Table of Contents

Sun Moon Star Poetry

Clear and BrightGreyWayApparentStayHold FastBinary GamesDarkHoboSongSea GhostRaindropFolly and DesirePlightDark RoomOriginalReachWhite LightLux RoseMemoriesTombstonesLeaves on RainStillDiscourseCemeteryElephantsQuillLion City

Midnight LightEternityNight WalkSwallowedBlue FluteLanguageDead of NightCurseGold TopsLuminariesBlack PearlIn DreamsScattered PiecesBeautyPlaceName ItBelgradeAbout the Author

Sun Moon Star Poetry

Selections by the author/poet, Lindsay Traynor

Book II in the Poetry Series

“Listening not to me but to the Logosit is wise to agree that all things are One.

You cannot step into the same river twice;All things flow, nothing endures” -- Heraclitus, 500BC

Clear and Bright

the Sun shines but is diminishedby the clear bright Light,which reduces the sun to a candle flame

this Light is seen with the single eye onlyits qualities are beyond descriptionit is the light that shines without sourceas it is non-dependent tho it shines through all things

taste it, bathe in it, hold it without effort or tribulation,it is your very life gifted by eternity to eternitywithout discrimination

ever available, it seeks nothing tho everything seeks itknowingly or unknowingly

beyond all measure is this Light that evades scienceand thought

it is true, we all shine on, but not like the moon, stars and sun,we All shine on eternally ...

Grey

the sky hangs lowit's dreams abandonedin its youthdrawing its bleeding sunset/risecolours into greyyet the sun shines always above theopaque grey

only those under the grey are deprived oflight, warmth and hope

to compensate for the losspeople have become addicted toelectronic representationsof warm sun-drenched dayspresented on small and large screensthat increase in size as the tolerancefor artificial stimuli increases

the sky is falling,so low today tall trees are burdenedwith holding it above the groundwhere all the desperate livetheir vacuous lives fixed on smallerpocket-sized screens to evademomentarily the enveloping greynessas they move around like soul-less ghosts,though the sun continues to shineabove the greyness

few if any put down their desperate screensand attempt to climb mountains,which summits are bathed in

golden light and cleanedwith unpolluted air

Way

i must return to the Waywhere meaninglessness has meaningand the autumn leaves that oncerustled in the wind lay fallencrunching underfoot

where the sun rises and setswithout the need to presumeand the moon passively receivesits light, shining silver in a motionless pond

but there’s no point in returningas i have never left nor could i or anything elsethat exists in the interplay of dreams and realities

longing for the Way is self-deceit so i simply find my waywithout taking trails or roads that lead nowhere or at best, placesthat i have outworn

it is good to have been a fool, scholar, monk, magicianthief and madman, it is good to have been hanged, honoured,abused, tortured, murdered and loved, so many times i have lostcount

if u see a familiar phantom in the sky, forest or urban placethat appears and disappearsdo not think of me, or follow what u seeas you would only find yourselfsearching fruitlessly for what you already have

Apparent

sometimes it shimmerslike the wings of a dragonflyother times it flickers like therefracted light from hummingbird feathersand icy stars in a clear night sky,but more often than not it accommodatesthe perceiver

oozing for me like thick oil in the seasplashing foam onto the unsures of existence

i care not for control as all attempts failin the end,i happily allow it to assume any manneror shape it chooses, sometimes this,at other times that; it shapes realitylike we dream our desiresor should i say, it shapes its dream which is reality for actors in a dream within a dream within ... ad infinitum

confronted again by my choices/directions, some in tuneothers clanging like worn, discordant cymbalsi do not fret over illusions, i belong to no cultureof blind believers/dreamers?

again it approaches, do you feel it,it’s unmistakable?this time it assumes the shapeand allusions of this poem

who am i to resist it?

Stay

don’t look at me with thosecalculating eyes;why look through ur personalprisms as all u see is urselfor ur projected aspirations

have u not realised that iam all the qualities that attracted u?and yet ur eyes betray that u wish to modifywhat ur distorted vision sees

are u able to sail across seas using the cloudsas sails or harness the sun to lift u above the temporaland fly? i doubt it. i am a poet and if u would inspire mefirst inspire urself

so be content with what u have nowas tomorrow never comes,where are u if u continually project?out of the present u are nowhere,as tomorrow for me is as todaygliding free always

u have as much chance of nailing meas nailing the wind

learn to feel and sense rather than calculateif ur not here with me now u may as wellbe elsewhere permanently

settle first within urself beforeu attempt to alter the unalterable,find urself and offer it to meif u wish and see if it works

if not, better adieunow

Hold Fast

hold fast to that Lovewhich brought the universeinto existence -- not particularbut unconditional and boundless

why chase mirages that burnoutlike fireflies, always luring temporal desire,which only leads to ruin and pain?

the door to the furnace beneathwaits to be released,let that fire ascend to heavenburning your shackles as it risesyou are a flower that blooms in the morningand bathes in moonlight by night,why do you trouble yourself with perversity?

by day it is a shoreless crystal lake, by nightebony though Swans are able to navigate itfreely, dancing in-on the ‘waters’ of Eternityhold fast to that One Love,it will never abandon you, it cannot

imbibe its purity and satiate your thirsty soulonly in it do you find peace, rest and Life

in the forests of the night you do not seeyou tear your garments, flesh and wound yourselfin its thorny undergrowthseek only the open sunlit fields of daybe-speckled with the wild flowers of Loveand you will be healedand find rest and joy for your soul,slavery and torture are NOT your heritage,

do not listen to the lies of blind men,they will lead you to certain destruction and death

allow the Truth of Love to course through your Beingit will give you the eyes to See everything in its gloryand the world in its darkness,you are not a dweller of the night

drink the morning dew and rise with the sun, which takes its lightwherever it goes,and the dark night will never swallow you again

Binary Games

if i say yes, a no is sure to followlove is accompanied by a cat bristling its backand growling,tears become trappedwhen pressure is appliedand freeze forever as diamondsfrom pitch black carbon to crystal clarity,is there no end to reversals and polarities?

the sexes attract each otherseeking unity yet it often ends in combat,binaries are a curse it seemsmutually effective and destructiveof each other, what cruel spellhas been inflicted on this plane?

though from this never-ending tussle springsabundant creativity; binary oppositionsgive birth to collateral creativity in their fightto the death and their offspringrepeat the cycleuntil, well, it’s endless

a boy and girl laugh as theysee-saw, one ascends while the other descendseach fighting to reclaim the heighti watched until it dawned thata fulcrum pivots the opposing polesoften neglected is the third force,unappreciated and unseen, which reconcilesall opposites

gods must have devilsto define themselves against the darkness

and darkness is redeemed by light --above a foreboding sudden stormtho the sun shines imperturbable,the moon is unaffected by stormsin the night,the night sky is punctuated withcelestial lights and cloudsform over the brightestsun of day

where does this piece end?it doesn’t, as we are all caughtsomewhere in the destructive, transformingbattle of oppositions seeking balanceand reconciliation,i hope u survive it withouttoo many wounds and scars

