[A writ to a jailer to produce a prisoner in person and to state the reasons of detention]
Soldier do your eyes have the lights that flash out of tanks in the face of the snub of a terrorist gun and in they shine when his message of soft lead erupts from the lips of a shimmering barrel?
Do they reanimate a frantic heart sick of your Karma, loosen the bowel; trigger the playback of loving regrets before the balance of blood is lost, spilling to the ground with slivers of lead?
Or soldier, did you die the night before in Believer’s Heaven, locked in the crotch of a dark haired Houri, filched so you thought from underneath Mohammed’s slippered feet; virgin and wanting your dissolution?
She perhaps, taking sap that trees the nerves before the five – first? Aids to earth exchanged for the bright sight of a plum on the breast! No doubt your bloodshot eyes and rising smoke wring a coupling promise from that climax.
You’re a crime soldier, you embarrassed the breach – you caused it release in black chamber the redness that wept the no time that takes time, sputter of pain; unrepentant, the lover at the head.
Soldier, the lipstick of blood is smudging your collar, face twists like a child’s’ first clay. Can you now see who judged and passed sentence on your innocence? Your slide is the breast. Soft lead, the mat of your down flowing river.
My love what cheerless world asleep in towered keeps and half-lit streets, waking dream on sullen skies ridged grey; Lay waste land and cause the grey weird sea chill the heart of you and me?
What world awoken from dreams of meadows, water mills, and painter’s scenes, would tolerate the angered sky, the leaf shorn tree; the frost that blights the first-born bud, above the half-closed mist born eye of love?
Oath of God would life not be worth living were love not rooted deep in giving? Selfish worlds are drunk, dreaming fantasy; such men are never found in sight crossing borders of the Christos Light.
Soft rose whose petal fusing heart will give attiring the sweetest heart to ever live, deliverance in the dawning day will come refusing the permanence of death, and arise to prove the cause of all the living never dies.
Photo by Jimmy Chan on Pexels.comListen as you read!
Granite Sliver Arrowhead I see you spurned by Pigmy Bowman yet you suffice and scathe the greening mortar… Mind that delibly records attempt my show and outward personality.
This ribbon of a madman’s weave is the tape of all my saying small border thin and compass hand the clutch and stay Fingers…. Placing granite slabs to face their palms of tungsten flesh toward the shortened eye.
Yet soon the tongue of this my wise and scrawl became as fever pitch and heavy as the hammer held halfway in arc deliberating as the mother would pressing down urging fingers in the lock of Isis eye to the agony that is mother And now is mine.
Is birth!
The warder had me carry seven days in labour waiting… before the fertilising seed became and his eye perceived the ribbon of wise inflicted with my word and writing.
He stared examined even to the letter head lost in mergence to the polished stone turning, smiled…. Father dimly smiling through the stain of glass in the you can never tell about face….
He left and straight informed the governor.
The hammer struck the child full born umbilical cut began to cry…. My eyes were full of faces demanding outstretching palms of tungsten flesh. Their right they screamed is feeding first why was I no askance waiting?
They spread upon my word the slime and their cement that matched the slab and then.. Fingers turned upon themselves they commanded- called my clutching hand to lease my living Scribe this chipping sliver of their granite.
They took.
…. that morning after before the ashen face nether time of wanting day whilst less the night there stood eight mourners neath the sky bowl blooding red in their caps of prison grey and the circle turning tribute was the sower spreading quicklime.
And in my cell
There stood another waiting for the shining mortar’s greening mould.
There are some words in this poem you may not be familiar with. In order of mention they are as follows: Hur: Is the name given to the inner core of planet Earth -the primary source of matter and mind root from which Earth developed. Aster: Is the name of a large planet in the Milky Way which exploded and gave birth to our solar system. Fohat: Is the animating principle electrifying every atom into life. During the process of manifestation, it is the cosmic energy which produces differentiation of primordial cosmic matter to form the different forms of consciousness, therefore Fohat is the link between Spirit and Matter, subject and object. The twice & thrice born person addressed by the creator in the last stanza should not be regarded as a pattern of reincarnation, rather they describe a process of soul reformation. Twice-born is earthly reformation, Thrice-born is heavenly reformation. This kind of reformation can otherwise be defined as ‘the camel able to pass through the eye of a needle’.
