The Place Where You Forget Your Name

When you go to the place where you forget your name,
You lay down your sword, you lay down your blame.
You lay down your memory, you lay down your game,
When you go to the place where you forget your name.

When you go to the pace where you find your sight,
You no longer see in terms of darkness and light.
You no longer see in terms of wrong and right,
When you go to the place where you find your sight.

When you go to the place where you meet your soul,
There are no longer parts, there’s only the whole.
There’s no victory, no failure, there’s only the goal,
When you go to the place where you meet your soul.

When you go to the place where you forget your name,
There’s no way to return to from where you came.
Nothing has changed, yet nothing’s the same…
When you go the place where you forget your name!

Please Hand the Devil His Walking Stick

Well, he used to be bad, he used to be lit,
The life of the party, the ultimate wit.
I’d always fall for the same old schtick,
Please hand the devil his walking stick.

Bedecked as he was in diamonds and pearls,
With his circle of the best looking boys and girls.
Always irresistible and oh so slick;
Please hand the devil his walking stick.

And if you were one of the lucky few,
You knew you’d always be skipping the queue.
Should things get tight, he’d be there in a tick;
Just hand the devil his walking stick.

I was always jealous of his sure-fire technique,
But there’s some kind of dent in the old mystique.
When I’d try to catch up he was always too quick,
Please hand the devil his walking stick!

We used to run together every day of the week;
He was always obsessed with his perfect physique.
Now he’s ragged and thin as an old toothpick,
Please hand the devil his walking stick.

Came by the other day when I wasn’t home,
Came back again when I was all alone.
I couldn’t resist him one swift kick;
Please hand the devil his walking stick!

For such a long time we were best of friends,
But all good friendships come to an end.
Finally called his bluff and gave him the flick…
Someone hand the devil his walking stick!

The Demon Slayer’s Lot

all through the night,
slaying demons mercilessly;
the demon slayer’s lot!

upwind of bad luck;
when fleeing the dogs of war,
old wolves lie low

back at the siege camp,
the swineherd and the maiden;
if pigs could fly

in life as in death,
God’s mercy knows no limits;
the unravelling noose

beneath the cloak of misery,
the sole hope of the hopeless
shows its face…

Cartographic whimsy>

“Bulla Ki Jana Main Kaun”
by Bulleh Shah
Transliteration and translation:

Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
Bulleya who knows who I am

Na main momin vich maseetaan
Na main vich kufar diyan reetaan
Na main paakaan vich paleetaan
Na main moosa na firown

Not a believer inside the mosque, am I
Nor a pagan disciple of false rites
Not the pure amongst the impure
Neither Moses, nor the Pharaoh
Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
Bulleya who knows who I am

Na main andar ved kitaabaan
Na vich bhangaan na sharaabaan
Na vich rindaan masat kharaabaan
Na vich jaagan na vich saun

Not in the holy Vedas, am I
Nor in opium, neither in wine
Not in the drunkard’s intoxicated craze
Neither awake, nor in a sleeping daze

Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
Bulleya! who knows who I am

Na vich shaadi na ghamnaaki
Na main vich paleeti paaki
Na main aabi na main khaki
Na main aatish na main paun

In happiness nor in sorrow, am I
Neither clean, nor a filthy mire
Not from water, nor from earth
Neither fire, nor from air, is my birth
Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
Bulleya! who knows who I am

Na main arabi na lahori
Na main hindi shehar nagauri
Na hindu na turak peshawri
Na main rehnda vich nadaun

Not an Arab, nor Lahori
Neither Hindi, nor Nagauri
Hindu, Turk, nor Peshawari
Nor do I live in Nadaun
Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
Bullah who knows who I am

Na main bheth mazhab da paaya
Ne main aadam havva jaaya
Na main apna naam dharaaya
Na vich baitthan na vich bhaun

Secrets of religion, I have not known
From Adam and Eve, I am not born
I am not the name I assume
Not in stillness, nor on the move
Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
Bulleya who knows who I am

Avval aakhir aap nu jaana
Na koi dooja hor pehchaana
Maethon hor na koi siyaana
Bulla! ooh khadda hai kaun

I am the first, I am the last
None other, have I ever known
I am the wisest of them all
Bulleh! do I stand alone?

Bulleya Ki jaana main Kaun
O Bulla! Who knows who I am?

from a tree a petal falls
an owl moves rightwards

One form of inspiration I have often referred to is to take a line from Shakespeare, to contemplate on it and then write a poem around it. The first such poem I will post here proceeds from Henry VI Part 3; “My crown is in my heart, not on my head; not deck’d with diamonds and Indian stones; Not to be seen. My crown is call’d content; A crown it is that seldom kings enjoy.” The title comes from an Irish jig.

