The great Foundation on which all things rest
is soon lost sight of, soon forgot,
fails to hold man’s interest
as entanglements lead to great confusion
(due to the power of the great Illusion);
until he cannot see what is real
and what is not.

A slight vibration in the ear
makes the whole wide world appear;
with laugh and shout, wind and rain,
grief and heartache, joy and pain
singing along a thin membrane.
Machines and sermons – all are here
in the slight vibration of the human ear.

Disconnect the electronic train
which links it to the human brain.
A sudden silence fills the head.
The mind feeds on itself instead.
A thousand voices it can hear
can cause a myriad images appear.

Let go.  Let go.  Let go.
Let go what’s in and what’s outside
and seek not for another place to hide.
The silent stillness waits like a drawn arrow
to leap into the void and space.
A raindrop falls into the sea
(losing of moisture not a trace).
But finding out at last how, finally, to Be.


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Those who sow the wind
reap the whirlwind.

The politicians,
seeing nothing better to do,
sow the wind.

Encourage the people
to be dissatisfied
(so that they can promise to satisfy them).

Encourage the people to envy the rich;
(promise a fairer redistribution).

Tell the people:
they have a right to be angry,
they have a right to justice,
they have a right to free sex changes.

The people are like blotting paper.
Soak it up eagerly.

Dissatisfaction, envy, anger,
demands for justice (and sex changes)
become a whirlwind,
which hunts down
the politicians.


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Over and over, you and I
sift the contents of our mind
and try to find
the people we think we might have been.

Try as we will, behind
the painted curtain,
one thing is certain;

Nothing is ever seen.


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When Fortune comes at last
to claim his Hostage
and all the days and hours are counted
and the fragile papers, envelopes and postage
and all those in-between days are discounted;
and Pluto has reclaimed
Eurydice’s earthly portion
and Thracian Maenads
have left her Orpheus dismembered,
what will be saved
from all this carnage and distortion?
What living fragments
will still then be remembered?


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It was different in the past.
Especially in the village.

Before you could read
Before there were newspapers
Before there was radio
Before there were telephones
Before there were films
Before there was TV
Before there were computers
Before there were smartphones
Before there was the endless whispering
of global gossip,

You lived mostly where you were:
on the street
in the room
at the market
in the church
in the inn
in the fields.

You lived mostly where you were,
suffered face to face with yourself
and your neighbours.

As you grew older, your Past lengthened
and you began to live in it
with that diminishing group of friends
who lived there too.

Things are different today.
No matter where, untidily,
you park your body
or put it on auto-walk
auto-eat, auto-read, auto-talk,
auto-computer, auto-TV,
you are usually meandering
the surfaces of the earth
or plundering
the mists of cyber-space
and the mysteries
of Imagination’s Daughters,
Past, Present and Future.

Your suffering enshrouds you like the veil
in a premature womb-tomb;
and any way you look at this you fail!

“Hey, hey, hey? Mrs. Robinson?
Hey, hey, hey!”


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Jupiter spins, they say, three times as fast
as earth and thus enjoys a shorter day.
They say the sun will grow and then, at last,
burn up the planets which lie in its way.

They say, the universe is growing
or perhaps has grown
and having reached its fullness,
is on its way to ultimate collapse
into black holes of cosmic nothingness.

They say – and build new telescopes and peer
further and further into outer spaces
and dare not turn and look at what is here
brighter than the sun and clear before their faces.

And yet, when all is done,
not there one dies
but deep, inside, right here,
behind one’s eyes.


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“It came to mind,”
She says.
Horse or Rider?
It came to mind.
A flower of the Void?
Or something that builds its web
inside her?

At Troy the Gods took sides
making the Trojans
deaf to Cassandra’s warnings.

Wotan fought
against his favourite son,
killing Siegmund high
above the clouds.

Who rides whom
on earth and sky
and in the labyrinth
of society?

The one you meet
on any street,
who confronts you
or speaks you fair –
Is it with him you have to do?
Or is he a messenger for One not there?

“It came to mind.”
A flower of the Void?
Or something that builds its web
inside her?

Horse or rider?



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