Wu-Kih in a deck chair,
enjoying the evening sun;
contemplates the wonder there
that one and one and one makes One!

Sitting on a mountain top,
no-one else around
mind and universe both stop;
peace at last is found.

Mee-soh struggling up the slope
strives with wit and might and main.
She slips and slides and loses hope;
then she struggles on and up again.

Now at last she’s made it,
sweaty, breathless, hot;
karmic debt – she’s paid it,
and all the world forgot.

Drags herself to a deck chair,
clears her mind of doubts
and, with a fixed and fearsome stare,

“Leave me ALONE!” she shouts.


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Time drifts away,
as mist fades on the mountain.
The world itself is hardly more real,
the living waters springing
from life’s fountain run dry,
leaving discarded bones
bleaching in the sun.

There is no molecule
but strives to be the whole
(or if it can’t encompass that, a soul).
Molecules of arms and legs and brain
are rebels all and would be free again;
the pageant of our days and hours
runs till we lose our feeble powers.

We are children playing out our days
with sandcastles and fantasies
until the turning the tide erases
what we have worked hard to raise,
struggled to keep and called our own;
fragments of things, at best on loan.

our thoughts might usefully aspire;
nothing down here
needs building any higher.

Deal justly with your neighbour
and make of him your friend
and, in your inner garden, labour
until you reach your end.



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Can there be a more stirring sight
than a Pride of Gays,
like a Pride of Lions.

Prowling the main streets
of our great cities!

Protected by two lines
of the forces of law and order
from the big game hunters lurking among the crowds of spectators!

Drawing in young converts
by the sheer magnetism
of their slipstream!

No Civilsation has ever produced
such a flowering of the Human Spirit as ours!

Ah, that we should be worthy
to be living at this Hour!


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Freedom from the Past
is the Present.
Freedom from the Future
is the Present.

The Present
is a crack that runs
through the universe.
Into it everything disappears
like snowflakes
in a raging furnace.

For most people
the Present
is a mental space
filled by memories of the Past,
thoughts of the Future,
sense impressions
and a random stream of thoughts.

In the gap between thoughts,
the real Present can be seen;
like the sun at noon
through dusty cobwebs
in a clear sky.


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There in the dark, waiting.
The unborn
seeking their opportunity,
moist earth
where they can flower
and be carried along
on the stream
of unfolding consciousness.

Only by constant vigilance
is the Bind Weed
stored in the Dreamtime,
to the stagnant backwater
of time-
to come no more.


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Flaws upon a face;
each indicate a place
where pain and sorrow grew
as an eddy of death-in-life flowed through.

Monitor the mind
that scatters the leaves the wind destroyed.
Monitor the mind
that blows its dead selves through the Void.

Each imperfection
is a recollection
of where unguarded thoughts
have left their mark;

a clear reflection
(in a dusty mirror)
of a deep and dazzling dark.


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In the Beginning, God walked
with Adam in the cool of the day.
Despite hearing the Truth
from God’s own mouth,
Adam did not heed Him.

Later, God sent prophets
to be his tongues.
Despite hearing the Truth
from God’s own prophets,
Adam’s descendants did not heed them.
Many were imprisoned,
stoned or even crucified.

Now, in this New Age,
God has chosen living men
to be His eyes and ears and not His tongue.
Their task is to perceive,
accurately and without prejudice,
all that happens Here.

What they see is transmitted
to God’s Control Room,
which is beyond our understanding.
Reward and Punishment
is now swift and unerring.

Now, what we see and experience
here, in our world, is entirely appropriate
to what we are doing, here, in our world,
and what we entirely deserve.


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Space you measure in feet and inches
and shoes by where your big toe pinches;
seasons by cherry, rose and snow,
when may comes and swallows go:
empires by rise and fall of kings;
weather by rain and drought and flood;
dead trees by whether the dragon sings
flowers by when they seed and bud.

But how do you measure silence?
Or the space between two thoughts?
Or the point where forces balance?
Or the product of two noughts?
Or where the shadows fade to
when the sun sinks in the west?
Or how your deeds are weighed you
as your life drifts into rest?

Houses go from stone to dust.
The builder is himself undone.
The gate is broken and gone to rust.
Nothing survives from sun to sun.

What was there before the beginning
lingers when stars now born are dead;
in the absence of suns is ever shining;
when nothing is thought and nothing said.


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Of building houses there is no end
with bricks and feelings, thoughts and mind,
using the universal glue
that clings and sticks and binds.

Lovers spin webs for castles,
conquerors ancestral halls,
angels their heavenly mansions,
demons their prison walls.

Actors that tread the boards
and actors on the street
have studied how to speak their lines
and where to put their feet.

Each is his own creator
and jostles with the crowd,
entangled with his own conceits
by turns both arrogant and cowed.


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In the Jungle of the World
and the tangle of the Senses
we build us huts
of mud and heartache
and make (and mend) our fragile fences.
“This is ME! This is MINE!”
is the burden of our song.

We cannot see, still less define,
that pain and sorrow prove us wrong.
This is NOT mine, this is NOT me,
is the beginning of our Sanity.

Letting go of what does not concern us
leaves that alone which, meddled with,
will burn us.
The Law is mirror-like in its precision
and its simplicity needs no revision;
that Good breeds Good
and Evil has its price;
that Virtue is its own reward.
And so is Vice.

That all things pass away,
from butterflies to stars,
and though the World’s a prison
it’s the Mind that makes the bars.


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