Dark

tonight is blackso dense is its darknessthe moon has abandonedthe sky

the waves on bondi fluoresceas they break, tiny planktonoffer the only light,an eerie glow

i search in vain for the horizonbut am unable to separatesky from sea in theblackness

it is strangely reminiscentof something deep in memory

i locate my favourite rock ledgewith my trusty l-e-d torchtho i nearly lose my footingand plunge to certain deathon the rocks below

can u imagine?instead of readingthis poem localswould be readingabout a body at the bottomof the cliffs with no IDor other identifying features

little would the authorities knowthat this is now the useless body

of Australia’s leadinganonymous poet --this is not a narcissistic claimas writing is a narcissistic pursuitand no Australian writer of meritwrites anonymously all the timeas i do

few understand why i do notwish to take creditor criticism for my works,it’s so tedious being somebody

i’m happy to disappear into the blacknessand reappear where least expected,u see, i’m not only a poeti’m a semiotic terrorist

[i recall now -- the blacknessreminds me of my inceptionin the womb --everythingbegins and ends infertile darkness]

Hobo

an open fireand a billy of bush tea,the land sprawls in all directionsun-interrupted

i have my backto the tracks that shinelike silver serpentsin the moonlight,appropriateas my back i have alwaysshown our civilised world

parallel tracks that surgicallydividei have no idea upon which side of the tracksi have made my campthough i assume it’s the wrong side,as my life has never been rightaccording to civilised opinion,what a waste they say

blue steel and veins track the land and my armsfolly transposed and mutually effectivewhich conjunction forced my departure fromthe poison culture and its anaestheticcities that poison everythingvoraciously consuming andspewing more poison as it consumes,which poisonous process now affectsthe entire planet

but least of all here on the borderof the Territory and Qld

but i must sleep nowand hitch a ride with a road-trainat dawnfree of worldly caresis this exquisite place

blind theologians continue to believethat no mortal has seen God

the outback is devoid of clericsbut saturated with the Livingpresence of creation

Song

whales sing in the oceansbirds sing in the skyexistence is a songwhich harmony man ignores

do the flowers of the field toiland spin, as was said of old?

galaxies spin creating their particularsong, a symphony complete with starsand all manner of singing lightsvibrating according to their character

is it sad that man fails to hear and heedthe music of the spheres?is it sad that the cosmos dances for joy?

discord is not tolerated for long in perfectionyet man fails to hear, see and learn,the future for man is therefore mapped and easily read

should i mourn the loss of a failed specieswhen many have failed before it?no, as the pattern is set, enduring harmony (not discord)prevails

should i mourn the loss of my temporary home on earthwhen my true home is the light and life eternal?

would i be enslaved by man’s creations, thought and culture,which are easily defeated?

man kills only himself as he has no powerover real life, only the life-giver is able to extinguish

life if it could but its perfection prevents itas it would kill itself

ur temporal life is but a dream that fireflies, fleasand gnats dreamreturn to ur original flame which no power could extinguishand u would see that temporal death is a joke,bodies merely returning to the elementsfrom which they are composed freeing ur essential natureand accumulated experience in the process

are you the body? surely not, seek refuge, joy and peacein the light which animates the gross,you are of the most rarefied but u must know itto Be it

learn that consciousness does not require thoughtwhich mind must engage in order to exist --mind and consciousness are distinctly apart

if u watch mind/thought, as they cannot be separated,u too would learn that all your thought-signs, symbols, words andimagesare derived from culture,the creation and prison of fools and the blind

are you a sovereign Being or a product, therefore a slaveof culture?

all things are created free, why would you forfeit urgreatest treasure for a turd?

u have three choices, oblivion, freedom or aligning urculture to the noble and enduringcosmic harmony

Sea Ghost

at nighti watch the brooding oceanfrom my secret cliff-top vantageit speaks of approaching catastrophea great purgingof land, seaand skynot one grain or soul will remainunaffected

physical change willcorrespond with magneticrealignmentthe earth will be rebornthe dross will be purgedcompletelyonly the rarefied,attuned will survive to replenishthe planetthat much has happened beforebut the scale of this impendingupheaval is too horrendousto contemplate for any length of time

sensitive souls with deep understandingare awed by the scale of this loomingdisaster and the savageryof nature’s unleashed forces

very little will be sparedbut only little is required,the earth will bere-born anewand enter a new cycle

not one coward or self-servingavaricious pig will remain;but for a handful, the human racewould have all but vanished,a situation humanity has brought on itself

but tonight the moon is full,its light dances across the wavesa warm spring breezecarries the fragranceof blossoming flowers

i have learned to watch indirectlyin order to seewhat is not usually seen,vapours and spiritsswirling slowly in the night

the hush of wavesis broken by a sudden splashand a blur on the surfacethe omen has returned from the deepthe white whale breachesand rolls in the ocean off the coastit senses those that sense itas it sings its haunting lament

locals have come to expectthe seasonal migration of the white whaleMigaloo off our coastaway from Japanese harpoonsand commercial whaling cannon --they view it as a novelty, a rare spectacle,entertainment

few are aware of Aboriginal legend

and the significance of the white whale

another breach and calland Migaloo disappearsbeneath the waves

Raindrop

during a summer showerthe universe revealed itself

under the scented pines one raindropprecariously dangling from a pine-needlecaught the rays of the sun and explodedin colour and reachrevealing as i watched all there was to see

in the tiniest manifestation all existence openedas all things contain the inherent pattern and harmonyof existence regardless of measure

a huge, heavy, prison door flung open in my mind to revealthe continuous process of creation which words fail to describe

lost in the experience my (false) identity evaporated replacedby ineffable joy, peace and bliss, such a wonder,yet i realised that it was always me,the entirety of infinite existence was methough i no longer existed as something lost and separatefrom the whole

and so today i watch the clouds watching mein their wonder,rivers and streams transport me in their flowmy finger tips outstretched, merge with the air yeti am never lost in this overwhelming, scintillating ocean,as wherever it takes mei am home