And so to the poem….You can listen to it here….
The story I am about to tell began before the first ammonite hardened its shell, before your blackheart mountains were rivers of red and swims of clear water had not yet fallen as rain; before even Hur was cast into Hell and the soporific dust that held prison his might had yet to be formed from the celestial storm of Aster’s last embrace with the stars.
Where Love was lost….
Love is forever becoming; the moment of life poised unto death, born in the heart existing apart from all that you know. Priceless, unreachable, mysterious Self.
The rarest of jewels….
The story I tell begins before tongue, before the screech, the roar, and the hissing of elements embattled to make of themselves creational worlds and Fohat had yet to cause It has no meaning to you twice-born until I caused life to know death. After the cooling Earth formed crust and the sulphurous clouds ceased their circle, there I took lung from the water and filled it with air. After cooling, and the first trees had breathing leaves
souls were born….
Light encrusted with matter in hope of Salvation, Fish, fowl, amphibia, and latterly beasts. Yes, they were soul born; amoebic hopes that by tempest, fire, and the heat of ice evolved by birth and death in every season. Taking as when taking must; leaving be, not having when having was no need. Yes, I was well pleased with progress however, success has its own undoing, Light separated from the Seeds of Soul. I should have known, identifying Myself with creation -the cause is of Me and the cause is unrepentant.
The cause became two -two became three Mind became Matter, Matter became mind….
And so, twice-born, soon to be thrice, many times born of my wheel forming heaven and sired by the captive imprisoned Hur, there’s no end to your becoming until I cease. Light and Matter will then achieve peace.
The sheen of folded draperies warm resplendent curves of your bronze bright body. Your smile an ever present remembrance, suggest joyous eyes that never weep.
Through the meagre apertures of half-hid windows, blue skies burst and grow their light upon your breast, the stilled image grasping at my loins evoking half-lit fantasies
never dreamt of in your head. Your strange unnatural silence rather than offending, draws me trance-like to your wood framed world. My staring -your silence
causes the consciousness I feel to achieve in this encounter the bewilderment of knowing; you in the painting, the self twice known I in my shell. a pearl-like stone.
Many times have I sat by the water mill in the damp grass and in the dry feasting my body upon the wheel splash slaking my senses; worshipping buttercup crowns and primrose groves, my mind free to landscape and sky dream knowing that havens are hard to come by; impermanent places.
Coming here when the seasons are fair and the beech woods sing with bird talk; caressing my ear with their melodies giving soul reformation. Observing the change of winter scarred trees, knuckles of soft bark renewing torn limbs the buds of new boughs appearing; without proclamation.
It saddens me to see the mill is deserted the paddles seized by chickweed and gorse, the stream gentle and ebbing away through watercress meadows. The miller who might have been head of the stream, Keeper and Dam Builder has powdered his hand between the mill stones, the last yield of flour having long since departed.
The curious have bought the tack of cob horses, Coriander grows in the cart ruts. The gate is unhinged and the mill purse empty of men. I see green lichen eat the smooth stone oak lintels sag over moss covered frames, and I am entranced by design, composition and colour –and wonder
what plants have rooted and grown in this silent omnivorous world, that will seize on my house, empty my purse and feed on my bone?
Last night my instant mind wraith like uncoiled its luminous head and like all good mysteries left my body in bed, warm to the skin of my spouse. Unsuspected left the house, passing through walls and other substantial things seeking no byway to celebrate freedom, vision only for the ubiquitous presence of a troubled friend.
