Selected Poems
by David Stuart Ryan

Part Six


These poems are an introduction to the work of David Stuart Ryan.
Some have been published in Love Poems from Love Worlds and The Cream of the Troubadour Coffee House from Kozmik Press.
Others are selected from the seven books that make up his proposed poetry series
SEVEN WORLDS

It investigates the nature of each of the seven worlds of existence.

    The seven books which comprise SEVEN WORLDS are:

  • The Sphere of the Moon Goddess
  • The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon
  • Post Book from Around the World
  • New New World
  • Home
  • Another World
  • Seventh Heaven

Links to the other parts of this collection of David Stuart Ryan's poetry.

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Five
Part Six
Part Seven
Part Eight
There are also some poems from his latest collections in progress entitled Observations and Galactic Federation Dispatches

To find out more about the writings of David Stuart Ryan see Kozmik Press.
Free chapter from India - a guide to the experience visiting the holy city of Benares (Varanasi)
First chapter of Taboo - a modern romance set in Holland and Germany
A chapter from Looking for Kathmandu - Peter and Birgit arrive in town and at the Blue Tibetan get invited to a rather strange party.
The first chapter of The Blue Angel - the life and films of Marlene Dietrich.
Poetry from The Cream of the Troubadour
- poems by David Stuart Ryan, Home Cronyn and the sayings of Ganesh Baba.
Colva Beach, Goa, India.
A graphic description of three months at Colva by David Stuart Ryan.


Index of the poems

To see any poem listed in the index simply click on the title of it.
Once you have read the poem, click on 'back to Index' to return here.
This is your electronic poetry book.
Father Christmas Eve A tale from India.
Tungabhadra The sacred site of Hampi, India
The Dalai Lama gathers his thoughts at Hubli
Night and day A return visit to India
The devil's own country Child murder in Australia, its heritage.
Interlude The river at dawn.
River song The river talks.
Liberation Day Ending smoking - for good.
While you were away Light returns.
The lake at high summer
The singer of songs departs The death of troubadour singer Patrick Mayo
The lure of the open country Evolution
Proposition for union. A matter of life and death.
Girl from Snatchwood.
The Dalai Lama at the Peace Garden
Ducklings The lake in spring.
Ice Majesty A cool customer.
Apollo 11 returns to Earth
Return The Apollo moon landing.
Welcome back traveller
Maturing August, the balmy month
The heavens weep for you Death of a friend from cancer
The stars back home An aboriginee on tour
The cascade The Lake District.
Pure energyHealthy eating.
Emily Beauchamp Lament for old family friend
The dead of night Death of an ancient creature.
The new age Millennium Day.
Goodbye Other dimensions beckon.

Father Christmas Eve


Magical cures on Christmas Eve. An Indian sky where the moon crescent shines.

Attracted by shadows in the dark blue air, the production of a powerful hurricane lamp, I find a man selling magical cures. It is Christmas Eve, in a strange land. the town's name is Bhusawel in Maharastra. I arrived at dusk, depart later in the night.

Christmas Eve, those flickering shadows jumping at the night from Jhoti Ram's circle summon me. On this evening I will allow myself the treat of watching Jhoti Ram's magic.

The hurricane lamp is atop three packing cases, overlooks a neat array of mysterious bundles and heaps. The man in the moon is being encircled by three American men. The light of the lamp and the moon combine for Jhoti Ram's production of MAGIC ON CHRISTMAS EVE!

Naturally the kids are at the front of the circle of wayfarers watching. They sit cross-legged or rest on their haunches. Under the stark lamp light are piles of woods and twigs, stones threaded into bracelets, conch shells shining with brittle perfection, powders in jars, others wrapped in triangular pieces of paper. Then there are paper bags full of grasses. A collection of Krishna pictures is spread out on the white sheet bordered by red, seen under the dark night of stars and crescent moon. The brightest lights are in the eyes, never turning away, of men watching, watching as Jhoti Ram talks seated, emphatically sweeps with his arm, bangs his chest, points at a man, spreads his hands, talking, always talking.

Jhoti Ram is Father Christmas for me this year. He is giving his special performance of entrancement, presents, miracles contained in the earth's sticks and stones. Magic does exist - in India - on Christmas Eve. Jhoti Ram of the Joseph Stalin moustache, ear-ring ear and square face earns his living selling patent medicines, I see Jhoti Ram the bringer of hope and belief in the unknown on this one night of Christian wonder.

Christmas Eve. I sit down closer to Jhoti Ram beating the air with controlled smoothness. Not one pair of eyes move from his spellbinding.