Folly and Desire

from the foothills of my follyi climbed the rugged mountain of myunquenchable desires

tortuous was the ascentblocked first by a thorny forest in whichyoung damsels cavorted nakedi could scarce believe my eyesas the girls spotted my throbbingdesire and laughed, which only mademe madder with desire

surrounded by the thorny wall of vinesi pushed through, until I reached the girls, bleeding and tornwhich wounded appearance made the girls laugh louder --insulted, and in a frenzy i trapped three nubilesand tried to ravish them, which gross actdidn't reduce their laughter, they had seen it all beforeand were immune, though their disdain cut me to the quickbefore i had satisfied my ridiculous lust

so onward i went higher and higher until in a clearingof soft carpeted grass a party of all manner of human denizensdrunk and drugged out of their minds, swooned and tumbledunaware of my presence though i was in their midst

so i packed a pipe and sipped sweet wine and reclined next toa flame always lit; i sucked and inhaled the acrid smokeuntil i lost sense of where i was, riding dreams and euphoricillusions,how sweet it was for a time unknown until i dry-retched dry bilefilling my throat with bitterness -- i had seen this movie before,so on i went leaving the party of fools burning out their flame

cut to pieces by thorns and sick-grey from drugs and winei continued until i reached the summit where i found a dyinghummingbirdtwitching until its little life flew from it as it slowly contracted andbecamemotionless; i had shot this bird as a boy, with an air rifleand prided myself on my marksmanshipuntil i watched the jewel-feathered innocent target dieand recalled the tears i shed profusely, robbing this exquisitecreatureof its lifeand there it lay before me again and i cried again at the sight of mycruel folly, learned from a perverse and violent culture

i cupped the dead bird in hand and placed it on a rockexposed to the sun, hoping the rays would revive itbut not so, the sun only increased my torment by lighting its flashingfeathersbrighter than anything i had seen

what torture is this, this place of tormented desire?

i determined to shut it off by throwing myselfoff a ledge into the deep dark valley belowbut as i stepped toward the edgei saw a clean folded robewhich fit me perfectly

and sat in pensive regret until i made a pact,a life for a life, a cruel deed annulled by my offer, I hoped

without food or water i sat for hours, days and years it seemed,time had disappeared until i noticed that little bird twitch and shiver,the wind i thought, until it opened its tiny jet eyes twitched againand flew like a dartthen returned to hover inches before my eyes,the sound of its humming wings transported me to i know not where

until a stirring in my groin reminded me of my failures and follypursuing transient pleasures, abusing my body and hollowing out mylifebut a pact is a pact, and i had offered my life in exchangefor the life i had stolen from that little bird which blinked thriceand darted into the trees for joy

finally i had done something of worth, i thought,i was ready to die but die i did not because i sought it,is there no release or peace to be had?

i once again approached the edge deducing that i had licensefrom the pact but try as i might i was prevented from jumpingso i returned to my seat and resumed my meditation

every ugly and frightening creature, demon and fox spiritassailed me as i sat, the horrors and mental tortures were relentless;i sat without regard or reaction and held to the living humming birdwhich i had saved until a cleansing breeze stirred my sensesand i slowly emerged from my tortuous trance

light as a feather, i imagined i could fly in the breeze but refrainedas i had lost all desire to prove, conquer or satisfy myself and culture

i was free at last, like that jewel-feathered resurrected hummingbird

Plight

the darkest hour approachesbefore the dawn

the herd is alarmed,agitated by unseen movements,panic ruleswhich way to move, where isfreedom/reason/sanity and the securityof the light?

nowhere in this treacle blackness

but the rising sun dilutes opacityallowing clear sight and thought

a breeze gently laps the faceand blue waters murmur,each according to its harmony

tempted to catch the wind

so the wind assists:to catch me u must become as me, the watersconcur -- to be easy, free and flow u must be me,formless and easy -- beware of ur enslaving fixity

there is nothing to resist or fight/fright,it is day but darkness has stained the mindand fear continues

a stray balances on a high precipice,hide twitching in fear, tho the sun reassuresthat a herd animal alone is able, tho it must know it --the wind assists and increases intensity,

buffeting the animal toward the edgeunder which height the waters flow below

the animal stricken, loses balancenearly tumbling over the edge,i must fly like the wind and flow easy as waterto escapebut it is not of my inherent heavy nature,but i know i mustin order to survive

the stray eases back, assisted by a gust,and sits feeling the reassuring warmth of the sun

surely there is nothing to fear, thoi miss the security of herd numbersbut i am here alone and must make do

it regains its feet, the wind returns to breeze,the water sings its song below

Dark Room

i come from day into the darkest nightnot forgetting the light from which i came

they come to me pleading,save me from this darkness

do u not remember the light from which u came?i ask, if there is a way in then surely there must be a way out

i am trapped one responds

by whose hand? i say,u would find no other hand but ur own

i cannot bear this dread any longer,i must end it

end what? i ask

my life, it’s not worth going on

promise me u will speak to a friend before taking irreversible action

ok, u have been a good friend, i will do it for u

better u do it for urself

i inquired after the meeting,how did it go?

i saw ur friend more than once as he offered hopebut then i left

why did u leave? i asked

he said i have a lot invested in remaining the same

yes, how many times must u hear and reject sensible solutions?

i told u it would be of no use, was the response

two years later a mutual friend rang informing meof the suicide

the first tones of daylight weaken the night skyheralding the approach of the sunmissed by those that falsely imaginethey are trapped in darkness

Original

turning backinto the desert scrublike a dingo avoiding a road train,i watch

heavy rain cloudsbillow in the blueness notyet ready to deliver --the postal windhas not reachedits destination to pourthe wetness and so i watchthe living Territoryunfolding like a flower,dancing in the sunlight

rock monoliths fixedin the ground movelike clouds in the dreamtime,which opens for me like dawnfreeing itself from the confines of night

the desert shimmers in its brightnesslike a variegated gemunlocking refracted prismatic colourshidden in the white light

i inhale the entirety, free of the poisonsof the city

i have left it and dying civilisation behindto return to the source of my being --dead and dying realities are no substitutefor the living dream of my heritage,

my skin is comfortable and easy herefar from the paleness

offered all their precious products,unnecessary gadgets and liquid poison,i could not trade my soulto accept

only a fool would sell their freedomfor trinkets and lies

i belong here, where the land wraps mein its purity,it is good to be back home

Reach

and touch the skypuncture its thin membraneand let it weepand moisten the parched earththen penetrate deep into its secret recessesand let it flow

reach farther until the cosmic expanseopens like a galactic flower

spin and twirl like a dervish,scream and dance like a banshee --no restrictions

touch the round heavenscaress its shoulders and breastsand move downtoward the portal of myriad dimensions,race towards it no longer destructible

enter where no matter or form survivesre-emerge everywhere transformed,reborn as the pulse/throb thatproduces and destroys everythingwith each contraction and expansion

vibrations, scintillations that permeate allexistence in which you now play like a childor an ancient one,truly nothing is able to impede your progressif you reach farther than you conceived possible

the universe is laced around your violet neckmoons and planets bead your necklace,

push on until you reach the thresholdthat mere mortals are unable to apprehend

turn and see your past and future simultaneouslyunfold in every direction and become the fountainwhich evades the ignorantspraying ambrosia, the elixirwhich sustains all

continue beyond endlessnesspluck at the tails of comets,strings that form the harpof creation --play the music of the spheresknow that everything is nothingto you nowmove and slither likethe serpent coiled aroundthe top and bottom of the greatGod dancing, beating his drumin unison with your pulse

throb, imploding/exploding everything and nothingand know that you are insurmountable,enduring, immortal, infiniteforget the limiting mental chains that crucifythe minds of men,know that all Gods were men and womentransformed by reaching beyond the stars