Finding the dark and humourless shell where colours are pale, and sounds deep as if heard from a well. In this house where the cry escaped and reached my ears beside my mate I see a soul in hibernation, a maelstrom of movement in which may be seen pain of intruders eschewing the Spirit, a legion of wants suppressing need the ache of a body seeking to balance in favour of peace, no matter the price or the length of the lease.
I am radiation a golden cascade a silver-winged creature, sensing soothing the troubled dark shade. Cleansing, creating, and fulfilling a vow commanding the sepulchre revive its undead. Holding the breathing unconscious sweet soul until life brightness stems from the spine and flows from the head.
United therein, harmony prevails purpose and will rebirthed she is no longer alone. I dissolve from her presence and seek my own bed. Returning to self through sickness and doubt lying awake, afraid and diminished a frantic heart upon a humourless bed, until music from the night shores comforts my head and I sleep the sleep of one who is dead.
Cold turn my putty blue and let me leave my sorry self-appointed imposition state of Senilità, this shadow of my footstep fear Frankenstein of my conceit of whom I aped in sweeter note as the satire sword when I was prentice of this night.
Tis the bruise upon my apple fallen, Brutus to my Caesar, the malformed child made conscious. And by my expertise I have the life-long-game of chess made stalemate whose colours now reveal no substance fiction belly laughing shallow truth.
All my fear is Senilità a thousand-tickling tales of doubt the smallest part of virile statement easy come by. The battery of baseless facts that made me man are the powdered leaves of a selfish summer. Now the water of my close is mixed the question of you do after death has burnt this mess of pottage and shaped me as the begging bowl.
Senilità You shame of all the Y man sought accepted scar and the weeping priest mortal made immortal bishop, Pharisee of double mean-less vision. To the monastery of children there confess with ease nonchalance of being server to the weeping priest of being Senilità.
Here by the speak of unripe fact sick the swelling puffing yeast the husk of all your learning home to Babel and name it grandeur of the Pharisee. Let your toothless cringing face be the symbolled skull cross-boned school of level thought and one horizon.
No -never I cannot as tears as negative I am the six-aged one life yes man cry wolf again, charge the greater part of me to war. I be the autumn of the shortest summer making where to start my cyclopaedic book of error.
………….. In the no start never finish real of the spark
Listen as you read!
Ah! The pain the wanting all over dilemma sober reach out sweet grape of confusion; a duchess spread out on her savage’s bed willing her blood red to the lips of her lackeying male, neither caring the speech or the stain of his whip. Taking the seventh of her seconding breaths at the weep of secretion.
Comes now the concentration; the apex of arc, the long-drawn laugh of the physical man. The peak, then the plummet of an up thrown stone; extinguishing fire. Then the cold Darkness of Earth and then the winter of a why gloom face frosting the smile of devil cares not into peaceful beginning; a child in the low of the arc, weak murmur of problem.
And yet in end it begins; in the no start never finish real of the spark, in the still heard gasp mute echo of Psi fleeing the white. In the good die young the crude soldier damning as with the devils and the un-vowed nun; the same design. All blind fisherman in the day-night casting pearls from the corporeal banks of unsettled sublimity.
It manifests as harpoon with a white heat line; the strongest plus and minus seed. All charge of the instrument cannon, Time Traveller to the state of perpetual climax; there as the spear of the deepest descent. The finder receiving the arranged and irrevocable choice the twin of sex; Satan-Father coalesced.
Cool waters imprisoned mass of colouration say fie now- sediment, syringe of my Elixir. Fie! Laugh you now the life is drawn to drinking state of Christos?
I left your immobility with the sigh of my becoming.
Whose reason called the crack of dawn my death?
Shadow barren of my love keep the silver of that State spend it on the flowers of your grave.
Creature after calling Solomon to testify himself keep your hammer inside your sarcophagus.