He is mixing and cutting powders and twigs, sprinkling some of this bottle onto some of that bottle and Jai, jai, Sita Ram some of this very special powder. The hurricane lamp fades, Jhoti Ram has to hold his audience's attention without his formidable array of props, temporarily disappeared from sight while a man pumps at the hurricane lamp, tries to reachieve its stunning brightness.

He holds their attention. And mine. He is selling his elixir cures to the watching crowd. With all these different, beautiful in their wooden variety, woods and powders perhaps he is a real magician, a magic curer.

He is sympathetic enough to diagnose his audience's need for sincere drama. Jai, jai, he sweeps his hand suddenly up, his assistant has little packets of the just prepared powder ready. They're offering one rupee notes all round. Seems half the roadside crowd is buying, under a hidden moon. It lights the edges of clouds forming a bright canyon between dark masses, the sight is cold and distant. I hope it is not a sign the Americans have copped it, gone suddenly cold.

Jhoti Ram has dispensed the packets to the eager crowd. His assistant is talking, unconvincingly, sweat pouring down his temples. The crowd in the night drawn by the lamp continues to watch, their wide eyes show fascination for drama.

All over. The assistant fails to sell any powder. Jhoti Ram starts to pack up, still retaining the strong, life-wise face crowned with the walrus moustache.

I feel a joy. Two hours of entertainment, many people happier with their miracle tonic. Me? I have found my Father Christmas, quietly far from home Christmas has happened. I ask Jhoti Ram his name. 'Jhoti Ram', and a penetrating look.

Well, it's the first Christmas there's been people up there. The light from the hurricane lamp goes out, only the riding crescent of the moon lights us, an Indian and me, fellow Christians, our hands shake and thumbs give a special squeeze. On Christmas Eve brotherhood in the name of Christ.

Bhusawel, Maharastra, India, Dec 24, 1968

From The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon

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Tungabhadra

Where the sage Mahdavacharya
Contemplates the cool Tungabhadra
Waters caress the smooth rocks
Pools of light reflect blue mountains
Monkeys clamber high above in palms
Lost to the world of conflict.
The sage softly breathes greetings  -  Namaste
The pale light of morning awakens pilgrims,
In the inner temple chases away shadows.

Hampi, India


Namaste translates as Good Morning
but with a definite connotation of Blessings of the morning
which sense seems to have been lost in English

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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The Dalia Lama gathers
his thoughts at Hubli

Waiting at the train station deep in conversation
The Dalai Lama, god king of Tibet, sits in red robes
Attended by six of the finest of his young male accolytes
They, black close cropped hair, red robed for royalty
Await instructions as their master consults his guide
On their two faces are written the endless demands
Of forty years in exile from their land among the peaks
Of the mighty Himalayas, the soldiers came, he had to flee
To keep alight the flame of burning knowledge from the past.
The wheel ever turns, the cycles have been foretold
In his face a patience that someday he will return
To his land among the snows, the prayers are uttered
The oracles scrutinised, perhaps this year another gap
Will show where his thoughts may enter the mentality
Of his people long under the heavy yoke of oppression.
The cries of the suffering tormented souls allow no rest
On the train station the Dalai Lama contemplates his next move.

Hubli India

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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Night and day

It is the warm soft sand
And the lazy rolling waves
The first evening star, Venus
The constant racket of the crows
The long line of urchin palms
That announce you have arrived
At Colva.

When the light fades to orange
And the night comes, soft warm air
Sweeps along the miles of sand, sea breeze
To rest and calm you as you gaze
At brilliant white stars, familiar shapes
Tell you this is but one earth revolving
Through space, in its tropic parts life is
At its most profuse.

Crouched on the prow of his boat
The fisherman with jet black olive eyes
Stares at the man taking his photo
Gives a half smile of slight amusement.
The great ape of a shadow on the beach
Tells of a long journey from long ago
That began at this sea shore, stars fade
From view temporarily.

The moon goddess wears a silver crescent
Moves above and over you with desire
Staddling the world she demands caresses
Is wholly herself once opened up to shafts
Of probing energy, they ricochet about the head
An ethereal smile swathes her face, her crown
Glitters with white light, soft sighs encourage birth
And creation.

In the inner sanctum all is quiet
Dawn comes dispelling shadows from recesses
Light finds out correspondences slowly.
A glance into the eye of the sadhu finds response
Communion by the river, smooth rocks
Lead down to the gentle insistent roar
Of the waters leading on to a heavenly
Abundance and peace.

The three parallel stars of Orion's belt
Point upwards instead of sideways this far
South and east, but are still strangely known.
The star is almost nearby, Sirius the dog star,
From where will come the visitors? Waiting,
The world goes about its business searching exploring
Realising slowly there are hints all over the planet
Of previous visitations.

