PIANO PLAYERS

Viewpoints are
piano players.
They press your keys.
They show you
what you don’t like.

You hate.

Hate triggers energy.

Energy turns viewpoints
into Action.

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THE BALANCE

“Oh Life! Thou Nothing’s younger Brother!
So like, one might mistake Thee for the other!”

(Oh Death! Thou Sleep’s forgotten Mother!
So gentle, one might mistake Thee for the other!)

“Eternity is in love with the products of Time.”

(The Sun shines
in a bucket of water
and doesn’t
get
wet.)

All’s well that ends well!

.

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TAPEWORM

God sees with the same eye
you see with, says Meister Eckhart.

Do you live your life,
Or does Life live through you?

Do you breathe
to stay alive,
Or does the Life-breath
breathe you?

Life lives and blossoms
through Nature
and thus Nature can heal itself.

Man tries to live his life
and opens wounds
that even Nature
struggles to heal.

Who lives man’s life
and is it any more than
what we have come to call the Ego?

Is Ego any more than a bundle
of thoughts and feelings
spawned by an insatiable quest for more?
A pinpoint of Desire,
smaller than a globule of blood,
that has flooded into an ocean
of craving and passion,
which parches the tongues
of those who drink from it.

When you say “my life”,
who is I and what is his life?
Is it any more than an intruder
that slipped in between the sheets?
A tapeworm fitting snugly
between your food and you?

When I ask you how you are,
A tapeworm answers, “Hungry!”
He has been answering on your behalf
for so long that you take him for
your true abiding Self.

See him for the interloper that he is.
Let him slide out as long ago
his proglottids of eggs slid in,
unnoticed and unremarked.

The ego slides in between your divine eye
and what you see
like the red-tinted lens
between your fleshy eye
and your world.

.

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TO THE BELIEVERS IN OUR GOVERNMENTS

Do you really think the others
are any less stupid than you?

All history is prejudiced and gossipy,
all science misuse of the misunderstood.

But nobody waits to understand.
There is no time
jump on
use it
you can’t refuse it
it’ll make you happy
whatsitmatter whatsitsfor?

A clumsy reaper might drop his scythe,
put out an eye,
bad luck.
A clumsy airman might drop his bomb,
put out his civilisation,
bad luck.

.

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TREASURE SHIP

The Treasure Ship returns to harbour.
The wave disappears without a trace.
Heureux qui, comme Ulysse,
a fait un beau voyage.
Happy the hero,
who dies full of years
under the tumulus
with his sword.

Happy the young man
who dies young
beloved of the Gods.
Happy, too, is Vanity.
The wave subsides without a trace.
Who will rejoice in its arising
and lament it in its passing?

Who will write its history
with words of vinegar and honey;
how it arose and how it pressed,
against an empty sky?

Who will cast flowers
on the empty ocean?

.

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SAILING NORTH & SOUTH (at the same time)

In these swamps of blank despair,
of teeth and fangs and gripping claws,
decaying flesh and rotting turd,
some talk of north and south is heard,
with learned (and poetic) diction,
a pretty blend of fact and fiction.

But where is what and how to start
is not a matter for poetic art.

In a swamp, north looks much like south;
either may lead to a crocodile’s mouth.

So if the gnomon doesn’t work in cloud
accept the compass and don’t act proud.

.

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11TH HOUR, 11TH DAY, 11TH MONTH

What They died for
has not survived
their sacrifice.

The fabrics of communities that were theirs
are pulled apart by rough fingers
of their unappreciative heirs.

Their homes are bulldozed
to feed the appetites of developers.

Their schools are surrendered
to the Apostles of Materialism:
Educational Factory Farming,
where those who pay the pipers write the menus.

Their Churchmen dress themselves
as antique Ecclesiastical Patricians.
But they have incarnated
as back-door politicians.

Chosen to be Guardians of Morality,
they have shaped it to their tastes
and decided that sexual perversion is normality.

They lecture All and Sundry,
that is the Government,
on economic decisions,
but pay no heed
to giving unto Caesar
that which is Caesar’s
and unto God that which is God’s.

God,
the former Archbishop has declared,
is like an autistic child.

His successor, who made his living in Oil,
before becoming a Man of the Cloth,
was promoted by the Prime Minister,
another back-door politician,
to be Archbishop.

Since when,
his most notable spiritual offering
to the Hungry
whom Jesus comforted in the Beatitudes,
has been,
The other day I was praying
as I was running
and I ended up saying
to God:
‘Look,
this is all very well,
but isn’t it about time,
you did something
– if you’re there’.”

May they forgive us
the ceramic poppies,
the couple of minutes’ silence,
the smart uniforms,
which cannot disguise
our failure to protect
what they died to preserve.

These cannot hide the huge invading armies
that come, unarmed,
to dilute the integrity of our Nation
and claim, as of right, the booty
of our work placements
and the treasure of social benefits.

May they forgive us our ingratitude.

May they relinquish Suffering and Pride,
May they relinquish Honour and Shame,
to make room in their Hearts
for the Immensity of all embracing Peace!

.

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REQUIEM: ARMISTICE DAY

This year
the dead are blind
and do not seem to hear
our prayers.
Nor do they seem to mind
that we now own
what they once thought was theirs.

Here
they shed no tear
at all the pain
they left behind.

Now,
when they come again,
they only find
echoes of the long-ago,
and landscapes that they hardly know;
deserted buildings, unpeopled streets,
lonely corridors, empty rooms,
where each his own image meets
in every shape it now assumes.

.

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REMEMBRANCE MONDAY

Remembrance
is invalid
unless
it goes right back to the beginning.

Cats know this
and complete their lives in the present.

Humans don’t
which makes their work
incomplete
and invalid;
a building lacking its foundation.

.

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REMEMBRANCE SUNDAY

November Rose
Pink and white and mauve.
Solitary, still,
among the rosemary and late autumnal gorse.

Sea winds have blown.
The first frosts have frozen the short grass.
Spring and summer are memories,
midwinter an echo in reverse.

November Rose for the dying.
November Poppies for the dead,
who cannot sleep
but stream towards new birth;
whose pain outlasts
the bitter Flanders earth.

.

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