I remember roses imitations of the fire reflecting on the cheeks my last winter’s face crinkled with the onward coming Retribution-
that my lazy legs were faults of not attending church saw my Book the dog-eared blotted one
but even then
the coin of sailors slang would gutter sing the spit of my petulance leave me shrunk a little more to child.
And the roses I remember from the fire were the devil shadows beckoning.
Now I see you muted shell as the illusion of my living
Lie mirror!
I, the silver of your backing leave you transparent. You cannot fix my soul or image me in time.
Bubble -you have burst Fie! Fie! I am in sight of no horizons I am the Minister
Pray hard for the men who hunt the deep sea in their cockleshell boats out of Clyde who scour the cold swims of Poseidon’s green head filling iced holds with dead alive-eyes. Where the North wind screech is God’s angered ethereal Hand, and fear is the shake of worn riveted plate and Love is a church locked up on the land.
Elemental wind do not keep them from shore They who dare open the water blue door.
Pray strong for men who haunt the cod swims Hymned only by the white garish moon and wind-snatched callings of seabirds scorning. Skins scolded eyes shrunk in the Arctic blast laughing as the pawls judder and grind heaving the trawl, engine complaining. Who love the deep sea with a savagery spit, swear, and piss in the lee.
Elemental wind do not rage for their souls their fathers have paid the fish stealing tolls.
Pray love for the sons of water and blood, patient for the calm, eager to net and ever ready to chase the white fish over mountainous crests, under the pale dark bruising wet sky. Casting net to web Gods’ octopus head clawing the fish from his shivering throat, their lives threatened by the weight of the prize.
Elemental wind, do not anger the sea Man and his mistress must ever be free.
In muddy mouthed Portsea Creek unwatched forgotten ships lay beached and breathless, dashed and smashed cut and bled, weather beaten, picked and broken by the dockside stooping crane’s bill collecting scrap.
Their final journeys over shallows dragging barnacle crusted bottoms over shingle groaned past the red flagged gunnery range, pulled and pushed by impatient tugs, aware falling tides and sucking mud claim victims.
Robbed by landsman, written out of registers, church empty bridges balefully glistening glare untold stories of once purposed lives, men who swore repeatedly like lovers on heat, trumpeting the union of engine and steel.
Now their ghosts can be heard in the small of the night blowing base horns, heaving anchors, turning their screws seaward, reliving purpose, blending rusted hulls to the sea and the never ending sky.
If you are not already aware -be warned, writing poetry is addictive. You may like me have other writing skills prose-like, non-fiction, fiction, or faction. If you get hooked on writing a poem, in your heart of hearts you know you cannot finish it until it’s a work of art -that means every word must count, they must be the right words, and the poem must be more than words alone convey.
It’s addictive because we can never be sure we have achieved, not only birthed but given long life to the piece.
In many years of ‘garret writing’ there’s one difficult lesson which must be learnt, that is -don’t file it in the pending tray, publish the damn thing, because art is an evolutionary process. Pieces do not mature into art if they remain stuck in your mind. The blank sheet of paper is only terrifying when the mind is still hosting ‘unfinished’ poems.
After you post it’s gone from your mind -later perhaps you might unpublish and rework. My experience tells me the piece gets better, and ….. and ….. it might also be unworkable -possibly a work of art!
Spume spatters night, the pickle-black stream a-tumble under moon, is whispering loud between lichen-stained stones, hissing about ruin of Man as it hastens to sea.
The clouds uncover a star mantled crescent illuminate a petrified gauntlet of stone pickle brown scars etched in yellow shape fingers grasping an invisible hilt.
All about my better body shadows dance thick-like bracken wracked by wind. I hear clattering hooves, sprays of flint shard see a thundering mass of muscle and blood,
flanks creaming red, a horse and rider a force on the run. I can feel the hurt labouring breath know her last service hastens in the dark to this musical place.
Astride her saddled brave heart, helmeted, metal shorn, steel spurred, a wounded warrior is breathing his last eyes bright and fixed on safe haven.
