Phoenix new life poetry


NEW YEAR CLEANSING Wildly blowing out the old year, blowing in the new



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NEW YEAR CLEANSING

Wildly 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!

OLD & NEW CYCLES


The Old Year’s wheel turns from the old into the new

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?

SPIRITUAL SPACE PROBE


Does there come a time in every life and incarnation

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!

A CYCLE IS COMPLETED

A Winter Solstice Song (2011)

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

New Life-re-birthing Light,

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,

for auld lang syne and promise of new, burgeoning

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!

A SUDDEN STILLNESS FALLS (2005)


Non-stop surge of action, everything, it seems, moves

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

Peace

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!

Be Still And Know That I am God

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

David Allen Stringer

A PERSONAL SPIRITUAL JOURNEY IN VERSE OF A VISION QUESTER SOME SELECTED POEMS, SONGS, CHANTS, PRAYERS & MEDITATIONS

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?

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!’

Bhaskar Roy Barman

PO Box 51

Agartala 799 001

West Tripura, India

Email: bhakarroybarman@gmail.com
A working class writer

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-
golden crowns

exploding crimsons

scarlet flames parading

through a green gleaming


all seem to have light within,

appear their own light

to be generating.
Can the light’s declining

the year’s diminishing

even greater splendour bring?

As if defeat were winning,

depredation

gaining?
...apparelled in celestial light’


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)
Tardy Autumn.

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
delicate, sunlit

faery rain-curtain

impossibly subtle

lakeskin scintillation

the body of water

undergoing

tender light-rash

murmured sensation

rare, pointillistic,

tingling, orgasmic,

beyond imagining
sight the like of

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
veiled now the sun with charcoal

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
from their contention grew

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
portents and miracles

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.
My heart, long held in Winter’s lone embrace,

Began to throb at an exalted pace:

I knew reprieve had come again by grace.
Winter’s last moments fled like startled mice,

Phantoms of mist rose above melting ice,

And all at once this earth was Paradise.
THE LONGING

(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,
But ever and ever my hungry soul streams

Towards that far kingdom which even yet teems

With die-casters, spell-binders, makers of dreams.
COMPASSION

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.
His eyes pierce the mists of global indolence:

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.
A sage of noble brow stood by my side.

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.
The last star departs, and morning footsteps

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.
RESURGENCE

Songless, I sought to understand

Why the lyre slept in my arm.

Behold the many,” said the Muse,

whose lives have come to harm.

They do not need a distant voice;

God does not mean too much.

Sing them a very human song,

Give it the human touch.
Forget yourself and love the world

Thus only God can come

To minister to his ailing realm,

To heal the blind and dumb.

The world stands hungry at your door,

You have the bread to bring.

Take and give it with all your soul.

And, then the lyre will sing.”

Pamela Constantine

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?
You, who played the “famous poet”,

bad, mad, mysterious,

harboured kind, considerate thoughts,

modern and robust ideas,

made lasting friendships.
You were vibrant and amusing.

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!

A coarse pottery mask in which Byron attended the Venetian Carnival is on display at the Keats Shelley Memorial House,on the Spanish Steps, Rome. There was a picture of this mask in The Times; it is very different to the aristocratic portraits!
Erin.

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!
Folk Tunes.

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
Mardi Gras (2016)

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!
A Call for Peace

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.
Red Moon Light.

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!
T’bish Vat

‘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!
The Unknown Warrior

Amongst the famous of the land

He lies, the Unknown Warrior:
Those were the mighty of the land

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.
Regrets.

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.
But now that love is dead

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.
Day is now night and how bright that moon is.

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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