefining (continued over page) (continued from previous page) the sun paying out now a dull coin where motionless, distended he paused at October’s Ides to our amaze in an orange sky, sunset-huge blood-red (The lake November 5th) Dean Carter 8 Dairy Flats, Coldharbour, Sherborne, Dorset DT9 4AQ Email: ahiahel@live.com. For “Soundbaths” see www.centreforpuresound.org TO YOU, A STRANGER (A Triplet) Winter had lasted an eternity. Devoid of hope, I dwelt in purgatory Till you, a stranger, stopped and smiled at me.
Began to throb at an exalted pace: I knew reprieve had come again by grace.
Phantoms of mist rose above melting ice, And all at once this earth was Paradise.
(A Triplet) Die-casters, spell-binders, makers of dreams: The it is show us all’s not what it seems With signals and symbols through which the truth gleams.
We creatures of logic know nothing as wise As that secret knowledge that shines in their eyes From whose limpid lakes dazzling spirits arise,
Towards that far kingdom which even yet teems With die-casters, spell-binders, makers of dreams.
On a fiery horse, in the armour of inspiration, An emblematic visor hiding his face, The brave contemporary paladin is riding Whose adventures occur in the conscience of a race.
Upon his breastplate, the region of his heart, Is reflected the image of our hypocrisy Which we could not see was of ourselves a part. Alone in the field, he encounters every evil, Slender and young, the first of his mighty clan, Yet he must endure till the pure in heart have joined him
For conscience is the battlefield of man. TEMENOS I stood with others, weeping at the site Of the ruined theatre, remembering the stage, The painted actors who had touched my life: A moment like the ending of an age.
I saw no sorrow on his wrinkled face, He touched my shoulder, answering my thought With a truth that set my poet’s heart to race. “If Everyman could turn from mimicry To release creation’s master in his heart Then Earth would be a temenos of peace The theatre of divinity in Art.” And so entered in my destiny Cleansed by this burning truth of former dross; And I will only leave this sterile ground When I have turned the Earth to temenos. DEPARTURE About him is a silence still as death, A maker’s silence in which new worlds are wrought: A light is summoned to kindle hidden darkness In the dark rooms of concentrated thought.
Echo on barren pavements. The street is loud With time’s slaves passing the still house. The maker within is oblivious and proud. And now he rejoices after his deep labour To enter the empty creation of his need, To go beyond oneness, break the closed circle Free the fixed star, and generate new seed. THE WAY OF THE HEART The mind may plan and execute the route, But the heart must take a journey of its own. Here magic dwells, the pathway is unsure, Yet by its taking we become full-grown; And I would rather the slow and winding route With secret passageways through dark and light Whose natural unfoldment is my own Than one sure road to take me from the night.
Songless, I sought to understand Why the lyre slept in my arm. “Behold the many,” said the Muse, “whose lives have come to harm.
The Lodge, 11 Shannon Way, King’s Park, Pevensey Bay Road, Eastbourne BN23 6UA Byron- The Portrait And The Mask. Looking at you looking at us, looking sulky, posing; who’d guess the fun in your letters, believe how you wrote your journals?
bad, mad, mysterious, harboured kind, considerate thoughts, modern and robust ideas, made lasting friendships.
Looking at you looking at us, posing so sulkily – who’d know the good chap that you were – fun to be with – good company! Looking at you acting so lordly and aristocratic, Who could guess the witty, earthy side of you – coarse as this mask!
Do you await the Second Coming Grey Irish Geese – await the King of Peace? It seems King Billy has usurped his place and set that place at odds between those two great gods, so different, though they’re one. Your country needs each son – but peaceful men, and all to say ‘Amen, God bless all here!
Simple country tunes that speak of love and toil, with simple words by turn, that modern times can’t spoil, sing of all the country things that spring from native soil. When a country-born voice sings the native tunes and words, beguiled, we tarry, listening to other times and worlds. So straightforwardly they sing them, these venerable men, who store in mind and memory those good songs, written when life was more simple and direct, and entertainment meant that everyone would know the tune the singer would select – while jugs of foaming ale went round to quench the honest thirst of those who sang the simple things that matter last and first – ploughing and sowing, hoeing weeds, the love of maid and man, whose sweet attachment sowed the seeds of marriages made then. So here’s to those who know the songs and sing them clearly still, of lovers’ rights, and lovers’ wrongs, from valley and from hill, from farm and cottage, rich or rude ,the country lanes along, in peasant hose and peasant hood, who made the ancient song
Lithe-limbed and bronze, she rose, pinned her black hair with stars, and climbed into a dress flounced, flared and frilled, well fitted to her form and rainbow coloured. All day she danced, flaunted, part of the magical crowd of music; singing, her gown glowing with colours, until dusk, when handsome Carmelito samba-ed up to her, his Estralita, and fell, delighted and fulfilled, quenched in her rainbow colours- and all the bells rang out!