A mortal wound bloodies the cross of his surcoat, a lance haft splintered is sunk deep to the thigh; yet he rides as if ready to battle the Christian foe.
Left hand fists the bridle, the right grips a sword pointing to earth. It is the horse that gives way her heart bursts as she stumbles,
the stream too wide too deep too dark. The rider thrown lies broken on horns of veined rock, eyes fixed to the sky, his cape now a shred of dark shadow.
The last laboured breath of his charger is taken by the stream and moves on reborn in the song sung by the stones eternally free of saddle and rider.
Stillness has swallowed the warrior’s fire high flies his purpose, body-less at last, soul-like beyond sky bowl of stars seeking the grail of everlasting life.
And I stumble in time, unsure If my better body is the breath of life part drawn to the moon part to the stream transforming, dividing, living a dream.
Idyllic loves’ creation is imagined lilac groves air enchanting havens of scented flowers lifting to the harvest moon.
This world we may not enter until this earthen road is ended, yet we may store good efforts seed do right as God’s creators.
Unbending onward to the light holding to heart loves’ first vow, that we unseasoned Spirits shall by all intentions be tried and tested and found well.
There’s two kinds of good news we should talk about. Firstly, for those who fear for their children and grandchildren, antibodies are on their way. If you look back in history at the many health scourges decimating communities you will see we have, in the main, developed immunity from those viral problems. There’s no reason to suggest Covid-19 is any different, over one or two generations immunity will be significantly higher. The other bit of good news is you can prevent it becoming a serious problem NOW.
Greetings! This is the last of my weekly emails sent since lockdown began, and it’s week 16. Who would have believed that when all this kicked off in the UK in March? The numerology number 16 resonates with wisdom, independence, and family, is also a number of introspection. It’s wise, intuitive, and tends to be independent, is both spiritual and analytical, a philosopher with sound arguments. Values which I’m sure you would aspire to and quite possibly claim as practise. The news gives us some heads up reports of good sense and inspirational works, but as you would expect not everyone is being sensible or caring for others -so nationally it can’t be said we are living up to all the values the number 16 promotes. The difficulties we are contending with as the lockdown eases can be broadly described as two kinds; people who feel the current restrictions should be lifted, and those who remain fearful viral contamination will continue to spread. There’s no getting away from the fact Covid-19 is a devastating illness for some with long term effects if they survive it. Whilst we are learning by the day about this virus and work to produce vaccines is intense we still do not have controls we can be sure will eliminate contamination. Some people, perhaps even the majority of population, are asymptomatic, which can mean some are presymptomatic, others don’t show any symptoms at all, and some are immune to the virus. What this means the reported number of cases (which can never represent accurately all who are positive at any one time) is misleading causing people to believe it’s a greater health risk than it actually is, and the recognizable symptoms in elderly and vulnerable who sadly have lost their lives doesn’t necessarily mean they did die of the virus. And given the production of effective vaccines can you expect anyone to stand up and proclaim the death of this virus? I doubt it -I very much doubt it. Why? Covid-19 is a living organism, its predecessors are SARS and MERS, both respiratory infections, the former originating in China and the latter in the Middle East. Currently 11.6 million people have been confirmed Covid-19 worldwide, of which less than 5% have reportedly died from it. In the UK deaths are estimated at 15%. This makes uncomfortable reading but the percentage of deaths is derived from confirmed positive readings -do not include the asymptomatic or presymptomatic population that haven’t been tested or tested unconfirmed. As pandemics go we are way short of the devastating 1918 influenza pandemic, known as Spanish Flu (said to be transmitted to humans from birds) of which an estimated 500 million people, one third of the world population, had it and from which 10% died. You must know me by now -I don’t paint dark depressing pictures without suggesting to you where there is light. There’s two kinds of good news we should talk about. Firstly, for those who fear for their children and grandchildren, antibodies are on their way. If you look back in history at the many health scourges decimating communities you will see we have, in the main, developed immunity from those viral