Goa and Hampi, India

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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The Devil's Own Country

A turn of that moon cycle to its dead certain end...
Wishing to escape the trap of satisfied desires
The parents leave their offspring, their godsend.
The worst has, will happen, in their children's eyes,
Out come the dark lurking imaginations
It is the devil's own country now, lost deserted!
That man, shadowed unreal but full of consternation
Appears, pulls unerringly on their already released forebodings.
In this his land the hatching beast of prey, Of despoliation, rides grinning on the dust driven plains.
A few short millennia ago the monsters expired but their mind stays
Forgotten, left over, a harbour of rejects, failed experiments, is the land.

Australia, two children go missing.

From New New World

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Interlude

The sun is shining through leaves as it rises.
Green gardens rest awakened.
Yellow beams light bedroom walls.
Old momentoes torn off the walls
Good bad.
We walk to the early morning river
She rests shining clear transparent
The people begin to wind up the day
Night of peacefulness becomes day of busyness.

From The conjunction of the sun and moon

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River Song

Very high is the river on this sun shining day.
Bubbles float to the surface, underwater grasses dance,
A boy and girl wade through the shallows by the shore,
Waters pour over the banks into waiting streams.

The banks of the river change, bulrushes, factories, boat houses,
Tugs and launches, pleasure steamers and speed boats
The surface is maroon, rippling, dappled, shining, waving,
Always reflecting willow trees and paddling ducks.

Each curve a surprise, each bridge a crown
River, flowing river, swelled to bursting with running waters,
Lapping chuckling, deep blue, light green grey.
Let the sun shine, away she stretches calm pure blue,
Your waters have seen time pass, strong flowing river

From The conjunction of the sun and moon

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Liberation Day

Curious how the words of the heroine in Room at the Top saying she wanted to remember the weekend of love with Laurence Harvey and so would not be smoking stayed with me and made their mark deep down inside to be recalled at some future time.

Hypnotised, thrown out into the streets I used to know before the weed got me I realise I have been released from a smoke-filled room which blurred the screen playing this incredibly rich sparkling movie before my eyes, where the sounds smells movements and thoughts are all impacting home with their former vigour.

The death sentence has been temporarily halted, health been given a chance to triumph, all those years the nicotine was gradually winning out and depleting energy that can now flood back out to these places I once knew.

By the river, easy breathing of the spring air leads past birds who casually fly on the breeze, It is so good to breathe again, and at the rugby fields of our youth, they run after the ball as happy as any pups at play feeling the fitness that's our real treasure.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

No Smoking Day 1999.

Thanks to Paul McKenna for the hypnotic end to the nicotine addiction.

Get his 'Quit Smoking - for Good' tape, save your life!

Try Amazon.co.uk to order, it's well worth the effort. This tape will change your life. Period.
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While you were away

While you were away in darkest gloom

The earth continued its neverending life
While you were away in your sad mind's tomb
The birds were flying, wheeling, squealing.

While you were away in bleak despair
The winter toughened with cold the living
Killing the dying, so as to repair
Damages inflicted on your body's soul.

While you were away seeking comfort
The trees dug deeper in the ground
In their bark were messages in concert
With the procession of the four seasons.

While you were away in sunked ground
The river flowed unceasing to the sea
Lost in your pain you only heard sounds
Of anguish, yet the waters lapped and purred.

While you were away kissing death's face
The seeds were slowly stirring in the soil
Every day as you looked for grace
The light poured from the great sun to the earth.

While you were away from love and joy
Your anguished sorrow wracked you
With falseness you tried sadness cover
The wise birds wait patiently for the spring.

While you away from warmth and rest
Your worries found no outlet into life
There is no room in the land of the blest
For cringing tearful dreams - the insanities.

From The conjunction of the sun and moon

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The singer of earth songs departs

He called himself Mayo because he was an orphan Unsure of what his name really was but the earth Was certain of his birth and of his allegiance to her, He could hear her soft songs in every part of the hills Where the wind from off the Atlantlic blew in strong. The seasons he knew, from the depth of winter To summer's height and every crevice inbetween. At the departure lounge each is called in their turn Cancers and operations rip out the flesh and leave Only the singing spirit which cries for freedom to fly Where it must, to waft in the air and land at any place That looks briefly inviting, before on an eddy a whim Takes hold and you are wafted somewhere else. The singer of the earth's songs has gone and none Knows what marvellous place he now beholds.

