Terra Incognita

 

Beyond the shores of illusion

of the surreal objective manifestation

the most diaphanous shade

wanders speaking in tongues

 

The meat of him a penumbra

no amnion or membrane

to contain him, dissipate

with only telepathic friends

 

A gossamer existence

no cause nor effect

a simple white tsalmaveth descending

ever, the celestial staircase

 

A shade standing always

just behind the living

and pointing them direct to the sun

a pillar of salt, deserted

 

Dancing all the limbo

without any bars

no hurdles, no gaols

in the vast austerity of Cosmos

 

No maps here

no lonely planet guide

just a subtle melange of spice

an entheogen for his own apotheosis

 

The beneficent  Mahātmā

who pyres his Soul

henceforth walking the tides

of all humanity, forever

 

The subtle olfactory body

his Atmic vehicle

extends far beyond continua

sniffing at all the winds in creation

 

Searching ever the treasure chest

to uncover the purpose

hidden on tropical isles

for his last peroration

 

Beyond the shores of illusion

of the surreal objective manifestation

the most diaphanous shade

wanders speaking only in tongues

 

 

Which no one else can understand… …

Margin

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

in its blind surety

always too busy to think

think, things through

its clever and cunning

brings only cataracts

and sudden sink holes

 

always glossing over

dependent upon

immediacy and desire.

it sees not the margin

at the edge of the page

where the truth is written

 

hens in a coop

they coo, chatter and cluck

as the spirit

silently passes them by;

no knock on the door

which they might hear

 

pecking in the mud

always for more corn

and the winter’s eggs

lie unsullied in the hay

and soon, there is nothing

for them to brood upon

 

in the tranquil margin

the water reeds bow

as the spirit plays his flute

softly amongst them

and the warm wind fades

into the cold of night

 

there in the margin

the ghost, the sprite

an ephemera, even a man

waits for an aeon

for a sensitivity which

never, ever comes

 

a turbulent river

meanders ever towards

the delta of death

trying to forget

all the rocks of reasons

with which it scoured the world

 

Waiting for Annwn

Hiding beyond the tangible edges

a secret ninja writes runic beginning

borne by the postman’s bat like wings

as fate impregnates the future’s concubine

 

The winged feet of Hermes

pitter patter in the nursery

to resolve the racemate

on one hand this, on the other that

 

The silent swish of parachutes

harbingers of some noumenon

full of swirling nativity

for which there is no crib sheet

 

The monkey puzzle tree

ever enigmatic clothed in stealth

that no radar might ping it coming

a creative Creole dish now simmering

 

Steaming slowly from out the fissure

of days yet to find dawn

the Dragon’s breath it breathes

its misty nascent magic on the land

 

The spectre rides pterodactyls

the pigeons of the past

with a pod of secrets coded

which no cipher can

 

The hush of Awen exhales

acorns of potential

scrambled in the eggs

which need first to break

 

The omelette of tomorrow

yet unfolded in its pan

which the pipers play

too far from ears

 

The pregnancy of now

has not taken full hold

the purpose ectopic

what chance the embryonic path?     

 

An incoming alphabet of letters swirl

in the tea ceremony

to the beat of a bristle brush

stretched on the rack of Raku glaze

 

The unbearable wait of pendant

hangs head bowing heavy

around the neck of how

and of what and of where

 

The sergeant cries incoming

into all the shell like ears

all hairs stand at attention

creased sharp between the shoulder blades

 

Formless yet still shaping

a first hint of substance

itches itself out the prime

and scratches scale to weigh the order

 

The swings and roundabouts

turn wind in the playground

waiting for the break

through all the children’s laughter

 

Hiding beyond the tangible edges

a secret ninja writes runic beginnings

borne by the postman’s bat like wings

as fate impregnates the future’s concubine

Off the Edge of the World

in the world of

couldn’t possibly be

there are rules

…inviolate

 

they do not countenance

remnants and ghosts

faint echoes from another

dimension

 

it’s a sphere

don’t you know

people don’t just fall

off the edge of the world

 

the disappeared

and the vanished

are in the news

still haunting

 

the void, the space

inexplicable

unacceptable

 

and then one fine day

he too

fell off the edge of the world

On the Other Side

This morning I have been pondering on what happens when one redacts someone from a narrative. No matter how well spun subsequently, there are tell tale signs, phantom signs, of the intentional omission.

———————————————————

when all their talking

‘tis finally done

peace for him

if not them?

 

unsolvable

despite all the stirring

no solution

suspended

 

a glitch

an upended hiatus

an anomalous man

who cannot be fitted

 

a rogue narrative

now crumpled in

the wastepaper bin

discussed ad infinitum

 

that is all he was

a rejected chapter

a struck-out verse

a remnant

 

the unfinished

cannot now close

for the space,

the vacuum

 

the void of

where he was

unavoidable

somehow

 

a strange ripple

unease amongst

all those dominoes

stacked so close

The Gap Between Worlds

same planet

different worlds

and in between

a chasm, an uncrossable abyss

 

a quantum portal

quivers insubstantial

binding them

a thread, a nebulous string

 

your reality

and mine

divergent narratives

writ invisible, in cipher

 

somehow connected

entangled

in a future

not yet nascent or becoming

 

modes of beingness

not subject

to the same physics

a should, a rigorous ought

 

written italic

of opposite slant

even in the mirror

I have no reflection

 

incomprehensible

my imaginary plane

does not commute

or compute

 

…the gap between worlds.