Lightness of Heart
Lightness of heart is the fountain of youth
and the doorway to eternal life.
Nothing is more serious than lightness of heart,
and nothing is more frivolous than unrelieved sorrow.

A Master
A master sees sleeping in all he encounters saying,
"Awake! for morning in the bowl of night
has flung the stone that put the stars to flight.
Good morning!"

Master is parapatetic.
He or she walks around,
encountering people along the street.
When a master sees someone who is overly preoccupied
with the material world, master smiles, and passes by.
But when a master sees someone disturbed
by what they've been taught to believe and what they
remember in their own hearts as true,
a master stops.

"Good morning. I have come with a question for you."
"For me? You have a question for me?"
"Yes. Do you remember?"
"Do I remember? Do I remember what?"
"Do you remember that you have the power?"
"The power? Well, I don't... Well, the power!"
"Good, then I suggest that you use it!
Oh, and if you should have questions about
how to use the power, just call on me or
any master and one of us will appear in your
heart (in your own voice) and whisper the answer.
Good day!"

A Twist
Life is the fate
and death is the destiny
of the body.
death is the fate
and life is the destiny
of the soul.

Hidden Crisis of Light
The month called August,
in memory of Imperial Power,
begins the Lugnasa,
the season of the falling light.

The month called November,
in memory of the Hennead,
begins the Samhain,
the season of the darkness.

The month called February,
in memory of the Hear of Rising,
begins the Origantia,
the season of the ecstasy of bodyness.

The month called May,
in memory of Brigida,
begins the Beltaine,
the season of the fire.

There has been a frost
and trees have adopted goldenness
in their plumage,
grateful for another nurturing summer
of sunlight.

Unite your spirit
with the spirit of the hill
and of the glowing springs of water.
Feed upon my lips
and if these fields be dry
stray lower where the
spraying fountains lie.

I envy you
your beauty,
and so beware of me
for predation lies in wait
to consume our joy
in one another's company.

Factual Fictions
The hallmark of fascism is a mercantile aristocracy
unencumbered by noblesse oblige.

What is the authority of authors
except the integrity of what they think and feel.

I wander
I with the vasus
I with the rudras
I with the adityas
I wander.

In my search for the fonts to my own spirituality
I have become aware obstacle  in the way
is my own conformity to received doctrine.

Allegiance is what happens .
between the heart minds of those .
who perceive the same truth in the same way.

I am a jurovagas
a hermit in flight from empire
wandering through
the wilderness of civilization
in quest of the culture
that nourishes us all.

Do you feel
the grinding power of attraction
that draws the earth
through the valleys of infinite space?

The day of the prophet
is not so much the day
when the prophet hears the voice
as it is the day
when others hear the prophet's voice as prophesy.

In a world pervaded by insanity
the quest is to be sane enough
to know that we are insane.

Tiolela Piera
Spiro, spiral, breathing spin
whirling world from within.

Singing silence full of voice
delightful promise full of choice.

Vortex drawing from beyond
quiet water from the pond.

Flying furnace of the sun
dawning promise ages run

The whirlpool is metaphor
for a turning band of manifestation
between the world of manifested living
and unmanifested manes.

Spiro, spiral, breathing spin
whirling world from within.

Puttering in the Garden
Puttering in the garden,
a sustainable lifestyle
and the secret of eternal life.
We mortals must make good use of time
for their is so little of it
in a multidimensional universe.


Once in the womb of winter
when the fecund sun lay hid
time lay mourning it's mortality
in the floorless cavern of the sky
that he and death would die together
and know the reason why.

Look   until you see
Listen   until you hear
Believe   until you know
Know   until you become,
until you are grateful.
When you are grateful, you shall be well.

Listen, listen,
please listen
until I hear you
hearing me.

Metaphor is the math
of myth.

Is reality but a dream
and yet dreaming not real?
How strange is the nature
of to be.

Nature is the dream of the manifesting power
and human dreaming is its surrogate.

Ecstasy is the motive  of the manifesting dream
and human love is the magnetism
of its attraction.


Angel's Flight
The social self-abuse of over population
exemplified by the conundrum of conurbation
whereby the spiritual fertility of Earth
is paved over in the quest for expedient sterility
el pueblo de Los Angeles
the global village of the angels
but funicular railways cog in both directions
plug out the sanguine string
for the panoply of the Hoplite
portends a dreadful thing
but capping the phrenology of the mind
a Hoplite maze of armor
of dodecanese profundity
and schizoid confabulation
drawing clarity from the synthesis
of zodiacal signs
awakens emergent hope.

Upon the Rights of Passage
I have the nicest vortex
that widens at the base
but I don't know where the point is
and so I rest my case.
If the sun is made of butter
and the moon is made of cheese,
all my work is pointless
and so I'll take my ease.
Now that I am ancient
and youth has gone away,
I'm always at the spinning
and going out to play.

Jesus in the morning,
messiah in the night,
the devil gives no warning,
I'm always poised for flight.
I would paint a picture now
of what is mean and base
but I can't discover how,
for beauty steals the place.

Perhaps the secret really is,
there is not but joy.
and terror rides but gently
in the conscience of a boy.

My Garden
I have the nicest garden with trees that grow so tall
and many pretty flowers growing round the wall,
holly hocks and daisies, roses, violets blue,
and many pretty flowers of many pretty hues.
Now these flowers never wither in winter, spring, or fall,
because it is a picture hanging on my wall.

Matron Mother
Matron Mother
mabon cradling
yellow guard
by pale moonlight,
yellow suka
reaching downward
to the pulsing heart of Earth.
Eyes of wonder
searching inward
for the gleaming stars of night,
Shakina sailing in the moonlight
past the looming halls of fright.
Hear the voice
of Caldron Mother
singing songs of wrong and right
in the heart of yearning lover
past the mystery lattice sight.

Once in the womb of winter
when the fecund sun lay hid
time lay mourning it's mortality
in the floorless cavern of the sky
that he and death would die together
and know the reason why.

Pio Nono
He who seeks to state
the boundaries of certitude
proclaims by his seeking
his lack of that
which his seeking proclaims.
Thus having proclaimed,
his heart is restless still.