Patrick Mayo was long a regular at the Troubadour Coffee House, and died after falling down some stairs in 1998. He sang some of my own poems having set them to music. A lovely man.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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The lure of the open country

We have stayed long enough in these woods Their dense packing together provides cover But out there in the beyond are wide open plains Tall grasses wave in the freedom of the wind Birds dart through the sky exultant in movement The scent of new places and excitements is carried along So we will move out and away and take our chances Fleet of foot, wary of attack but keen to explore What is away over that distant horizon, another country. High up in the trees we saw more still of how distant Hills rolled on before us, there is no limit to our ambitions We could proceed onwards heading north and west Using the stars as our guide, seeking out fresh pastures Unimaginable sights, the delicacies of fruits untasted, The stirring calls of previously unheard voices in the dark The forests offer closeness and comfort but the lure Of the open plains cannot be resisted forever. From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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The lake at high summer

It is so quiet the splash of the black rook In the lake waters is the only sound heard. At high summer the dried powder leaves In the sunlit woods crunch underfoot The debris of yesterday is turning to dust Former enemies are chanted out as the people Decide to vote for a different future At the lake a memorial chair lays claim To 'play up, play up and play the game'. At which point two young dogs lap Through the lake waters ready for all Life can throw at them, the hot baking sun Casts light into shadow and all fears Have nowhere left to hide under blue skies.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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Proposition for Union

Dear love it is only as the flower grows old heads
Towards the certain end that it stands there in final
Wonder, pure in its full burst of life, leaves already shed.

For most it is a long hard journey to the tomb above
The rotting body before they achieve the still calm
In graveyard of night purple sky remembered by their love.

And yet when at sunset hour we gladly remove
The tired dirty clothes passing for us beneath is virgin flesh
Unsullied by harm as is Mona Lisa in the Louvre.

The waters rise at the source, fed by rains they flow
Building greater and greater on the way towards the goal
Until in a torrent flood they sweep along yes and no.

Night can never know the morning, it fades until
What was the dark becomes the light, only joined by time
Which is measure of their connection not their common thrill.

There is no end, only unveilings of the grime
Separating light from glory, the union always was
To willingly drown in eternity takes time.

The galaxies are swimming sperm in a vast womb
Of dark stuff, bodies lie rotting in fertile soil
All we are asked is to embrace the light. It seems our tomb.

From The conjunction of the sun and moon.
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Girl from Snatchwood

Cry tears of anguish, cry tears of remorse
Cry your heart to waking vigilance of the course
Of your life, now you discover you have not loved
All those years with him, so you were heavily cuffed
With blows of vengeance for your secret harbouring
Of self containment, with tears you are labouring
To unload guilt, in the making of love you froze,
Had no wish to enter waking not doze
Your dreams of freedom unentangled in love's hand.
Your tears fall freely numerous, the ocean's sand,
Great tides gush streaming through you, leave you clean and whole.
What a task it is to love and not play roles.

From The conjunction of the sun and moon.
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The Dalai Lama in the Peace Garden

Tibetan flags waved by English schoolchildren Greet the Dalai Lama at the new peace garden In the War Museum across from St George's cathedral. He draws the crowd to him with his warmth. Bombers high in the sky head for Serbia To rain death on the country from above Unseen and unheard till it is too late With a whoosh and a roar the bombs explode. The young Serb fled in guilt at his crime To Greece where they immediately sensed his need. He looked uneasily about, murder leaves The mind in a state of continuous ferment. 'The British and Americans will come,' The old Greek warned the young Serb. There is no going back when retribution Screams for a restoration of peace.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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Ducklings

Three months bring transformation In March the amphibians watch goggle eyed From their watery world as they mate Staring up at the sky while in their element. April sees the spawn begin to stir Alongwith the trees and the grasses At the pond's side, warmth brings The beginnings of life along with light. Maytime is teeming with the seeds Grown into life forms, ducks gather In the ever taller grasses of the pond Selecting a chosen nesting site. Out of sight, out of harm's way The nest produces June's brood The mother duck calls them with a hoot Into view one after another they tumble. Seven ducklings scampering On the face of the water Perfectly at home in the sunshine air Of a place called Earth.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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Ice Majesty

Dancing in an underworld club to soul
Cold clear ice face, lucid sharp eyes, cool hair
And fair she is, shakes her belly, the music rolls
In time to the announcements of despair.
We come towards each other in this place
Her soft curving breasts shake with the might
Of the ice clearly defined on her face,
Her browned fair body shines with sweat tonight
She is ample curves offers rest for his body
Charging with stacatto energy, lost
But for her in the gloom, the rhapsody
Of flesh caught in music as we are hosts
To the aspiring dreams of men beating arousal.
There is a heaviness about the club,
She dances shaking not retreating
From crowning position he is shouting
To himself at flesh capering before him.
Ice brings her so near yet a little
Remains distant, her flesh is as a whore's
But her mind is clear of blood and spittle
Glaciers purified her, she is hot
Belly curved as the top of her legs
Comfort for hands seeking the tender spot
Where the heart of wonder resides, he begs
Her answering flesh for honey, the flesh
Returns the honey, her ice mind observes
The exchange, her soul she will not enmesh
In trivial dalliances, ice pure her majesty she conserves.

