Brian Taylor has been a Poet and Philosopher in Cornwall, England and the Far East.
Tag Archives: Time
The shadow of the gnomonslides at a steady rate.Even if the dial is ancient,the time itself is up to date.Though the train sleeps in the station,the sun just will not wait. And the ever moving sunand the clocks that tick … Continue reading
Said the Junior Dean. What is “It”that we should make the most of it?What have wethat we can justly boast of it? We have inherited our share of wealth;and karma and good sensehave brought us health. Time weighs not on … Continue reading
A SHELLa big shellon a warm sand shelfbuilding long and strongout at last kept out. TIME to decidewhat’s insidefor inside meditationfor contemplation.Any answers? A SKULLa big skullwith a warm snug selfbuilding long and strongto keep out out. EYE, ear and … Continue reading
People differ in awareness of Time.Brazilian Indians have no word for tomorrow. Time is the measure of thingsmoving through space.Where there is nothing moving,not even thoughts,there is no awareness of Time. When a dog sees you after a gap of … Continue reading
The great Bailey wallkeeps the outside out. Inside, the silence settleslike sediment in a pool. But there are soundsthat do not disturb the dustand imagesthat bend no light waves.A timeless, parallel worldlittered with the jetsam of Time. In the Keepupon … Continue reading
Time drifts away,as mist fades on the mountain.The world itself is hardly more real,the living waters springingfrom life’s fountain run dry,leaving discarded bonesbleaching in the sun. There is no moleculebut strives to be the whole(or if it can’t encompass that, … Continue reading
There in the dark, waiting.The unbornseeking their opportunity,moist earthwhere they can flowerand be carried along on the stream of unfolding consciousness. Only by constant vigilanceis the Bind Weedstored in the Dreamtime,abandonedto the stagnant backwaterof time-to come no more. .
Leaves from the Tree of Life;brown and withered,dried with growing old,dislodged by the touch of Time;or green,with veins still swellingwith rising sap,torn free by an untimely wind. What are they,these dancing treasures? The more the tree creates,pushing and buddingout of … Continue reading