problems. There’s no reason to suggest Covid-19 is any different, over one or two generations immunity will be significantly higher. The other bit of good news is you can prevent it becoming a serious problem NOW. This is not new news from me, but it’s worth repeating as this is my last email on the lockdown phenomenon. Strengthen your immune system! The powers-that-be and any business coercing you to part with cash who promote practices and products to strengthen the immune system will caveat their statements and claims by denying they can protect you from developing Covid-19. This protect your backside attitude weakens the vital importance of good practise and healthy intake of foods and supplements. As you get older the immune system is said to weaken -and yes it does for the vast majority, but tell that to the 100 year old who is still having a daily dram, smokes occasionally and can still appreciate the difference between the sexes, and they will tell you to stop stressing about it! Of course some people are genetically stronger than others, can abuse their body and still not suffer as others might. What has to be understood here is immunity is not managed and strengthened only by what you eat or the frequency of physical exercise, or by medicines -it is directed by the mind. Take the man or woman who works routinely the adult period of life. They will undergo all kinds of stresses and changes and they overcome them because they have reason to get up and work the following day. No longer wanted? Physically no longer strong enough? Bright, eager younger people ready to do better than you? They retire (wanting to or not) and major changes begin to take place. They have a choice when to get up in the morning and soon find that life now if full of choices. Sounds good doesn’t it -but no its not all good. The physical body is very adaptable, not only can it make changes in a relatively short period of time, it can also turn nasty stuff into good stuff or get rid of it without affecting its functions, but what it must be able to do is cycle and reinvent itself on a daily basis. People who have purpose to get up in the morning, have desire to accomplish, improve and develop their interests will routinely afford the body the cyclical order of change it requires to reinvent itself. And that is the bottom line to building immunity strength and responsiveness. In my blog I invite you to follow I’ll give tricks and tips on how to build immunity strength -it’s not enough to protest and stubbornly refuse giving in to illness, positive do’s are what strengthen, the feel-good factor. The use of face masks has had a mixed press, but currently the Government is ruling they must be worn in clinical and care environs and also on public transport and whenever one metre distancing cannot be maintained, and there’s serious talk about increased use of masks in shops. Whilst there are practices in environs where wearing masks is the only option available to protect against the virus, unless the mask is close fitting and breathing is through a filter, masks are not 100% effective. Breath enters the nose and mouth from the sides as well as through the porous nature of the mask material and the enclosure becomes humid, thereby attracting airborne viral infections when you breathe. The use of oil on hands and face, including up the nostrils is in my view much more effective. I personally use coconut oil because research shows it breaks up the virus envelope and inhibits the maturation stage of development -this has the same effect as soapy water, but do keep in mind that some soaps aren’t oily, which is also true of many hand sanitizers. As a matter of course when it is necessary to put on protection, on returning to a safe environment wash thoroughly. It may surprise you to see how dirty the water is after washing -just goes to show the oil does protect the skin and how unclean the air is!
The poem I’ve included for this last week is an echo of purpose and work, actions that blend the body with the soul -I hope you like it.
Love’s Weaver
The weaver bending arms of twisted knotted yarns serves the loom and the loom a pattern makes. And bent upon the stool, his eyes direct upon the thread between weft and weave, his vision skips.
The shuttle smooth moves through the shed to the clack of treadles pressed; feeling more than seeing, every bone reactive To the rise and falling weaving shafts.
The sun arcs through the window overhead dying unnoticed in the west and in the cool unseen light of night, clouds arise to hide the stars. Bobbins twirling empty are replaced.
He labours not for kudos or for rates. As every yarn entwines it speaks; heddle and treadle selecting straighten out and the loom alive a drumming music makes.
Star and sun dance light within his bobbing head; the weavers’ needs are met and the soul unfurls. Love that has a thousand-silent sounding ee’s Spins on to weave for all eternity.