From The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon

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Return

The bleeps
Bleep bleep
Are coming,
Bleep bleep
From the moon.

Twenty five
Twenty four
Twenty three
Counting down
To touchdown

The bleeps bleep
Out of the open windows
Through a warm summer evening
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep

Man's voice
Is coming from the other side of the moon
Stop still!
Bleep bleep bleep
The whole world is frozen still
By a voice from outer space
We are gone outside ourselves!
Bleep bleep bleep
From outer space
Across inimagined distance
Man's voice calls
Bleep bleep
"Eagle has landed"
On the satellite of planet earth
Part of a solar system to the sun star
In a galaxy
In a constellation of galaxies
Within one world
After more worlds

Still is this road
Activity is ceaselessly repeating
Into frozen still worlds
Of bodies of nebulae
Connected by unseen space
Sounding outside

Bleep bleep bleep bleep
Alone on the edge of the ink universe
Man's voice calls.

Before
Touchdown
He is in command.
After
Setdown
Rooted in relativity
On the Sea of Tranquility
Alarmed for time and place
Outside in space
He calls
From the far side of the new crescent moon
Amid the clouds of sunset
Whispy white
He freezes life
Into the pattern
Of eternal existence.

Bleep bleep bleep bleep

Pulsing
Stars
Universes
Constellations
Galaxies
Vast conglomerations
Within configurations
Bursting nowhere
Inwards
Outwards.

Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep

You hadn't realised
You didn't know
On with the show
Begin at the beginning
The stars are the ending
Returning
Backwards
Towards
Infinite light white bright sight
Might be soon
On the moon
From there to where?

Bleep bleep bleep
Part of us

The moon returns to where it was
In other orders
Before the beginning
Return to the ending
Stepping forwards
To enter back
To previous existence
Existing all the while
Man takes his first timid step
After feeling giddy on coming back
Into the reality of....
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep
Bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep bleep

....

The Apollo 11 moon landing, July 20 1969

From The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon

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Apollo 11 returns to earth

A heart dark within
A slow slight flame
Beyond



Beyond the men return to dark seas
Washing planet earth
Around in perpetual motion.
Slowly a world reduces in focus
To the flickering herald
Of a red light on a tall tower
Set above the patterns of light
Spread to the darkness surrounding hills
Of London.
The cast sky of secret violets
Dark purples, wisps of lilac clouds.
Below the soft curves
Of trees and grass
Quietly breathing.

The prime of summer
Perfect leaf growing out of a rough tree trunk
A spire on the light lit sky
Surrounded by yet surmounting
The darkly thriving unguent trees.

The flame within the heart of man
Will be fanned
Into the stunning brightness of sunshine.
It will take from earth's rich moisture
Its promptings
Its constellations
Waiting to be viewed.

The wind lightly blows
The lights of the city
The unknown arrangements
The curved body of trees
In bunches.

The waiting implantation
Will come from man.
The dark rich earth
Above the curiously coloured sky.
The unseen ornate drapery of the
Tree branches
Caught by the city's backwash glow on the sky.

The flame flickers
The substance is there.

The humidity
The breeding millions of germane cells
Waving into each other's form
Unformed material living
Time honoured ways.

A church steeple points clearly to the sky
The tree sap, the gushing flow of life
Rolls gently onward on the comfortable ground.
The giant tower with red flashing light
Points obstinately upwards
The spire spears through to the heavens.

The flame is city night lights
Tiny dots
In solid black buildings.
Returning at night
Man from beyond

To strive
To civilise
The dark secret earth
To set direction
The spires are all set upwards
A little electricity
Soon the fire will be alight.

The return of Apollo 11 to planet Earth, July 23 1969

From The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon

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The cascade

I knew I needed cold open hills
What it was - trudging free not thrills
Fording swampy bogs in bare feet
In search of when all shall be sweet,
Wondering walking away from who weep
Cold blasting wind, neighing shag sheep.
To restore my self with its parts
The running streams, bare stone, bird darts.
Roaring the water gushed over crags
Downwards to the goal, a rocky way.
Savage furious on it pounds, spirit never sags
The power is all, the life must flow, cannot lay
In stagnant pools of sucking mud, the tags
Of plastic the world reveres, or so they say.