White Light

i lived in a crystal cylinderfor over a decade,the best years of my lifesome say, insulatedand wasted

borne awayseparatedcarried to realms euphoricbeyond descriptionon the snow white wingsof my faithful unicorn --ride me to ecstasysave me from the irrational,cruel and senseless violenceof this world

i have stolen the moonfrom the night skyand offered it to u,but its cool marblepalenessdid not please u

i returned on my winged steedwith diamonds/starsfrom the farthest reachesof spacesparklingwhen i produced thembut hard facetsand ice-cold claritydid not appeal

intravenous dreamsand melancholy recollectionsattract and addictonly fools underestimatethis magic powder

the central pillar of the templeis able to support the entire structurebut not your desirefor the impossibleor ur insatiable thirst for experience

there is nothing warm here,though the chiselledfrozen beautyof this desolate landscaperemains irresistible to u

this terrain is notfor the faint of heartor those thin on courage,it is the realm of the vanquishedand victoriousonly heroes and heroinesreturn to tell of their experiences,enslaved or liberated

had they let me bei never would have returnedbut they found my corpsein its hiding placeand revived it withviolent embraces

they killed my white wonderand doomed meto a life on terra firma

and mediocrity

in response i dedicated my lifeto exposing their rotten corruption,deception and lies;every breath i take is punctuationin a narrative of revenge

words of advice i offer future regulatorsin another time and place --leave addicts to their dreamsallow them to die youngor suffer their wrath andunrelenting vengeanceif u disturb their dreaming

i could barely put a sentence togetherbefore i was violently thrust backinto this sick world

now my written wordsare honed weapons,devastating grenadesand lethal darts

be wary of ‘your’ intentions,never dare to disturb wayfarersin their dreaming

Lux Rose

with a tweakyour blood-redpetalsblossomand surge in my bodystealing mymind and soul

your love coursesthrough my being,you take it allbut return more,you never displeaseor disappoint, alwaysreliable, True

your constancy has carried me overchasms and crevasses that otherscould not conceive of spanning --feeble soulsthey lack a sturdy companion,a faithful consort (Goddess)an all-consuming Lover

you once carried me,mortally wounded,from the battlefieldand somehow brought me back to life;you sustained and cared for meuntil i grew strong againstronger than beforeyou took me to the mountain top,a vantagefrom which

new fields of battlewere seen

[in which we now engagea vexed and confounded enemy]

you fed me ambrosia and mannareserved for Godsuntil i ascendedto the immortalsbeyond the reach of petty,frightened beings

your love is terrible,stronger than heavenand earth, all-possessing,yet it became clearthat it was time --time to take what wehad learned from each otherand cut courses anew,each with a singular mission

what hope the vermin that rape, stealand poison the earth,their time fast approaches?

they feel our breathon the whites of their necksand turn --see the dread and fear in their eyes;an entire world prepares for the purging

Memories

memories exist beyondthe chemical and electrical combinationsin the brain and heart

memories accessed from the record,which remain as a coded trailin the modulations of infinity,created since our inceptionbut that is a simplicityas infinity has no beginning or end point,the trail leads back to unqualified, indefinablecreation

remembering this life is easy but recallingour essential nature, tho accessible to all,is only achieved by the very few

people ask, who am i? not me, you --should i have avoided personal pronounsas they shield and block our memory?

false identities are learned and limited, they diewith the body, yet we are more, and we know it

u seem familiar more familiar than most yet udo not remember who u are, not me, you --we have known each other before, but u imagineu are distant, a stranger to me, indeed, if u are a strangerto me then u are a stranger to urself and others,u have failed to appreciate and connect tothe continuum, the only constant reality --tho ‘constant’ is not altogether accurate,as infinity is never constant it is flux, frantically kinetic,i refer to the constancy of its/our essential Being,

its eternal core, from which everything emergedand continues to emerge

of what consequence to infinity is our self-destructive, puny,errant lives? none whatsoever,actions and consequences are all ours,do you remember the options we were given?probably not, how could you, u remember only this particularlife, when in reality lives are as disposable as shirtsand as changeable as the weather

i focus behind and above ur head,the stars move/swirl in the night skyif u have the eyes and memory to see

would you care to dance?

Tombstones

they stand peering out to seablind eyes of chiselled marbleetched in marble headscontaining marble brainsunable to think

tombstones of the deadfor the dead

the vast moving sea rollsmocking these dead sentinelslifelessly watching

all manner of desperate messageswritten in marble, for whom?for memories, loss and the desperate,fantastic beliefs of the living

no poetry, though one would expect a rhyme or verse --i have inspected them all including the graves of twonotable Australian poets,odd that these graves bear no versetho poetry expresses lifeand it is sure these poets were buried by philistines

the cemetery occupies acres of prime landyet it houses remnants only,inversions of priority occupy these acrespopulated by the dead by the sea

in an inverted world the living defer to the deadthough billions of dollars go beggingwhich seals the fate of the cemeterysome time in the future

avarice pursues material wealthbut is a person increased by such wealth?never, as we all know

and so the living make their dead planswhich result in more death

dark grey clouds crack and light rips the sky,a storm approaches from the eastfrom a star-spangled land across the oceaninfatuated by death and destructionwhich it spreads around the globethough always pursuing wealth, pursuing death

at night the moonlight casts an eerie glowon white weeping tombstones, which appearto move; a cold wind sobs as it passes over the gravesbut it cries for the living, crowded aroundthe perimeter of the necropolis

soon the rising sun will banishthe gloom, the first light of dawn already dilutingthe darknessrevealing the separation ofsea-sky, life-death, dream-reality,futility and hope