Turn the “A” upside down and you’ll have a good sense of its original shape and meaning when it was introduced around 1800 BC. Resembling an animal’s head with antlers or horns, the original meaning of the letter in ancient Semitic was “ox.”
Abraham the Jew (Alchemist, magician, and philosopher) was born 1362 in Mayence, Germany. His father was reputed to be a seer and the son’s education would have begun at an early age, later studying under Moses, who Abraham describes as a good man, but entirely ignorant of the True Mystery, and of Veritable Magic. Yet still a young man he began travels, Hungary, Austria, Greece, then to Constantinople where he remained for two years -next moving on into Arabia, in those days a veritable centre of mystical learning, onward into Palestine, and Egypt. Here he made acquaintance with Abra-Melin, the famous Egyptian philosopher who, besides entrusting him with certain documents, confided in him by word of mouth a number of invaluable secrets. He returned to Europe eventually settling in Wurzburg, Germany, where he married and raised a family. He espoused two sons and three daughters. The dowry he gave on all three daughters were sums of 100’000 golden florins -in medieval times a fortune, and in today’s money £11,412,800. He claims to have gained these fortunes and more by travelling as an alchemist and magician. He certainly won great fame during his lifetime, being summoned to perform acts of magic by rich and influential people, notably the Emperor Sigismund of Germany, the Bishop of Wurzburg, King Henry VI, Duke of Bavaria, and Pope John XXIII. Abraham’s career is shrouded in mystery, even the date of his death is uncertain, commonly supposed to have occurred about 1460.
What we know of him comes from a curious manuscript, originally lodged in the archives of the Bibliotheque de l ’Arsenal in Paris and subsequently published in 1760 by Abraham Eleazar as ‘A Very Ancient Alchemical Work’ -likely not his real name. https://www.amazon.co.uk/Book-Abraham-Jew-R-M-S/dp/1511667168
The original manuscript was entitled, ‘The Book of the Sacred Magic of Abra-Melin, as delivered by Abraham the Jew unto his son Lamech’. The first part is a record of his travels in search of wisdom, the second and third parts are based on the documents which the Egyptian sage gave to Abraham, the principles of Magic, and the practise of Magic. Later chapters cover such subjects as developing clairvoyance, how to retain familiar spirits, bound or free, how to excite tempests, raise the dead, change shape and form, thaumaturgic healing of leprosy, dropsy, paralysis, fevers, and sea sickness. His penultimate chapter is entitled ‘How to cause armed men to appear’. It is by seership and the evocation of Kabbalistic Squares that such magic can be achieved. If you would like to know more about what Kabbalistic Squares are, this commentary could prove helpful, http://www.ismaili.net/mirrors/Ikhwan_08/magic_squares.html
What we know of his character comes from this document, written partly in Latin, Arabian, Chaldee, and Syriac language. It shows that Abraham was a man of strong beliefs entirely dedicated to occult knowledge, didactic in his language, and a person who would not suffer fools gladly.
Cardinal Richelieu (1585-1642) is believed to have had copy of this manuscript -now the question for you is this. Given such famous people solicited his services and he was never (apparently) short of a penny, can you believe in his powers? Is it possibly true he was a practitioner of knowledge we can no longer access or understand?
In numerology the letter A in his name signifies Life tends to be approached with ambition and drive, pursued with confidence. Courage tends to be valued. The person tends to express willpower and purpose.
Now let me see… how can I interpret these rules, feel my freedom, but not break them?
