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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First the left hand, then the right;
in each, a ball, in each held tight

When a third comes into view,
what exactly will you do?

Let it roll past on its way,
down the hall and out the door?

Or grab it and bring it into play,
or even look around for more?

Throw one up into the air.
See how it seems to go up there.
Round and round, see where it spins
and, as it falls, the game begins!

And what a game! For as you snatch it
you must let go another to catch it.
Now both your hands have to hurry
forever in a whirl and flurry.

The more you grab, the worse it gets.
How it started, you forget.
Is there no peace in this kinetic cage,
performing here upon an empty stage?

The game’s the thing; is its own reason
and every time of year its season.
The world spins on in this commotion,
this frantic, senseless, cosmic motion.

How will it end? For what can stop it?
We surely cannot simply drop it.
We reach and clutch, catch and throw
on and on and on we go.

Exhaustion brings a final fumble,
we and our juggling all down tumble.

The Sun, too, will tire of this game
and all its planets will fall down again.


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Not knowing is a barrel
tumbling over Niagara:
darkness within
danger without.

Knowing is the full moon
at midnight
splashing light
in the darkest corners.

Wanting to know
is taking responsibility
for the good
and the bad.

Not wanting to know
is a skeleton in the cupboard
and a bloody knife
under the floorboards.


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It may not be the bearded man
who smiles at you and explodes.
It may not be the errant tyre
that slides on the icy roads.
It may not be the scaffolding plank
that bounces on your head.
It may not be pneumonia
that smothers you in bed.
It may not be the fever
that creeps through blood and vein.
Or the quiet worm in the sole of your foot
that climbs up to your brain.

It may be that the breath leaks out
in a mist of expiring pain
and nothing can make it turn about
and slide back in again.



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Journeying from the beginning
(of which there is no beginning),
travelling for millions of years
(which cannot be measured in millions or years),
I have come,
and go on.
No stopping.
Just the onward movement
into the illimitable.
For ever.

No need to blame the wicked,
their shadows are at their heels.
No need to fear for the good,
haloes of light enclose them in splendour.
No need to talk of escape.
Escape from this prison
is a doorway into the prison yard
and back again.

This prison is moving
and all-encompassing.
There is nothing outside it
to be escaped into.
There is no escape from.
There is only stopping.
Where there is stopping, how can there be movement?
If there is no movement, how could there be a prison?


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So, who are you?
Mr Teacher.
Oh yes. And what do you teach?
I teach people what they already know.
And what’s that?
That they have nothing to learn.
And how long does that take?
Usually, many, many lifetimes.

Of hard work?

Of hard suffering.

If you are born Mr Rabbit,
you will have long ears
and can hear Mr Fox coming.
But you cannot hear Mr Farmer
before his bullet hits your head.

If you are born Mr Dog,
you will have lots of rabbits
to choose from.
But all the other dogs
will sniff your bottom.
and Mr Man will put a leather strap round your neck.

If you are Mr Man,
you will have lots of rabbits to eat
and dogs with necks
to put your leads on.
But Mr Teacher will put a cage
in your brain
so that you can dance in his circus.


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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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We raised our hats to you, Mr Lincoln.
We believed every word that you said.
And when life spilled into darkness
in a night of theatre,
we believed, even though you were dead.

From the decay that was Europe, we sent you our sons
to escape from a thousand-year prison called home;
from money and serfdom and warfare and guns;
from Ireland and Germany, Russia and Rome.

We believed, Mr Lincoln. We knew. We could wait.

From the slave-fields of Africa, we heard all men are equal
and America, like God, would apply it that way.
And having applied it, would insist on the sequel;
that all men were free in this African day.

From Asia, the bent backs of our human machines
learned of machines that would give them their rest;
learned they could stand straight and what freedom means;
and, holding heads high, put it all to the test.

And what did we get from all the bright promise?
And what did we learn when we gave you our vote?
From a heap of dead redskins to a pile of dead commies,
you could write the Lord’s Prayer on a used five-buck note.


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The patience of the bomb
fills the void with fear.

And still those with ears
and mortar boards
listen and do not hear.


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“My head is clear today,
the heavy morning stayed away
or lost itself in sleep.
Clear, open-sensed,
I keep
an eye where a light beam
bends round the senses
at the dreamy edges.

In the slow growth, in the egg of a dream,
in purple darkness,
pushed up by root warmth,
I saw a wing
and two knurled threads
tasting my dream,
the first that did not fade.

This stayed,
sharing his compound eye.”


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