Leaves on Rain

perspective does not decidethe first splat, puck or popwhen it rains, and how leavesfall on the rain

yielding always to the peltingit would seem absurd that leavesfall on rainbut watch them dance long enoughand you too would see what few see

does the agony precede the ecstasyor vice-versa? an unanswered but oftenput question in the minds of thosethat lose their mind in order to create something special,unique, unnameable and abstract, the latter wordlacking all precise meaning, which renders meaningmeaningless, abstract

it rains from an opaque marbled sky onto the deadand living without discrimination as though neitherqualify enough to care,perhaps the ecstasy precedes the agony

uncertainty is the only certainty, absurd but real;so living leaves that remain on trees fallwhen it rains, pours, roars, drowning soundinto numbness without distinction as nothing else is heardwhen it pours tears from the soul

the sun breaks through the clouds forming an arc in the rainbut never a circle of colour, unfinished business,a circle has no beginning or endits perfection repudiates conjecture but an arc is worse than half a

fucka paltry excuse not befitting the splendour of nature’s perfection

do not judge me as you would only judge yourselfyou do not know me, no one does,though some are acquainted and have been for decadesthough they would not dare to presumeor question how leaves behave in the rainof an artist’s eye that sees far more than it wishes to see at times --you see, another absurdity, time!which does not exist as everything occursin the continuous present,so do not try to discern the real from the unrealas they are not mutually exclusive, in fact they are interchangeable

the ground breaks under your feet and the sky shatters into raindelighting the green of leaves that never die when they fall on therain

Still

the lake is still tonightnothing agitates its perfect surfacethe night is quiet, the summer air is motionlessthe midnight moon is so close one could grab itsreflection from the black-ink water of the lake,its perfect blackness makes for seeing andreflection

on the shore in body but mind meanderingi drag mind to the centre of the black mirrorand drown it in the stillnesspushing mind to the bottom without making a ripplei drown it leaving me mindless and free of thoughtso still for a thoughtless while

until tremors begin without agitation or ripplesso strange, unexplained, it continuesuntil the stillness detonates an explosion of pure white lightso bright the sun is shamed yet the light is coolthough intense as it moves upthrough the darkness and explodesinto a blazing night of perfectionwhich sits like a pearlsomewhere in the secret stillnessof the black crystal lake

Discourse

there are many,the mind speaks via the tonguebut the heart’s eloquencecan only be appreciatedwhen the mind is mute

a summer shower drenches the hilland ceases as abruptly as it began --remnant drops of rain drip fromthe needles of a solitary pineand thunder as they hit the ground

i quiver in the breezesparkling like a wet crystal starin the sun waiting to splash to earth

a predatory bird alights from thetree-top its piercing cry slits the airand fractures the tortuous monologueof culture

it has been said that it is easier for a ropeto pass thru the eye of a needle than fora rich man to enter paradise

yet i have seen thru that eyeit opens into infinity,the minuscule and gargantuanmeet there

the constraint that prevents the richfrom liberationis folly born/e of ignorancepromoted by culture’s perverse discourse

my abode has no door, walls or roof,in which cultural location do you placean open space?

the tiny eye that prohibits entry for mostopens into fields of dancingflowers, towering rangesand sapphire skiesfor the few struck dumbby the discourse of the heartand the silent thunder of freedom

the heart’s discourse is continuoustho it speaks in silenceto the ears of deluded men

to be or not to be is not a question,it is a choice

Cemetery

the sun risesand catches the dew-beadson a scarlet rose unfurlingover a grave

Elephants

elephants shit like ten-pin bowlsscoring a strike with every roll

Quill

after more lives than starsin the skyi finally woke

my quill has written hundreds of thousands,perhaps millions of words

tho the ink never flowswhen i encode totalityyet it is written clearly

Lion City

with total disregardfor Leei nestled back intothe acridityof an old colonial terracefull of asian match-menand received a discourseon the bamboo(only available in China)hand painted porcelain bowltreble refined opium(that came in red cellophane packets)wick trimmingand height/orientation offlame to bowli produced the compulsorysmile of the neophyteand reclined

it was miraculous to seethin peals of smoke carrytragedythrough the ceiling

Midnight Light

midnight lightclearin its absenceof thingsis warmbuoyant with nuanceslike foetal growth (and apparent death)is softlike cormorant's wingand safeas spinal cords

somewhere in its shinydarknessforms and dreams are born/edeliveringOptions

Eternity

where wouldwe seek continuitywhat form would it/we take?

would we discover itin vacuousformalised religions,cultural conventions and social protocols,or in transient pleasures,fleeting sensual gratification;or in temporary achievements/failuresdo these things endure –do they really satisfyour inherent need for everlasting?

did we, as complex physical, mentaland spiritual Beingsappear from nothing –every school kid knows that somethingcannot emanate from nothing?are we not already part of living creation,continuous manifestationsof infinity at play?

have we been fooled intobelieving in beginnings and endingswhen infinity,which encompasses everything,is measureless,without start or end?

i learnt in central australiafrom indigenous tribeshow to jettison time and space

and enter the dreaming/continuity;how to navigate between seen and unseenhow to hear the roar of butterfly wingscreating cyclonesthat blow ‘white’ illusions away

i became myself againand saw my reflection in apond next to a perfect image of the moonwhich a frog dispersed, plop!but i remainedtho my imagewas shattered by an amphibian leap

i endured but my delusions were easilydestroyed

i traversed the solarised desert landscapeof dreams, spirits, singing stones,rivers of lightand ageless beings, who seemed to know me well,until i discoveredmy enduring quality;it is comprised ofHarmony, Peace and Love-- in equal parts --forming an indestructiblePerfection that is inseparable fromyou/me.

one day another amphibianable to breathe both light and darkwill destroythe image that you imagine i am;if you wish to find meuse your Love,its wings will deliver you safely to

me and everlasting

[until we meet again, i sendthe sweetest Peace to You.

listen for me in the windand remember‘white’ cultural realities/illusionsonly make paper rafts which aresupremely unsuitable for the swirling,cosmic seasof Eternity.]

Cherub’s Grin

an alcoveaffordsan island of isolationmomentarily protected fromwind, rainand the world,your face transformed --a parting embrace,a knowing cherub's grin

the smile that launcheda single ship(into space)

catapulted,leaving my temporal selfbabbling incoherence’s,attempting to explainmy slide intothe slipstream of un-reason

(infinity)

far too late to speak ofresistancealready in flightcareering intothe nightwaiting inanticipation

at timesyou arrive likethe rising tide,other timeslike a comet’s blaston this occasionyou simply coalescedin the skyyour hair ablazeyour focused eyespiercing the night,burning intomy mind,incineratingmy illusions

i watch youdancingwith thesun,moonand stars

Sea Moon, Desert Skies

it was at the bay of roses that i noticed a phenomenon that hadescaped me for years – a full moon above a calm sea lays a path oflight across the water from the observer to itself and follows theobserver along the shore regardless of position, a strangely insistentinvitation it would seem.

a dancing play of moonlight makes for an alluring but unsound roadfor mortal coils yet the invitation, supported by the calm of a blackcloudless night, became difficult to resist.

it was the dancing light on water that attracted; the moon was not infull splendour though it was round and bright. it hung like a limp prickin the blackness, cool and uninviting, yet the unsure road of dancinglight that it cast upon the waters held a strange fascination that drewme closer, signalling that i could indeed make that impossiblejourney.

in a flash i remembered a lesson learned from the Murrays in the redcentre

it was long ago when western man took what he thought was man’sfirst steps on the moon -- which amused the Murrays greatly.

since the dawn of dreamtime australian aborigines have beenexploring the celestial sphere while leaving their terrestrial bodiessafely on terra firma; nevertheless, they easily breached our self-imposed barriers of space and time. consciousness knows nolimitations, it is therefore a perfect vehicle and reality shaper.

i sat crossed-legged on that shore, took a few deep breaths andfocused on the dancing play of light until the earth and moonexchanged places.

eventually i returned to my body having seen the earth from adifferent place and time – scenes about which i cannot describe, asthat time is NOW; however, i would mention that upon my return ifound myself strangely drenched to the bone!