The time is ragged with worry; no one is at peace, no stillness or serenity to be seen anywhere– It is time to retreat, to gather up all thoughts and take them somewhere safe, to pray. To greet and to beseech the Deity to whisper “Peace!” into the ears of men, and “Wisdom!” into women’s minds, to all mankind, “Patience!” It is a time for silence, and to pray, (continued over page) ( continued from previous page) lest the noise of battle overwhelm our day with the gun’s rattle. Come then, into the cavern of deep Peace and Prayer, Mind’s meditation, solemn, deep, where Deity is, Who does not sleep; but watches all men’s deeds - and why they do them; knows their needs. Let us hem up the rags of time with stitches fine, perfecting it with Love, below, above, and make all neat – with Peace.
The sky, opalescent, Pearl and turquoise Over a golden sea Flowing. At the breaker’s edge Where purling foam was gilded, Then the red moon rose Folding the clouds In crimson froth On this especial day Of cosmic shift; Journeying from Anglesey As if the Heavens Surrounded Wales In translucent colour, Making sky and sea One jewel of delight, Scintillating beauty No artist could convey, or words describe breath-taking, soul inspiring, promise of change and wonder. Mountains on ruby fire in purpled space, one after other, lit by mist, travelling from Anglesey on the Red Moon night! Sonnet for a Long Marriage. If this is Love that has for nearly fifty years existed thus, between us, with both smiles and tears, then it has changed a lot since its beginning, when all was cheer and happiness and singing. For we have lived and loved and quarrelled now, have many troubles and some grief to show - yet still our vows of, Oh! So long ago hold firm us twain, whether we will or no! such vows have kept our different tempers fast, seeing that this long marriage seems to last. So friendship, more than just a simple Love, still seals the knot we tied – a treasure trove – closed tight about us as another skin, keeping all others out and us within!
‘Awake, my Beloved, the voice of the turtle is heard in the land.’* Snowdrops awake to love they fearless stand. Bare trees show buds Crocus flowers bloom. Snow may follow, cold return, yet we see signs of Spring, willow catkins blow and robins sing – Awake, for winter’s done! Enjoy the fruits we saved and stored from Autumn’s gluts we can feast on fruit and nuts - for Spring has come!
Amongst the famous of the land He lies, the Unknown Warrior:
Plain men who fought and died In many an unknown quarter Those whose young and joyous laughter Sang bawdily of Armentiers; These were the Mighty of our Nation Who took up arms upon a word, And in a rolling demonstration Of simple, patriotic valour Brandished Freedom’s sword: Those for whom their friends shed tears. So One lies here in Abbey blest, One champion of our nation’s glory One man to represent the rest Who fought and died, but left no story: Those whom we know not where they rest. Hanukah/Persephone. About now, as we yearn for light eight candles on one branch shine bright; the children look for something sweet – for nuts and fruits and other treats. The hearth glows red with weathered wood, our table’s spread with special food. Praises are offered for the sun, the shining stars and the bright moon, and all that lights our day and night swirling in cosmic splendour bright, warming planet Earth, our home, waiting for Persephone to come - the lady who heralds in the Spring, when birds and children dance and sing, when winter’s weeds are cast aside and we in warmth and light abide.
My cheek cannot remember the warm curve of your shoulder – your hand would not know my body, older, drooping breast, sagging belly, rippled thigh – this thing, no longer beautiful is not the I your body knew so well, but it it has borne the swell of all your children.
that used to pillow ,soft, my sleeping head, hands straying to my breast finding their comfortable rest until the morning: now I am mourning; my cheek is damp with tears, no longer with your sweat from our sweet loving – that time is gone, long gone, to my long regret – regretful longing. Sylvia Anne Charlewood 12 Hillands Drive, Leckhampton, Chelterham GL53 9EU Email: bscharlewood@btinternet.com DREAM OF DEATH. There are Raphael paintings in the sky by day as clouds race by. The days are mostly the same too but i never see the same clouds.
Not full, just like a eye. The all seeing eye. If it turned and looked it would see straight into my heart if i let it. Only good men die on nights like this. Warm death blanketed by dreams whispering the journey for you my friend is over.
