The fastest may not be the best
nor is Ben Nevis Everest.
The rule for host may not suit guest.
When the Holy Grail was the Quest,
Lancelot’s prowess failed the test.
Laughter in the Colosseum
could not be suppressed
though the victims
did not share the jest.

Men rush off madly in all directions
to get the furthest from the start,
but not all journeys are wise selections
for the lonely speculations
of the human heart
as it tries to find its way back
to its place of rest.



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(Matthew 25:14-30)

What are these talents?
Nuggets of consciousness.

How to make good use of them?
Bring consciousness to where you are.

Allow yourself to be a vehicle
for Divine Consciousness.
Allow the Divine to see through you.
Give it your eyes
to see its creation
at work and play.

Thus do you acknowledge and accept
and become its eyes
and, if needed, give it your mouth
and your hands
to illumine the darkness of those
who live in unconsciousness.

He who buried his nugget in the earth
embalmed his consciousness
within this mortal frame
and called it
“my body”;
called the shard of consciousness
“my mind”.

When the time of reckoning came,
this man’s talent went back to its source
and “own body” returned to the dust.

Those who invested the gift of
Divine Consciousness in its own creation,
became one with Divine Consciousness.

They did not look back at their bodies
returning to feed
the Terrestrial Compost Heap
in voluntary dissolution.

For unto every one that hath shall be given,
and he shall have abundance:
but from him that hath not
shall be taken away even that which he hath.


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Learning out and learning in
both from now and here begin.
Going back to change the clock
yesterday’s secrets will not unlock.
Writing plans on your diary’s page
makes nothing happen (except old age).

Singing old songs,
reciting old parts,
rights no wrongs,
breeds more false starts.


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One man’s refuge
is another man’s cage.

Trying to get in
often meets
Trying to get out.


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First year robin sits inside a tree
shaped by a storm,
lives on its wits,
sings through closed beak,
plays hide and seek
and looks at me.

I am neither kestrel nor worm
and so an object of mild curiosity.
Neither am I another robin
deserving of this robin’s full ferocity.

I am, perhaps, a handful of crumbs?


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What is “It”
that we should make the most of it?
What have we
that we can justly boast of it?

We have inherited our share of wealth;
and karma and good sense
have brought us health.

Time weighs not on our hands
and, as things stand,
we have sufficient
and do not rightly understand
if, of Time, we think ourselves deficient.

What if, as in the parable, we have concealed
our talent in the ground,
and, newly dead, the fruit
of our labours is revealed
and nothing found
and all has been in vain?

Then, downward spiralling, off we go again
to land, with new bruises, in some older state,
to sift through the ashes
of our self-appointed fate,
and stare into the shadows of “too late”.


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The wren
is very small
but its voice
is very loud,
confident and tuneful.
It is as lively
as a kitten.

it has no formal education.
Nor does it contribute
to a government-approved
pension scheme.


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