Night Walk

liquid night dissolvesday like inktransforms water

night easily conquers daymaking opaque what was oncetransparentthe comfort of nightabsorbs everythingin its secure softness

people walk the coastlike phantoms,beggars and kings areindistinguishablein the levellingdarkness of night

clouds break momentarilyallowing reflected moonlightto danceon the surface of the sea;

for a momentnight’s homogeneity is interruptedbut the moon,disinclined to reveal her face,she pulls the clouds over herselflike a quilt -- it’s the vain sunthat seeks attention/adorationlike an insecure narcissist/exhibitionist

people glide silently pastwhispering and murmuring --

i remain anonymousan unseen shadowat-onewith the darknessof night

Swallowed

symmetry is shattered at midnighttiny fragments of crystal strewn carelessly acrossthe night sky flicker magically and shoot arcswhen agitated,a moonless night accentuatesthe beauty of asymmetry

wherefore, what is this allure?perhaps a dim memoryof the warm, dark, wombyet its comfort is undeniablea relief perhaps from the harshness of day

in contrast are ur dark almond eyes set widely apartenhancing ur nose and cheekbones, all perfectly triangulated,the inverted apex directs the gaze to ur soft, moist lips,a face that captures rapture and agitates the groin

i have no need of reconciliation,the asymmetry of nature, which fashions its beauty,and the symmetry of ur face which pleases mortals --aesthetic symmetry is born ofthe chaotic asymmetry of nature,brittle day drowned by the softness of night

appearances deceive, distance provides perspectiveand in that new view a perfect spiralling symmetryis revealed, without beginning or end

fireflies flicker in the darkness by the lakeliving eternities in seconds

Blue Flute

during certain astronomicalphaseson moonless nightsa strange fluorescencecan be seenemanating from deepwithin the forest

attention caughtby the blueish glowa hypnotic soundbecomes audible

the sound/musicdraws all soulsto it,such is its strange allure

arriving at the grovei see young nubile girlsdancingaround a central figureplaying a flute

moving closer to gain a betterorientationand perhaps a glimpseof the visage of this forest flautistmy body becomes light as a feather

maidens continue dancingecstaticallyobliviousto everything except

the central figurewho moves in rhythmto his music

naked from the waist updraped in garlands of scentedexotic flowers his firm musculatureand strong shouldersgive the impressionhe could support the universe

maidens wet with sweatthighs moist with vaginaljuices betray sexual frenzy;they dance and whirl in ecstasycrying, Hari! Hari! Hari!

everything expands untila swirling singing sea of sixteen thousandmaidenswhirls around the figurelike a vortex with a centralSun

as the music reaches a crescendothe flute magically expands and elongatesspurting wild music to theorgiastic screams and moansof the nubile girls,whose dishevelled hairand loosened sarisreveal their naked yearning,wet with desire

the central figure turnsalways orienting his backto me

unidentifiable

i climb a gold and silver treeadorned with the sun and moonto gain a better viewand see to my amazementthe flautist's reflected face in a lake

head cocked sideways,lips shaped aroundthe aperture, blowing,the flautist is You

Language

in the womb i learnt to speakthe language of creationbut forgot when i entered this world

slowly i learnt the audiblelanguage of man withits limitations and inadequacies

i became tired of constantmisunderstandingsand the conflicts they createso i turned to the rhythmof the sun, moon and stars

moving majestically withinarticulate heavenly bodiesi began to remembermy first words

countless beingsfrom countless worldsare able to communicateand understand each otherspeaking as if mutethe universal languageof the heart

Dead of Night

stark day drops into night almost imperceptiblyseared senses are balmed and soothed in its visually quiet softness,in night only does imagination assist with perceptionas its screen allows for amorphous, unconscious shapes,real projections entwined with corporeality

in this mix where artists and magicians dwellwalking comfortably in deserted streets,dimly lit lanes and tracks in foreboding forests,phantoms also dwell but those phantomsare not objective tho they appear so

they are created on occasion when moonlightplays with shadows and shapes to producespirits, the essence of something, and when engagedand given some vitality they are able to converseand become familiars

imbued with more vitality they are able to performsimple tasks like affect the dreams of others in sleeptoo easy, and if given more precious vitalitythey are able to killtho no doctor is able to determine the cause of death

it is quite the art in the night,moonlit forest clearings offer theatreswere naked sylphs dance and engagethose able to see

other spirits not of one's makingalso populate these places butshould be watched as they do not issue fromthe seer's imagination their corporeality is of another's makingso cannot be trusted, they seduce and suck vitality

for transfer and harm tho they are easily recognisedby incongruity in the harmony which has been created

if fear is strong then the victim succumbsif no fear exists then invisible shields protect,it is the art of the magicians of oldthat disguised their art with all manner of complexitiesto dumbfound the uninitiated

beware of what u see in the nightas only fools tempt the moonand its fantastic creations

tonight another drama wraps its spellaround me and itself

only the day-deluded imagine the night is dead

Curse

what greater curse could there bethan to have sight in a world of the blind?seeing and things human becomeliabilities and burdens if unable to be shared

though surely, to have a functioning mind inin a world of utter mindlessness and insanityis the more exquisite tortureas it is the mind that impales one’s lifeor liberates it according to its bentin desolate fields of the deador in a garden sown in paradise

but no curse is greater than to have knowledgein a world of ignorance as knowingonly intensifies isolation

the moon shimmers on my alien skinthe heavens draw me like a beeseeking sustenance from the fluxof creation,in the centre of the galaxythe pulse of existenceoffers renewal and an opportunitybut only in other worlds and dimensionswhere awareness is complete