Here we are in week 15 of the lockdown with independence day approaching. The number 15 creates its own rules to accomplish harmony, and I guess you can acknowledge some are already creating their own rules, if crowded beaches, street parties, and football supporters celebrations are anything to go by. This number is also about personal responsibility, home and family, and many are now meeting up for the first time since restrictions were imposed. The 15 essence includes health, healing, and domestic activity. Love, beauty, and comfort are important, but the family is most important of all. 15’s energy contains a maternalism that extends beyond the immediate family to neighbors and visitors -it’s a caretaker. The number also has a sense of adventure and a versatile wit. And there’s a determination to express all of one’s own existence, which leads me to question what we mean by the ‘new normal’. Outwardly, the new normal will be recognizable by the wearing of masks, social distancing, and meeting restrictions on the one hand, and increasing traffic and noise on the other. Inwardly it’s a different ball game. Last week I was talking about habits and how the loss of routines have affected our we are functioning on a day to day level and fearful of change as the lockdown eases. The UK is about to get its own version of Independence day celebrations -and lets be fair, some positively good vibrations being released into our communities. Anticipation to regenerate some of those habits and routines…. But what has been happening inwardly to change our expectations, desires, and needs? We’ve had more time on our hands, and whilst it’s true to have caused a process of rethinking priorities, it has more positively created ‘spaces’ in the personality mind, which in turn have been filled by desires (and hopefully needs), we haven’t allowed focus on in our otherwise busy lives. For some that will be creative expressions -anything from garden care, home décor, to expressions of crafts and arts. For others, the so-called rethink will be looking at interests, personal or work, in a different way than hitherto. Many people have been remembering their dreams, which can be a mix of unsettling ‘events’ and strange inexplicable images that stimulate or make one fearful. Then there is the lack of practice fear -can you do the same or better than before, or will your nerves jangle with a feeling of emptiness as you prepare to get back to some kind of normality? If we look closer at the number 15, we see that it’s associated with the 15th card of the Tarot, which many believe to be the most negative card in the deck. The Devil is associated primarily with sensuality and ego (remember Lucifer wanted the other angels to worship him instead of God). However the card is more about change -karmic change. The antidote to excessive ego characteristics is inherent in the 15th number of the I Ching, usually translated as Humility or Modesty. Commenting on this oracle, Confucius says: “The Superior Person takes from where there is too much and augments what is too little. That way all things are apportioned correctly.” This refers to keeping a sense of mindfulness and balance over all of life’s situations. So, given we have inwardly changed, no matter how the new normal looks like a return to the previously known ways -it won’t be. Our priorities will be different, subtly so in many instances but there will be moments when we herald change and show a new face to the world, be they in personal or workaday living. History shows us there have been numerous pandemics, some very recent which have not consciously intruded into your day to day life, others of such magnitude and loss of life, to make Covid-19 look minor. What happens as a result of these traumatic changes, and that also includes the horrors of war, is the psyche in all of us individually undergoes fundamental changes. These changes will not consciously manifest overnight, but they will surface nonetheless. We can expect even in the local environment of our lives changes that will be embedded into our futures. The poem I’ve written for you this week is about time sort of standing still, and how that can make us inwardly aware we cannot truly possess or determine how life and love shapes our souls.
The Seize of Time
Walk with me through the green gate past the ivy clad barn, the rusted plough, there let us take shade from the sun under the spread of the sycamore tree. Nearby, the gnats cloud the sedge pond
buzz in harmony, chicken’s coop, geese cackle, and the farm dog barks. The clack of a hand-turned butter churn can be heard from the house, the smell of baking bread wafts in the breeze.
In the far wet-field, revs of a tractor sound as we sit midst forget-me-not’s, coriander, dandelion, thistles, and milkwort, mosses, and warm grass. Laughing, and making daisy chains.
Out of sight beyond the fields a distant bell toll seizes time. Moments that will never age forever live –of love’s breath that never shall or can possess.
My thanks to replies I receive -and everyone I reply too. The intention to recover and make a better world is a theme most often central to emails I receive. Stay healthy and you will stay safe. As always I include a link for the self-healing recording, feel free to pass it around to whomever you wish. https://www.holistichealthuk.co.uk/guided_self_healing_cd.php
This is the UK lockdown profile of weeks. First published on email 300620
Mine Quick Voice of Aquarius 