Apples in Winter

I’ll bring you apples in winter, kisses in spring,
Bouquets of lavender and wreaths for your hair.
I’ll bring you songs that celebrate midsummer’s fling,
And content will be the crown I wear.

I’ll bring you apples in winter as crisp as snow,
With two strong arms and legs to bear.
I’ll bring you laughter and joy and friendship to grow,
And content will be the crown I wear.

I’ll bring you apples in winter, both tart and sweet;
Red, gold and green, should you ever despair.
I’ll bring you fire at midnight to make you complete,
And content will be the crown I wear.

I’ll bring you apples in winter and kisses in spring,
The fruits of high summer and autumn so spare.
I’ll bring you bouquets and banquets, the envy of kings,
And content will be the crown I wear.

Persig, in Zen, wrote about a writing student who was blocked most badly. He (iirc) said go write about the library…still blocked….go write about the library wall…still blocked….ok, go write about one brick in the library wall…and that worked. Shakespeare more fine muse.

Tennyson> https://www.poetryfoundation.org/poems/45392/ulysses

Speaking of airplanes… 😉   (That’s a Newhart gag)

Guantanamera:

Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
Guantanamera, guajira guantanamera
(chorus **)
I am a sincere man
From where the palm grows
And before dying I want
To release my verses from my soul
**
Don’t put me in the dark
To die like a traitor
I am good and like a good man
I’ll die with my face in the sunlight
**
With the poor people of the earth
I want to place my luck
The stream of the mountain ranges
Pleases me more than the sea
**
The leopard has a shelter
In his dry and brown mountain
I have more than the leopard
Because I have a good friend
**

Rumpole of the Bailey, introduced to us by dear Mr P

Rumpole of the Bailey and Tennyson’s “Ulysses”

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
Push off, and sitting well in order smite
The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds
To sail beyond the sunset, and the baths
Of all the western stars, until I die.
It may be that the gulfs will wash us down:
It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles,
And see the great Achilles, whom we knew.
Tho’ much is taken, much abides; and tho’
We are not now that strength which in old days
Mov’d earth and heaven, that which we are, we are:
One equal temper of heroic hearts,
Made weak by time and fate, but strong in will
To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

by Alfred, Lord Tennyson, “Ulysses”

Kabhi Kisiko Maqammal Jahan Nahin milta
Gazhal written by Nida Fazli
Playback Singer – Bhupinder
Music by Khayyam
Movie/Album – Ahista Ahista (October, 1981)

Nor public flame, nor private, dares to shine;
Nor human spark is left, nor glimpse divine!
Lo! thy dread empire, Chaos! is restored;
Light dies before thy uncreating word:
Thy hand, great Anarch! lets the curtain fall;
And universal darkness buries all.

– from ‘The Dunciad’ by Alexander Pope

“lori lori my lorika
(my grandmother my grandmother)
don’t call me sebr, my jina
(patience and peace of my life)
tu diheli li ber chaven min
(you melt before my eyes)
çerem naye ji support min
(ı can’t help it)

https://sozluk.memurlar.net/konu/lori-lori/

This life is precious. Every experience takes us further along the path toward understanding of our place in life and of our own unique destiny and path. Truth becomes ever more sublime as we submit to the healing power of divine love, as we “let go and let God”.

Silent Gifts

silent gifts
passing unnoticed,
while we’re scratching
our heads, wondering;
“what the hell just happened?”

silent gifts,
too many to count,
when we’re cursing
our fate, thinking;
“what have I done to deserve this!”

silent gifts,
when we’re hankering
after something that
doesn’t belong to us,
and is better left untouched

silent gifts,
when we’re being
petty, and ignorant and vain,
and looking for the blame
at some other address

silent gifts,
when the final pigeon
has just come home to roost
and we finally realise
what an ass we’ve been

silent gifts,
when we’ve forgiven
everyone else involved,
and we finally
forgive ourselves…

