As any weaver will tell you, whether they weave to be paid or weave for their own needs, the action of weaving is a kind of meditation.
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.
Man is not only a physical form of life. From his beginnings his soul nature is rooted in a higher Self. This Villanelle questions our ability to understand and accept our true nature.
Beyond the Stone Man lives a psychic sea wherein thespian arts are founded on the whisperings of immortality.
Earth genius, maker of machinery hear before claiming, my invocation beyond the Stone Man lives a psychic sea,
thesaurus more precious than history, an interlocking alien kingdom: the whisperings of immortality.
Stone Man, creator of insanity repeat after me this incantation, beyond the Stone Man lives a psychic sea
where sceptres and crowns were facsimile long before Archimedes heard in song the whisperings of immortality.
Knights and Bishops, guardians of the Tree, Knowledge, and Faith; have you now forgotten beyond the Stone Man lives a psychic sea?
Of mistakes made in your liturgy by making your God of wisdom, to wrong the whisperings of immortality?
The name Gilda originates as an Italian short form of names like Ermenegilda, which contain the Old Germanic element gild meaning “payment, tribute, or sacrifice” In Old English contexts, it is associated with meanings such as “entire,” “total,” or “sacrifice,” reflecting a sense of completeness or devotion. Another interpretation links Gilda to the concept of being “covered with gold,” emphasizing brightness, value, and preciousness
Cold winds blow in Gilda’s valley; Pine trees bare their branches bowing to the valley sweep, snow drifts in every recess, closing up the cave mouth and the foxes hole.
And when the orbit of the wind dies screaming at the funnels mouth, eerie stillness clings to every pine. The valley has the emptiness of absent birds. Each wind struck
tendril savaged from the bough lies black upon the drifted snow, more alive than dead –waiting change; dissolution in the spring thaw. And for the thrush who fell asleep
cradled in the pine root mosses gently held in the bedding snow, Spring has met the summer sun; Pine trees spread their branches, warm winds blow in Gilda’s valley.
Azoth is an alchemical concept, the universal agent of transformation. In energy terms it is a causal force brought by Dark Energy into Black Matter. It is not time or form bound and can manifest beatifically.
I conceived this poem over 50 years ago. Dissatisfied with the initial draft I did no more but over the years one or two key lines continued to haunt me. Early in June 2024, I managed to fall out of a tree I was pruning. My injuries included my left broken arm, hand, and wrenched neck. As a left-handed person that put a stop to many activities, including writing. Trolling through a listing of unfinished poetry the old draft came back in view. Unable to do much else without help, with one unsteady right-handed finger I began to rewrite it.
The Royal Train is now finished. There are two words in the poem you may not be familiar with, they are Djinn and Yama. Djinn is an Arabic plural noun meaning elemental earth-bound spirits hidden from sight. Yama is the Hindu God of death and justice, son of the Sun God Surya, who judges the souls of the dead and depending upon their deeds, assigns them to the realm of the Pitris, (their soul heritage) or to Naraka, (Hell) or to be reborn on Earth.
Humming gently, whistle muted
The Royal Train arrives,
Auto enabled
and expectant of deaths
it screeches driverless to halt
at Rebirth Platform number one.
Doors open.
Into the darkened interior
you float
light as a feather, half asleep,
jostling to get a window seat.
Dreaming, so you believe
The tangled web you often weave.
You’ll not hear the whistle keening
the train restart
Or know its full and wide within
But you will hear, and feel
the pulsing coupled driving wheels
relentlessly rhyming
abba du by abba du by
abba du by abba du by
Cyclical sounds dispelling time
unfolding memories, child-like
motivating youthful desires.
Easily thoughts become creative
Manifesting a desirous world
pulsating independent forms,
life needy forms that gratify,
satiate, and has you wake
and expostulate
to the rhyming wheels
♫ do what you will, do what you will♫
Is this dying you ask of me
travelling free able to see,
testifying
life doesn’t end?
To begin it’s all picture postcard
Dolby Sound and technicolour
Gold, Frankincense and Myrrh.
You, righteously urging the Self
undo, make up, inwardly heal.
Elemental forces enter in;
purpose forms and whispers Djinn.
Unreasoned giving thoughts arise,
happiness spreads like blood within.
Onward and-upward you spiral
the ego cries unwise!
Fear of God enters in:
knowledge dissipates.
♫ Hinder me not, hinder me not
Hinder me not, hinder me not ♫
Hallelujah, God is Great!