Marc Carver Email: kronsk669@yahoo.co.uk TIME FOR LOVE Time may come and time may go, but love goes on forever, Some there are who sometimes say, I haven’t time for love. Surprised they are when I do say – that love has time for them. The Earth and all that therein lives, has love to give abundantly. The greatest pleasure is to wander in the woodlands and the moor, or rest awhile on wild sea strand, feeling the wind’s cleansing caress - - - what better way to spend the day, letting Nature breathe you, hold you, feed you. If you feel too down, then don’t despair, walk out the door holding your hand of intuition to guide you where you need to go - - have trust this healing hand will take you to the gardens, park, the lake or sea. Very well you City dwellers say, I haven’t time to wander out this day - - - My job, my kids are first priority, Perhaps when time allows I’ll take your tip and make a trip to Nature land, escape the claustrophobic hand. Is this all there is I wonder sitting here? Why cannot the country come to me? There’s always super wildlife films to see here at home on my T.V. so why to suffer stress of wind and rain, when all one needs to do is dream. “Life and The Sea” In the Beginning the Sea held all life over the Earth. A dense grey cloak of clouds hovered above the ocean - - -many millennia passed, until, one cataclysmic day as great storm gathered immense electrical energies - - And the sea rose up in a glittering pillar of emerald vortex! So at last the Sun could penetrate the cloak and shine benignly on the sea, and passed a magic wand over her face, starting the latent life within to stir - - Many thousands of years did follow, when the first fishes swarmed the depths, and much later still the restless mammals learnt to thrust themselves above the waves, savouring the intense joy of dynamic life. But the evolutionary sceptics will say that oceans only formed from stinking swamps, where dinosaurs stalked in armoured splendour. An yet this wondering poet asked: “But how did water form in the earliest years of this miraculous Planet’s life? Was this some accidental marriage of free hydrogen with wayward oxygen?” Many a clever geoscientist has mused on such fundamental questions and reached some rational solutions. And yet, its left to me to muse upon these Universal enigmas - -How, dear God did life begin on this so beautiful Planet Earth? What can I do but cast these questions out to you - - Please send your thoughts to me by text on 07581-558872 and add your name. Many blessings to you and thanks for listening to me and my friendly poets & musicians to whom I’m always grateful. As broadcast on the 26th June 2017 on Sound Radio at 102.5 FM Jeffrey Gale MIND TRAVEL What is the fastest way to travel on Earth? We may not use it, but we humans can fly to distant places Within the power of our minds and our imaginations. You may ask, how can I travel to places never seen? If you remember even the smallest part of any dream, it’s sure to find you or others in a strange scene, a distant land you’re sure you’ve never been. We restless human souls that are for ever curious, will always long to visit strange exciting places, way beyond the far horizons - - - surely one of the greatest gifts to humanity is that of seeing beyond the confines of the brain, outside its usual functions. Even the mindful mind can sometimes feel frustrated, too imprisoned in the confines of its own routines, it longs to travel into spaces or the places never seen- although the ways and means are there by ship or train or plane, there are restraints like cash that may too often make us stay at home and dream. The possibilities of travel can be ultimately endless – How did Holst conceive his sonic journeys into Planetary Space, long before those powerful rockets made the early voyages possible? He surely had the gift to free the rich imagination of his mind, To explore those places well beyond the reach of material restraint. While visiting St Petersburg, I met a Russian Psychotherapist, who claimed he has discovered & practised psycho- energetic ways to deflect rockets or torpedoes- - hearing this, the Russian Navy invited him to do some tests, and when these proved successful, they employed him to join a nuclear submarine as part of the torpedo defence crew. He calls this the science of Psychotronics, and there is now a Psychotronics Organisation for research, practise and collaboration. THE TRAVELLING MIND Why travel friend when you can go there in your mind, For there you’ll surely find the strangest lands, Mountains or islands, hardly visited by Man. Make friends dear heart, with your Imagination, And there you’ll see the people and the places, You cannot find in travel books. Lay down upon the quiet greensward Relax into the Natural Mind And soon you’ll let the spirits guide you through to their most finely coloured world of luminous green or amber caves, with pools reflecting gold or indigo light. One flag I hoist above all others on this day, that shows a golden circle edged in blue what means this sign you say? Quite simply, travel round the circle of your mind to visit places way beyond the speed of light, slow down the body, while the mind moves to infinite speeds. Mind fuelled by consciousness can travel instantly into the life born planets of some distant galaxy, where beings have long since learnt the wisdom of slowing down the body, and swimming in a sea of consciousness. Jeffrey Gale 16 Whiteley Avenue, Totnes, Devon TQ9 5PQ Email: Jeffrey@worldpeacegardens.net.org See: www.worldpeacegardens.net.org Driving me crazy It's the piles that grow under tables and chairs and next to the bed, mostly books to be sure. He hangs up his clothes but his shoes seem to linger and lately the heap of stuffed animals grew by several more, so adorable too. Sometimes I complain, and he sets right to work to tidy the piles and remove all the extra, but magically somehow the piles reappear and grow 'til they topple and land on the rug, and he says I will fix it, I'll do it tomorrow and sometimes he does, sometimes not, to my sorrow. It isn't my way to accumulate stuff, I tend to be careful to keep my things tidy. However I know that he's doing his best to cope with his habit of piling possessions. He is my beloved, though he is a bit lazy and I try to be patient so I won't go crazy.
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