From Paranoia To Peace










Modern Times





Was that Stravinsky ! I'm not sure !

What diverse notes dance on the same score,


like a tedious argument that leads to wars

echoing war – like Mars !


As the notes, thrash and clash

to blow up the harmonic


and then, to settle down again,

and creep like a touch of Holtz


gathering threatened force,

of course, but what's the point of listening,


but what's the harm

to wake with the alarm !


What comes with me from last night

is getting out of bed with me



not yet forgotten, but half dead

like the row inside my head,


while those bloody pigeons

that conspired with morning


cooing me to death !Caroo

caracoo, caracoo, caroo ;


what crowds outside the garden,

with last night and the night before


is still stale and on my breath

and as fresh as this persistent hangover.


where are those fag- papers ! What a racket !

I'll have to get another packet,


I don't trust that honest mirror-

do I look like Guernica or an angry Picasso !


My thoughts like storm- troopers

thudding up a hill- Seig Heil! Salute me if you will


you bastards, but turn that bloody sound down.


Is that Holtz again ! Ah no, it's soothing Beethoven

and how he lays a wreathe before me,


pure unmitigated genius, with so much life to be alive

when I feel half alive and almost dead !


What springs eternal, is the peace in space,

I see earth spin and roll away,


a quiet, sacred passage then

leaving in her wake a sweet amen.


She Is





The ego grows and sticks like glue

behind it's rampart and walls high,

through slit windows it's arrows fly

to fall and run straight through

the spirit that is me and you,

in desert climes where she is freed

as wind that blows the tumble-weed

and who can tell or glean

or verify what she has seen;

if she like sand runs through the fingers,

she is not time if she malingers

forgetful she of all forgiven

she is the very soul of heaven,

she is the depth of the profound,

and is what makes the world go round.





True mysticism
tendrils to a frond
I use the fern analogy
to root it in the ground

in waiting on the sacred
it is mute
as pollination plant to plant
and nourished from the root

true mysticism
transcends time somehow
it has no life to be beyond
the moment that is ' now '

no preconception
blocks or fills it's mind
the void is it's capacity
it's fruit the windfall kind.




       Heaven forfend
my Labrador does not pretend,
       though now and then
will cock a deaf 'n,  to defer   
       the odd command
when she has found what pleases her,
       and when I say
she lacks distinction every day
       for feeding out
or in, too many times, alas
       to glance at me
from nibbling weeds and meadow grass,
       in wooded glade   
as Millie, circles round her scent,            
       from nose to tail
her energy would wag acute
       intent, I turn
my neck and quickly feel the nape,
       a squirrel  rush
as up comes down and down goes up,
       darts to escape
the playful nature of my pup;
       she waddles on
and at her best, kind of sexy
       much like Mae West-
let age reflect upon it's youth
       is that uncouth?
come off it-you know what I mean
       being so cute
and innocent as apple-green,
       With flew caught tooth
and cheeky too to challenge you
        and faithful too,
she out in front or at my back
         the very best
of pals, the very best of friends,

she never strays,  we never part
the many byways of my heart.



The sage philosopher, Alan Watts, in his book ' The Joyous Cosmology '
states, ' consciousness peers out from a centre which it cannot see –
and that is the root of the matter ' .