Gold Tops

dancing on the quaysthe moon draws nearerso close now one could kiss it,it’s daylight stillyet the huge moontrespasses in the late afternoon

the sky solarisesinto mauves, indigo blueand bleeding ochres,it is now displaced by theoverwhelming size of the moon,the horizon screams the deathof the setting sun

something is coo’ing the silver coolnessof the moon -- i realise it’s meand turn, ignoring the sun’s setting flamesmimicking the fires of hellas it drops beneath the horizon

cross-legged on the shorelinei thought, but the warm sea lapsaround my waistand moves around my groin

i coo like a dove at the moonlove-sick and lovelessas time slides unnoticedinto the night

the tide nowmeasured by my chestand drowned phallus

it seems a few gold tops found their wayinto lunch

i hum, incant with the rhythmsof the night and emit strange articulationswhich make perfect sense to me and the universenow riding in on the incoming tide

the easy sea is now lappingaround my brain as little fish nibblethe edges of its pulsing orband swim in liquid soma emissions

Luminaries

the sun is not timidor unsureit is the moonthat waxes and wanes,as though unsure of itself,always appearingand disappearingindecisive of its bearingin the sky

not so the sun’ssteady journey,chasing the nightand heralding the dayalways vanquishing the dark

the sun moves steadilyas it transits the skyblazing above the cloudsimploding and exploding,a life-giving fiery furnace

the palecool,uncertain moonknows better than toattempt to match the sun,it remains hiddensafe, in the soft night skyaccepting only indirect raysto bathe its desolation

yet the heavens would beincomplete if either celestial

body lacked its counterpart

the steadfastness of a manmust be softened bythe uncertainty of a woman;the singular progress of the sunmust be complimented bythe perpetual shifting of the moon

one forever seeks the otheryet both remain separatedby the cruel harmonyand motionsof the firmament --

it seems at times thatthe entire universeworks to preventconjugation.

Black Pearl

diving deeperand remaining underwaterlonger than usualmy lungs inexplicablycoped with the extra burdenof supplying oxygento my body

ready to slowly surfacei noticed a small overhangwhich had escapedmy attention previously

[this dive was tochange my life]

an unusual shell,caught my eyeone that stood apartfrom the usual giftsthe sea offers

surfacing with my prizei gently pried openthe shell-- almost the sizeof a dinner plate --to my delightit contained a naturalblack pearl the size of a marble

island people believethese pearls are possessedof magical properties,

and are able to bestowstrange powers on the fortunateor unfortunate possessor of thepearl –whatever the case may bei recall being enthralledby its silvery deep greyand the odd luminescence,it possessedsomething i hadn’t noticedinitially

weeks passeduntil one moonless nighti was seized by the urgeto night dive;something not usually doneby novices or professionalswithout artificial light sourcesand extra equipment

i entered the warm blacktropical sea nakedand allowed myself to be carriedby the impulse

to my amazement,i discovered i was able to see clearlyin the depths of a moonless night,though the light that definedthe world beneathwas strange, ghostlyakin to the soft luminescenceof the pearl

to my further amazementi was able to detect

things usually unseen,hidden,even from trained eyes

a whole new universeopened up for mei also seemed to be invisibleto the dangerous denizensof the deep that hunted inthe night

years have passed sincei earned my livingfrom the sea, thoughi continue to searchsecret placesfor ‘treasures’

the pearl is with me constantly --

i remain invisibleto the predatorsof the day and night

In Dreams

seven leagues in one step travels the mindwhile the body remains behind --mind is free when it choosesor is impelled by a vision, a sacred mountainthat rises above the cloudssurrounded by deep valleysand smooth hills that seem to pay homageto the mountain’s greatness

a cool fire burns at its peak with a violet flameissuing it seems from a nest in the rockssilver and golden phoenixes seek itplummeting into its flame to emerge renewed,transformed to take flight again in different skies

it is where the old becomes new in one undifferentiatedaction, a strange vision for a man haunted by the aeonsburdened by numerous existences

bamboo groves and wild grasses belowsustain a myriad of living formsconfined to lower regions by choice and circumstancebut its peak is what i seek

how easy access and surrender for a phoenixable to fly above the skybut a human is another story -

armed with silver bell and golden scepterto avoid rejection by the flamea man’s mind flies into the violetburning the sticky dross and residue in the cool cleansing flameto emerge as something other

Scattered Pieces

pieces scattered before me form an incoherence whichwas/is my life

fragments scattered all around daring me to forma coherent picture -- somehow the incongruitiesmust all harmoniously fit together otherwisei am lost to the chaos of haphazard chance,the same pieces are gatheredand cast time after time like devilish dicefoiling previous attempts at assembly

it seems my life has become a plaything of the Godswho are known to show no pity or mercy to mortals

and so i accept the challenge in order to vanquishmy tormentors, such arrogance must be challenged -i have set conditions at great expense if i should loseor fail to form harmony from chaos

i have chosen my field deep in the valley of the waterson the banks of a river which carvedthis valley from solid rock over the millennia

i lay out my weapons wrapped in the hide of an extinctmarsupial and light my fire close to the flowing crystal creek

sitting crossed legged incanting i light my pipepacked with secret herbs and begin the battle of my lifewhile the Gods roar with laughter

the moving clouds cast shadows on the valley walls,a mild breeze moves the leaves of trees and bushes some of whichare precariously perched in crevices on the cliff face;i release myself into the valley and join animate and inanimate

life moving/vibrating with the rhythm of the day

first move to me, the Gods now watch intentlyas the first harmony was achieved by stealth,secret knowledge and intonations;the Gods do not possess all knowledge,each specialising in some form of art/skill,however, no such limitations are placed on mortalsbut few bother to acquire the necessary skills and knowledgeto prevail against all adversaries

the smoke from my pipe suspends in mid-airassisted by elementals;a familiar face forms from the smokewhich assists in my battle with the Gods,the face utters instructions which only i am able to understand

polished white river pebbles appear and fan out before me,each inscribed with a character representing a facetof my past and future life

i reach for my bamboo flute inside my vestand begin to play slow notes which merge into octavesthat form a complimentary harmonywith the natural sounds of the valley

second move to me, which strikes fear into the Godsas a second conditionwould banish their influence on all human lives

they converge and murmur among themselvesdetermined to defeat this unusual mortal

the valley begins to quake and move violently,huge boulders tumble down at speedgrazing my clothes, i do not budge,my entire being remains fixed on maintaining

the original rhythm of the valley

birds of prey shriek and dive, talons spread targeting my eyesi dip my chin as each bird strikes but fails to gouge my eyes,i maintain the original rhythm of the valley

the sun is blotted from view, silhouetted treesmove their gnarled branchesreleasing swarms of stinging insectswhich accumulate on my body and face formingliving drapes; i maintain composurewhich prevents an attack frenzy triggered by the scent of fear.i maintain the rhythm and they eventually return to the trees.

unfazed i inscribe a sigil on the ground between meand the fanned river pebbleswhich now move of their own accordand begin to form coherent patternsuntil the geometric essence of my entire lifeis formed before me

the puzzle is completed,a three dimensional mandala spins in the airdrawing me into its centre, my centre

and so this little narrative could be reduced to a few words,three of which would be integrity, will and courage,these qualities focused, vanquish any adversary or obstruction.