The Lake District, England

From The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon

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Welcome back traveller

The route back is almost but not quite forgotten Treading down tracks that have altered with the years But not so much has changed in your long absence These trees are still tall, strong , long lasting The fragrances of the grasses and flowers blow carelessly Where they will, removed from traffic pollution, heady stuff You marvel at the returning scents of your youth When the world was so vividly alive, fresh and free Wandering from one surprise to the next, welcoming discovery. All this is here, alive and well, while you have been away Exploring dreams and ambitions, lost to the adventure That is the natural world, and this world welcomes you back. Your returning tread on these dusty paths is heard again Your stride has the measured feel of one who has trod the globe And now knows the wonders of creation in every part Here marvel has never been missing and glories as much as it ever did Welcome back traveller, refresh your spirit awhile where the old tracks join.

From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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The heavens weep for you

The heavens weep, they weep for you Out of threatening sky comes the rain Deluging the streets we strode long ago When exploring our new world of joy. 'Why not? why not try for what you will?' Dare to be who you are. So much knowledge So many links going back so far in time Only at critical junctions may we meet Discuss what has gone and what is to be Sitting in the departure lounge of life Surrounded by statues and high art Not guessing this was to be the last time Before you were puffed out, victim Of the nicotine addiction that seemed so trivial Long ago when we were in the first flush Of life and all its infinite possibilities.


From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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Maturing

In August, striped wasps appear, hover on the pink rose flowers
The balmy month, heavy with scents of magic in coloured bowers
Of plants' stupendous growth. Trees become heavy with autumn soon
To drop their load to the waiting ground. Up till now expecting the boon
The earth simmers and sighs for the long promised seeds
The world is linked with soft sensual longing like a string of beads
One event leads to the next. What was long ago decided
For this heaven sent month appears, what all along resided
In the eternal heart of life can now spring forth in massive profusion.
The slowing turning earth, its enterprises, surprises, the sudden confusion
Of whirlabout turnabout is finally ended, the fruit thickly clusters
In the dark luxuriant green, the speeding high clouds bear their load, muster
The final vital forces for the grand confrontation. Every god thing
Is reaching for its goal, the birds are more leisurely as they deftly sing
In the intertwining branches of the ancient tree of life. I let a sigh
Glide to the open firmament where meeting reply there will be no goodbye.
Joining together the perfect, the young, sweet August prepares the glory
Of nature's long unrelenting work. Written now is the happy finishing story.

From The Conjunction of the Sun and Moon

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Flying

Bald eagle feather left, he goes from the West
To the East, finds nothing to unduly disturb.
The West has founded its new religions
He goes back to the old order to consider.
'You may only fly when you have no fear,'
He declares, unconcerned, seeing everything.
He leaves presents, tells of experiments
Where men fly into the heavens astrally.
He is passing through, leaving messages
Faint records of his progresss, what is his purpose?
What does he hope to find in the East?
He has the cool calm look on every occasion.
Has he flown? He does not say, he is going
Saying slowly there is no objectivity
A mind brings preconceptions to the world
It is a work on ourselves to begin with
But only a preparation for what's to come.

How many fears do you carry?
How soon will you turn back flummoxed, flustered?
Beyond they have more time to wait
Since they live only in time not by time.
We can at least go out there voluntarily
Cannot expect an effusive welcome
Who will go? Who will stay?
Who will return when they arrive at space cities?
Towers gleaming, growth flourishing, crazed emotions all killed.
'When you have conquered all fears, you may fly.'

Chuck, a visitor from San Francisco on his way to India. From Home

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The traveller returns

The traveller returns at midnight
The tiny garden wafts white flowers' fragrances
In the cooling wind whispering in the tree leaves.
It is better than he remembers and the house
: Is multi-passaged, deep, recessed, embracing.
The child peacefully sleeps
The wife anxiously queries him
He has changed.
Nights by firefly swamps
A swing eerily ridden by the night ocean
Tall treed forests
Overgrown wastes
Strange towns
All these have been his resting places
His bed is comforting
Old difficulties peel to reveal
A long resting vision crying out for flesh.

Return from America From Home

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The Framework of the City

The bush is weighed down with red berries
At the house where we first made love.
And I am trekking through the twisting city
Seeing old signposts which all point differently.
I am moving from one existence to another
And another; the link between them unguessed.
I wear the city like a home, many homes
And at each old part of my self, become that self
Think how the passing of time has made it strange
But still these windows and doors and colours combine
They wrap themselves inside me, or one me, or an old me.