Here you reign between the points
of destination and departure
coerced to play the part of king
to this extension of your mind:
pieces and pawns, two of a kind
aboard the Summerland express,
resolved to undo, clean the slate,
begin anew:
entrained upon the ever long
never-ending pointed track. Yama the Jailer God.
Where will it end?
You ask yourself.
No sooner said
the melody of chiming wheels
cease their singing.
Doors slide back,
the Station Master speaks
”rebirth platform number two!”
A dream of people disembark.
No such place but it feels like home
But why you ask, and where am I?
Here unknown smiley people sing
and have you fear the child within.
No walls here and no pearly gate.
The old and young in ragged trews
torn uniforms and winding sheets
or dressed like you, in Sunday best
congregate and await their fate.
Loved ones you believed were dead
appear glowing with health, saying
do what you will, you’re free, enjoy!
Youthfully love, rest from the world
time-out, reinvent and explore.
Your thoughts cease to justify need,
love bearing energies bond with
outpourings of the giving self.
Harmony prevails,
the Way becomes known. Hallelujah, God is Great!
Seeds of union germinate,
love unfettered starts to grow,
your mind enjoins to many lives.
Reason no longer governs form
upward as mustard seeds you flow
all and everything
in a spiral flow.
Doing better
more of what was done before.
The Way becomes your inner state
Divine reason commands the soul.
Karmically you accept your fate.
How can I suggest you differ?
Little do you know, its checkmate
another game must now begin. Hallelujah, God is Great!
Ah, winsome love, what aches your heart, breaks the rhythm of your mentor’s rhyme, stuns you into silence? Does the world debase and sully your native innocence trade on your gentleness, draw on the giving Self? Do you fear the well has gone dry and life’s effort a hoist of cold rocks, the brain tired of strictures, Of duty -duty denying the Self?
Let your fears flee to the winds Let go memories that haunt you Have them find oblivion in the shifting sands of time. The healer’s hands cup your face The power of love turns back the clock Years vanish and youth smiles The mystery deepens wordless expressive timeless love
Had you known your granite headstone would be flanked by two unknowns you might have thought it significant; as yours stands tall like one chosen compared to their drunken faces.
The tree that shadows where you lay its sloughed bark being last to view the moonlights felicitations; In your day sinewy green with youth has suffered change like you have.
The proud and leafy head is burnt broken and lifeless; its blackened antler branches gouging the sky. The knuckled roots naked of earth reshape the form you left behind.
The unknown blistered facing flags askew upon the biers they mark wedged between the tree’s webbed feet is living proof that men must fear. Names mean nothing to nature here.
Though Earth has held your name upright slow moving time has wrought its change; skeletal remains seeking rebirth remarry to achieve what you could not. Path to Mecca: world without end.
I am dropping out of the skies huge head whirling like the flower above me singing in the wind. My last home The silver – metal bee drones forward into the sun and I her human seed am reaching for my roots in the glazed earth feet first.
The final words of an assault rifle couldn’t be more honest and chilling. How many more will die knowing only the feeling of murderous metal in their hands?
Tony’s poem speaks volumes about the pitiful truth of war and bloodshed. Weapons handed to youngsters in the name of duty, their lives sacrificed for the supposed good of their nations. But behind the lies and deceit, larger forces are at play, and they climb upon the dead to reach for more power. The final words of an assault rifle couldn’t be more honest and chilling. How many more will die knowing only the feeling of murderous metal in their hands? Congratulations Tony!
Lay me down, half boy half man, lay me down, I’m hot. Burning your hands, I am, lay me down, I’m shot. The next round won’t fire.
Warning you, my fresh-faced keeper you am wanted by the Reaper.
Would have liked to be a plough, would have made good, turning earth, here and now. Would have, and should;
instead, they made me a driller of bullets, and you my son, a killer.
You praise me, when you’re sleeping, you call me your lover but when I’m spitting lead you call me a fucker.
Crusader, this round’s a bad one, and I’m overheating. I’m done. It’ll blow you to kingdom come.
Melting down, I can’t speak now. Melting down, death trap. Burning your heart, I am. Melting down, worthless scrap.
Pray, pity, maker of guns. Pity the death, of your sons.