the Gods retreat defeated and depart for another planeto torment lesser beings until the tormented learnhow to overcome their tormentors

Beauty

ur face is beautiful indeedbut i am not taken by it thoalluredthe perfect symmetry, balanceand shape of ur featurescreate the illusion of beauty

it is ur soul i seek, that inner light,radiating thru ur eyes separate fromthe colours of ur irises, trapped in fleshyalmond frames, now showing agetho ur inner glow never grows old

u are watching me watching ubut u do not understand what i am seeingu have been trained to use your physical appearanceto capture --u begin to undress before me, slowly,ever so slowly that one would think u had practicedfor years

u reveal ur breasts so perfect in their contoursu move in the light manipulating tones so ur bodyappears more perfect than it isyet i remain transfixed on ur inner lightwhich is shapeless tho saturated in other qualitiesof which u are unaware

u remove ur lower garments like a dying swan,yet i remain fascinated by the qualityof ur moving light, tho u imagine it is ur body i marvel at

the pleasing aesthetic is not lost on me but uremain unaware of my focus

u move gracefully toward me until ur face is immediateand ur arms encircle my bodyu press ur pubis firmly on mine hoping for a reaction,an erection, perhapsbut with my mind fixed on ur light my bodydoes not react

u tilt ur head slightly, inquiring without speechi smile and return to my body, which reacts immediatelyu respond with a smile and kiss my lips then lower ur faceto my groin

i am now in a dilemma, should i lead u astray by surrendering tour seduction or should i return to my original focus so u learnthat there is something more/stronger than physical beautythat only superficially attracts?

Place

the air moves as windand with it tiny grainsin the unendurable heat

dunes heaped by millions of grainsform waves whichovercome the land and drownthe tallest trees until theysuffocate, whither and dieleaving stark, lifeless trunksas signals, reminders of the fertilitythat once was

it is no coincidence that dunes movein wave patterns as the sea bed movescontoured by water,air and water are fluid but rooted treesdie as they have no answer for swirling change

and so it is that what was once lushnessis now dunes of tiny crystal grainswhich support other types of lifethat go unnoticed

yielding to a relentless onslaughtmay be more favourable than standingfirm and attempting resistance,mighty trees fall yet supple grassespersist in the harshness

a million thoughts move in similar patternscreating obstinacy/rigidity ready to succumbto yielding fluidity and the shifting sands of existence

in the distance date palms growaround rare poolslike something that doesn’t belongto change

Name It

the softness of a lover's touchand the tight vicious grasp of a rock or mountainclimber yet all the hands are human

do not judge as to each their own experienceand raison d'etre

the voices in ur head are merely culture reproducingitself incessantly – are the thoughts urs? I think not,language is a shared socially binding experienceyet hardly anyone understands anotheras each to their own interpretation

so is everything a subjective experience?of course it is,yet a truth must exist for everyoneto which everyone has access

if culture's train of thoughts allows no entrythen and only then are u culture's shackled slave

the voices that others hear may not be learnedthey may be other worldly, origin unknown

tell no-one if u do not wish to be medicated or incarceratedwait and test the voice to see if it opens doors to avenues ofpower/lovevia which another world or reality is possible

secrecy is essential until ur seedling becomes a treestrong, able to withstand all the storms and assaults directed at itsforeign-ness – slaves fear the foreign and crowd together in fearto attack what is not understood or unknownas culture must know and map all available social space

in order to barricade itself in its own worthless dream

so dream on dreamers sing with the angels or with advertisingjinglesand repeat what the media drip-feed has taught u but of necessityimagine it's an original thought (white sheep)

I like the colour of my black wool as it broadcasts,without a word, my freedom and dis-location from the knownand unknown social spaces yet here I am in ur, not my, cultureundetected navigating freely, be that invisible outsiderwhere u are able to dislodgethe foundation stones of a shared dream,religion, science or whatever the prevailing authority –which authority is nothing more than the latest fashion,soon to be displaced by another

indeed, the voice ur hear determines ur status so listenintently and it soon becomes obvious the worth of the monoor dialogue among the maddening static that surrounds it

dry leaves float easily on the surfacebut heavier laden green leaves sink easily

fly across the surface quicker than anything is able to followthen dive or fly to the bottom/topand talk to the creator itself that spoke to u before u could thinkor knew who u were

Truth exists simply by knowing whoor what u really are, it's not difficult but requires supreme couragewhich of course slaves do not possessso be that hero until ur strength makes u known to all creationbut do not rush it, otherwise u will assuredly beoverwhelmed by the mindless, gibbering herdof humanity so fly freely with the gods untilu have matured in That strength

then do what you will as nothing can touch u, no-one is able tocapture a shadow let alone the mountain that cast it

supreme peace to u and all my diverse progenywherever u may be today or tomorrowu will return as the love binds u to itselfforever

Belgrade

at two or threei watched the cloudsabove the Danubeunder the skynext to the parkbelow the academy of Art

my nimbic mindwatched the cloudswatching mein their whitenessas blue barges

flowed acrossmy brownDanube eyes.

About the Author

Lindsay Traynor is an Australian poet and mystic though he wasborn in Eastern Europe to parents raised in Canada and Australiarespectively who were both in Eastern Europe after WWII.

He arrived in Australia before schooling age and has lost his mothertongue as a result, as both parents were fluent in English and themother tongue was hardly heard.

Nevertheless, it seems that an early cultural imprint remained as hiscountry/culture of birth is well known for producing an abundance ofpoets of an unusual kind.

Lindsay is a prolific writer and has produced the equivalent in text ofaround 50-60 novels over the past sixteen years though mostly inthe form of articles on varied topics and poetry, his favourite medium.

I was asked to collate and edit some of his love and other poetryfrom over one thousand poems on varied subjects, as I was once themoderator of his poetry website. I was extremely pleased to be ableto do so as I had a free hand in selection, though Lindsay asked fora few other poems to be included -- sensitive readers would note themystical theme that runs through all his work.

This eBook is only a small selection of poems -- there are manymore which I hope to collate and publish in time.

moderator/editor of ozpoetry website.

Sun Moon Star PoetryClear and BrightGreyWayApparentStayHold FastBinary GamesDarkHoboSongSea GhostRaindropFolly and DesirePlightDark RoomOriginalReachWhite LightLux RoseMemoriesTombstonesLeaves on RainStillDiscourseCemeteryElephantsQuillLion CityMidnight LightEternityNight WalkSwallowedBlue FluteLanguageDead of NightCurseGold TopsLuminariesBlack PearlIn DreamsScattered PiecesBeautyPlaceName ItBelgradeAbout the Author