The present is only a link between one place and another
The stops are too sudden and too short, we are all off again.
I often come back to the river which follows its course
But mine is a journey criss-crossing itself
And at the intersections I am forced to think
How it looked the last time I came through.
The seasons too come and go, fitfully, one minute
It is windy and cold and I am waiting for the summer,
In the summer I am thinking of other lands in the sun
The autumn always comes too quickly in England,
You are left thinking of a few leisured days.
In the very early spring comes the old urging in the cold.
I am back where I started in the occasional snow
Wondering why this bush has so many red berries
Thinking it all has some meaning, significance
And the train to the future is leaving without me.

From Another world

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Greenness

If I had to find you one colour
It would be a green,
Wet green like the hill above the river
Fringed by keepsakes.
All those past achievements had a start
In the flooding of the year
When talk is easier of that casting out
We sometimes will try
Searching for a new land to anchor
All those buried hopes.

it would be green as the thrusting bulbs
Going for broke in the sun
Resisting the ravages of cold
Making a challenge
Leaving aside the steady decay
Of those other years.
It is good having battered against soft flesh
Knocked on every door
To be welcomed at the last gasp
And shown a fresh bed of earth
Where the sun begins its millennial work.

From Another world

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The stars back home

'You can reach out and touch the stars back home'. The aborigine sits in London's Covent Garden playing the sounds Of northern Queensland, animals shrill into the night, The husky earth keeps up its breathing, throbbing with desire. The pace accelerates as day comes and the animals sing A different tune, always close to the earth and its ways. While the didgeridoo mimics them with perfect uncanny ease. The Pleiades, 'those six stars in a cluster', he sees very clearly, 'The Southern Cross, you don't have that here.' No, nor stars as bright. It takes years in the open country to restore the lustre to our vision And gaze upon what is there but which cannot be seen by those Who would deny their roots and their heritage. Since we have crossed whole oceans, and continents, on our way Let us pause now and think back on what wonders we have seen And what miracles will come to pass in the near future. At the great gathering under the stars on a beach where all the nations Of the earth sing in harmony and attract the universe's blessings.


A 34 year old aborigine visiting London as part of his European tour, 1999. From Galactic Federation Dispatches

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Pure energy

Juice strength, sap taste
I needed a full breakfast
Before I talk of food and waste.

The joy of the day is in the eating
The flock of sheep is bleating
For plain nourishment, not cheating.

Pure holysome fresh gruel
To stoke our mind with nature's fuel
The juice sweet of an orange over our tongue flew.

Work is to produce bounty from earth
The roots dig, the leaves swell with mirth
Abundance always dwells in the world's girth

Tainted dry bitter insipid stuff
Your yellow tongues swollen and rough Without it you die, with it you putrify
It is life which leaves for dead the flesh
How can carcase compare with apple fresh?

The purity of cow milk, white silk food
Sweet curd, rich cream, to suit your mood Succulent dates, parsnips and pods rude

To give love is to give food whole
The riddle of growth, nothing to solve
Always perfect the plants thrive, jive at us moles.

In the soil is mixed growth and decay
The unseen sun lures life to light of day
Only the pure go, those with decay stay
Underground.

Crisp stalks, luscious leaves, green pea
The fruit is hanging on every tree
In the autumn harvest of fertility

Without a care or woe the foods grow
Nourishment is joy to bodies fallen low
In the dark ground they await a green hello.

There is the winter of our earthly time
For rest relax reserve, a gathering rhyme
Of all the goodness in the earth!

From The Sphere of the Moon Goddess

India, shortly after a famine.

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The dead of night

A great sea turtle was dying.

All its life it had known the dark existence of hidden depths.
Now as life ebbed away the creature felt the final
stirrings of aspirations. Towards the dry land and shining moon it
moved until deep in the night it lay dead on the sand of the shore.
A great weight of plate and cold jelly flesh washed by the lapping sea.

By the light of the March moon - the light that had attracted the innermost essence of the turtle -
a man wandering with his faces saw the dark shape lying there.
An eerie blubbery eye that did not move in the straight ahead face.

Man found the turtle. What the creature sensed as its final goal,

the perfection of evolution, in which process she was merely an early marker.


At first awed, then exploring, the man heaved the heavy shell and prodded the cold flesh.

Until satisfied the creature was dead.


But did the creature live to see the reflected light of the moon?


Colva Beach, Goa, India

From The Sphere of the Moon Goddess

There are now attempts to protect turtles laying their eggs along this beach, the 4th longest in the world.

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Emily Beauchamp

Oh, I'm sitting with a banjo
A banjo on my knee
And I'll be up in heaven
By the time you count to three.