Author’s note…
He is a short haired, well-built, who, under normal circumstances is considered by society as half man, half boy. Not yet dry behind the ears, just old enough to buy a round of drinks but old enough to die for his country. He recently left comprehensive school where he was probably, an average student, played some form of sport, drove a ten-year-old rust bucket, and knew a girl that either broke up with him when he left, or swore to be waiting when he returns home. He moves easily to mood music and hip‐hop, and to the rattle of an AK-74 assault rifle.
Tony’s eloquent poetry infuses life and soul into rusted shells of steel and iron, once meant to keep others afloat, now drowned in the tides of time and indifference. Mere objects to some, these ships were once the domain of the living, and carry the emotions and memories from times gone, embedded within their mighty hulls. Haunted or taunted, they rest with countless stories alive inside them.
In muddy mouthed Portsea Creek unwatched forgotten ships lay beached dashed and smashed breathless, cut and bled weather beaten picked and broken
by the dockside stooping crane’s bill collecting scrap.
Their final passages over shallows barnacle crusted bottoms scraping over shingle pulled and pushed by impatient tugs
who know falling tides suckling mud claim tows.
Robbed by landsman written out of registers deserted bridges balefully glare untold memories of purposed lives men who swore repeatedly
like lovers on heat trumpeting union of engine and steel.
Now their ghosts can be heard reliving purpose in the night blowing base horns heaving anchors turning their screws seaward
blending rusted hulls to the sea and the never-ending sky.
Portsea creek and its cutting divides the city of Portsmouth from the Hampshire mainland.
The planets conjunct, portending his birth bade us search on…….
We found him there in Bethlehem as the charts foretold but not with ease. Not one well to do house of Arab or Jew Roman or Greek had birth between them, no infants male or female could be found born that auspicious day; or women nigh to deliver under the star bright sky.
The planets conjunct, portending his birth bade us search on; visit caravan, tent, Inn and stable. Divers places all to no avail until on tavern steps, feet begging to rest we overheard a shepherd speak, of how his shelter was occupied by two well dressed Jews. Man, woman and a child just born.
Yes! –and here he hurried to tell his kin such peace as lulled his sheep to sleep and such Light about despite the moonless night that quite amazed him. A wine skin for his guest he took, and his sister with a knowing look on being told, insisted she also would journey back. He talked of voices of unseen guests.
At once we realised the town full – where else? Our profession advised; the tavern temptation dismissed, we had the shepherd guide, our bodies begging for rest. The pathway hard, our camels bad tempered, the cold wind swept hills unforgiving. We talked of turning back, yet could not agree, urged on by power greater than the body’s sap.
Wearily we arrived, not a moment to soon and knew at first sight, our year long journey cross sea, mountain, desert, river and plain was justified. Our faith upheld, the purpose before us in the bedding straw, a child born Venus; the power on Earth to Love. His eyes; the majesty of the Monarch of Time,
Our strength returned quite unexpectedly, as if we ourselves had the child’s unlimited power. In his grasp we placed our gifts, Myrrh, Gold and Frankincense. We gave news of Herod, Spoke highly of the child. Held our tongues in check on futures and bar that journey soon to be would say this and only this –
“His word and deed would long be sung in praise ere Jupiter and Saturn swung the sky and Man in darkness has the voice to cry Hosanna, Herald of the peace to come!”
this poem brings to light the order of existence, the rules of supremacy. The qualities and characteristics of a living being sets their place in the pattern of life. Do intellect and emotions make humans superior to other species? Is it the strong against the weak, the voluble against the mute?
Terveen Gill of Masticadoresindia writes…. this poem brings to light the order of existence, the rules of supremacy. The qualities and characteristics of a living being sets their place in the pattern of life. Do intellect and emotions make humans superior to other species? Is it the strong against the weak, the voluble against the mute? Let’s not forget that humans are beasts that change their natures according to convenience. Beware!
The condemned man is making a statement of purpose, giving birth to his soul (the ribbon of wise) record, which cannot be extinguished by death. The term pigmy bowman is used figurately speaking to describe his captors as hunters of little importance. This symbolic poem poses the question is condemned man mad – or is he a voice of truth? What the poem seeks to do is highlight that small minority of people whose understanding of life and purpose is radically different from others and represents a threat to the powers that be. Except in rare instances the death of such individuals are not recorded to our history -yet their presence whether recorded as madness or divinely inspired has and will continue to change the development of mankind. T.S. Eliot understood that when he said humankind cannot bear too much reality. Note: the number 8 is the symbol of regeneration.
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.
Mine Quick Voice of Aquarius 