What am I to make of that, I thought. In the first place I wondered, who
or what is it that wants to make sense of it ? If my true self is the ' I '
consciousness that Watts refers to, then I could only conclude that a
false sense of self, lets call it ' me ', is the answer ! Our language is
inherently dualistic, not only breaking up the world into numberless
bits, (failing to see the connection between things) but also having the
same effect on ones growing consciousness and awareness, from
cradle to grave. This ' I ' consciousness or witness or seer seemed
only to make sense within a non dual vision of the world. Putting it
simply, where all is connected to over all unity.
Civilisations have evolved in a dualistic way and
though we can see limited benefits in this, our history is a long
passage of fragmentation and consequential destruction. Given long
enough, all our endeavours turn to ashes. The east has its history
of non dual perspectives and sees the material world/universe as real
but only real as illusion. (Maya.) And in several traditions gives
rise to this ' I ' consciousness. Personally ( I ) have real empathy for
this ' I ' consciousness, this seer, that peers out from each one of us.
It is real to me as ' true identity ' independent of all thoughts and the
workings of the brain. Indeed I have an experiential certainty that
this ' I ' is indistinguishable from the causal spirit of all. Which,
of course, includes the brain and all mental processes. Thus what
I think I am is and always has been, the workings of my brain, but
what I really am is the causal spirit, the ' I ' that peers out from my
centre, indeed, the cause of the universe and the cause of my untrue
self – when I realise my true self. Inside myself I am aware of a vast,
dark emptiness, which I intuit and feel is to full to be manifest. It is
a biological expression of infinite divine mystery to me and the altar
of true spirituality and true faith. This emptiness is conscious and
inescapably my identity and yes, Alan Watts is correct- I cannot
focus on what I really am, looking out, because I am engrossed with
what I am doing, concomitantly, with temporary amnesia too. That which
I call ' me ' is undoubtedly a coil of memories, which is the past and
which forms ego that like a spinning vortex, will slow down and expire.

So what is 'it ' that wonders what it is, confronted with this ' I '
consciousness in each one of us, connected and non dual? The
answer surely is ' nothing ' ? And into this mad, mad world of ours
we stand back and see it all as a crazy game. – Only one ' I ' –
the self of the world, looking through all of us and causing all and
no doubt, as Watts would say,' having a ball '. Why does God make
horrible people, asked the children of Watts ? Remember, said
Watts, God (The one non duality) is only hurting God for there
is nothing outside God. Helpful to indoctrinated children, perhaps
but to adults who have dispensed with the objective ' He ' God –
how do we come to die to our 'untrue selves' ? Perhaps its something
to do with the two words ' true love '. By true we would mean no trace
of the old self. The ' I ' does not have true love as an attribute – it is
true love. Whether we like it or not our ' I ' consciousness means
non duality- the non dual vision of life. Even the mystic teacher
Jesus knew this when he said 'take up your cross (gibbet) to follow
me. We must die to our unreal self to realise our true self.
Its quite a discovery to realise when we awaken to this vast reality
of what we really are, and how we shrunk ourselves to play and
pour out this cosmic dance of joy and pain, good and bad, light
and dark as if we were on a sabbatical from blissful eternity?





An individual named
with an origin of sin,
one is groomed to find one's way
within a bag of skin,

metamorphosis with guilt
as an alien abroad
and we shaped this tribal mind
to function by the sword,

mistaken identity
as for a drama in space,
man's divine amnesia
a blind fold on his face,

or like the blight on my rose
as on my trellis deployed,
the safest place for man then
marooned as in a void ;

non duality is known
and the hoax of me and you,
as one life transmutes from form
and that is the taboo !




I think of that old tree,
( still dear to me,)
like God’s fingers, clutching the earth –
feeding below the canopy above ;
but what have we made of it
with man’s inhumanity,
slicing the bole, felling as timber
to have lost a canopy of love ?
What have we made of it since then ?
What have we done ?
What shall we ever do –
in the same vein
when the whole forest has gone ?
Plant for a sapling and hope
for someone to kill and deify ?


at a loss







The truth is like a dream
where nothing has a name,
as all our tomorrows
are that which never came ;
she punished as the sun
who sought her on the earth –
through myths of Acheron,
the mystic’s desert dearth.
In vultures on thermals
I seem to read her mind –
she travels with spirit
but leaves the flesh behind
and hides between heart – beats
that drum her narrow ledge,
a bottomless chasm
that hugs the razor’s edge.










A sudden shock to be then
no ending to a fall
and the deepest realisation
not being here at all,

our world is like a Dervish
turning on the spot,
to cherish at the still point
the bliss that we are not,

umbilical to body
yet not what we might think,
though more like the water
when the body is the sink,

or like an echo fading
and nowhere to abide,
the whole, the flux of consciousness
left footprints for the tide :

When preconceptions die,
belief in every part,
then we are the illusion
still, of the divine art.