Once there was a war
A very long war.
'Bang, bang, you're dead!' we said
'Let's go up the park.'

'I remember you in a playpen,
leaning through to pick the raspberries,'

In the summer
The garden was lovely.

Two rooms, big and rather dark
Putting together things for a home
'When the ship comes sailing in
You'll get to meet your dad.'

This is our room, the rest of the house is hers
The garden is for the dog
And cat to play
The weatherman has come out with a raincoat.

Cavernous rooms, like an old baronial hall
She is the last of her line
The Beauchamps from Normandy
Are not to be anymore.

'Poor mite, growing up in a war torn world,
Take what you can, rebuild
The years change everything
If you want them to.'

She married Bill in the old church
When he was seventy
Emily's line was come to an end
Bill was dead, Emily was dead
After passing on what she could.

'Be kind, be happy, believe in people.'
The war took away her men
And so her children.
'Be thankful you got away with your life.'

Flowers in the garden
It is again summer
Sweet little rock n roller
She was only sixteen.
Once.

You're soon dead. Isn't it a joke?
'Have a drink, have a drink
Have a drink on me,
Everybody have a drink on me
Emily Beauchamp is gone
And you won't see her kind again.

'I was reading my horoscope
And knew you would come.'
The two rooms were ours
In the big baronial hall
Life is a banquet
And if you're not invited to the feast - gatecrash
Life is very simple.

From Another world

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The New Age

Twenty five revolutions of the sun!
The seeds are all sown.
What shall be from what has been.
The long stalemate between
My wishes, their expectations
Resolved.

Irresistibly, compulsively
I was drawn to the continent - old - of India,
On this birthday
After the darkest night of the Hindu Year
I have intimations.

Six twenty five.
The rising sun beams
Filtering through trees
Falling on a desk of wood in the open
Birds cooing cawing carouselling.
It has all been prepared...till now.

The mightiest mountain masses
Divide the old from the new East
For five months I have travelled
Up and down, in and out
Of the proud Himalayas,
Among the peoples and tribes
Of so old India
Of Afghanistan, Kashmir, Pakistan, Nepal,
The Pathans, the Guchhi, the Ladakhi,
The Hindus, the Moslems,
The Chinese, the Tibetans, the man from Burma,
The Buddhists, the Christians.

Soon all is to change
In this land India
The civilisation that has grown and sown the seeds.

The waiting is no more
Across the land masses the old
Gives inexorably way
To the new, the fresh
The buds of new man
New civilisation
From forest to savannah, from cave to slave, from monarch and peasant
To bourgeois, to democrat, to new man.

Slowly the scale and slime of time
Is shaken loose
The cinder of ages moves towards the sea
The choked mass of burnt out flame slides across the land
Falls off cliffs, flops into the ebbing flowing ocean.
The land smarts in the sunshine, breathes
it is so good to breath again.

The growth begins, the land a fertile green.
Everywhere different, everywhere the same
Old growth stunts in the wilderness
Of the swirling maelstroms.

At every corner of the sea the plants thrive
Burst towards the sun.
The seeds flew to the antipodes and poles
Nothing is as it seemed.
Past glories rehearsals for this staggering
Display of life, trooping of the colour,
The true, the beautiful, the real, is.

Some islands were expected to have the seed.
Britain yes, but America thrives exultant,
Australia, Switzerland and Japan
The tip of Africa, the peninsula of old Indo-China

The land of the tao, the sage,
People's revolution, China
There the seeds have been sown
The hugest lands of Russia
Show slow their steady growth.
On a birthday, a new world.

We always knew it was so
Anything is possible
Only our dreams too small
Man is born anew.
From India the seeds thrown
Have blown, grown.
They grow and grow and grow.

From The Sphere of the Moon Goddess

Beas, the Punjab, India.

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Goodbye

You do not know how the feather came to earth
The colours shine and glow, tell of noble birth
With such line and grace and light it must be of the sky
You know there are nobler lands than those that meet the eye.

You know and will not tell, cannot remember in fire of hell
Escape in the lake's quiet, feel the waters swell
All around the faces look with praeternatural glow
On your voyage of discovery more and more will show.

Higher and higher into the sky beyond this side
How you look is how you see the ever flowing tide
Love is the beginning, the end, the dreams mend
your broken hopes, the wealth you foolishly spend.

As long as you want, every vanity to destroy
An age upon an age is a drop, a moment's ploy.
What comes at the end is what was begun in the beginning
Love is who you are, you know, should be singing.

And yet you creep about with the slugs in the mire
Till one day, a feather left, evaporated desire.

From The Sphere of the Moon Goddess

Beas, the Punjab, India.

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