Thank so much, Sudhi. It’s an unassuming poem yet its message bears repeating. We have the choice of being either our own best friend or worst enemy, yet it’s surprising how often we choose the latter, if only because the Being or Force whose task it is to keep Soul moribund and ineffectual is so effective in Its rule of this world. By and large, Soul is left to Its own devices and must make the commitment to walk the spiritual path of Its own volition, yet when It does Its fortunes take a turn for the better. A line from Episode 3 of the excellent series, “Shogun”, [https://movies7.to/tv/shogun2-jw2l2/1-3], uttered by the protagonist Toranaga to his impatient son comes to mind; “When will you understand? You are playing a game of friends and enemies, when you have only yourself in this life”. Toranaga’s advice to his son explains the importance of self-reliance, but there is another very important part of the equation that the father leaves unspoken being that when Soul applies Its creativity to the problems of life, the Great Spirit steps in to take up the slack, and so enables miracles to occur. So how do we tap the great mystery of life known as the subtle yet very real line of communication between Divine Spirit and Soul? The first thing to understand is that Soul is an individuation of Divine Spirit, ie; Soul is made of the very same substance as Divine Spirit and hence It inherently has the power to know, be and see. Further, Its destiny is to become a co-worker with the Spiritual Hierarchy and this is done simply by doing all in the name of Divine Spirit, in the name of Divine Love, in doing whatever we can on a daily basis to consciously further the Divine Cause. This all begins with self forgiveness which enables Soul to step out from beneath the burden of guilt which the Negative Force imposes upon It (which is nothing more than Soul’s karmic burden). To this end, I’d like to share a story that came my way;

A horseman was riding along a road and far up ahead, he sees something lying smack in the middle of the road so he approaches and sees it’s a little sparrow and it’s lying on its back. He says, “Are you hurt?” The little sparrow says, “No”. The rider asks, “Well, then why are you lying on your back like that for?” The little bird says, “Well, I heard the sky’s going to fall today.” The horseman laughs, and says, “Why that’s foolish. Do you think you could hold up the whole sky with your spindly little legs?” And the little bird says, “One does what one can.” And that’s how it is with all of us. We’re drawing on this creative element within us and doing what we can, the best we can, one day at a time.

Ural rowan tree:

Chinese version:

No matter how deep a secret is
you cannot hide it
A real face or a fake face tells
exactly what’s hidden in the heart

Fragrance in flowers
and love in a heart
can never be hidden
Tears flowing from the eyes
often times dry the fire

Then the guard of silence
can’t control the emotions
A real face or a fake face tells
exactly what’s hidden in the heart

People do a lot of things
to keep their heart happy
They change their looks
to be someone else for the world

Look at your faded face
in the mirror of your heart
A real or fake face tells exactly
what’s hidden in the heart

Now don’t try to fake it to me
as I’ve recognized you
I know for a fact that
you’re deeper than the ocean

The one who’s hiding something evil
in their heart cannot survive
A real face or a fake face tells
exactly what’s hidden in the heart

Remember, we had one of these> Old timey!

see poster art > https://art-for-a-change.com/LBJ/LBJ.htm

1968 Ward Kimball >

Such old timey art does seem to carry along with the times in which we live, and might inspire some new… 😉

Geewhiz ahwish ahda known ladies these when ah was young fella…Viva Cuba y Fidel!

The painting in the video is: Dance of the Majos at the Banks of Manzanares by Francisco Goya
Original Title: ‘El baile a orillas del Manzanares’
Date: 1777
Style: Romanticism
https://www.contemporary-art.org/Oil-Painting/Dance-of-the-Majos-at-the-Banks-of-Manzanares-Works-13372.html

The Song of the Wayfarer

The valley is wide, the desert dry,
The ocean deep and mountain high.
It’s said there’s a land on the other side;
I’ve been given a horse and told to ride!

The days are hot, the nights are cold,
I’ve forsaken my friends and my home of old.
It’s said there’s a place where I’ll be consoled;
I’ve been given directions and a cloak of gold.

The journey is long, the journey is far,
The dangers are many and deep are the scars.
They say there’s a Lord who must be redressed,
But hides his face from the one who is blessed.

There’s a cry in the wilderness year after year,
That only the faithful may know and may hear.
And the heart that is steadfast, firm and true
Will no longer want and will always make do.

“The turning seasons have honed thy skill,
The way it has narrowed and is narrowing still.
I say there’s a secret that heals the rift,
All who would love must return the gift!”

The valley is wide and the deserts dry,
The oceans deep and the mountains high.
They say there’s a world beyond the sky…
I’ve been given wings and told to fly.

“Ghazaliyat”
by Khajeh Shamseddin Mohammad
Hafiz Shirazi

Morning breeze, its fragrance will exhale
The old world will once again youthfully sail.
Tulip will bring a red cup to the meadows
Narcissus’ eyes from poppy will grow pale.
When would nightingale put up with such abuse
In the chamber of the rose cry and wail.
I traded the temple for the tavern, fault me not
Prayer is long and stale, time is frail.
Leave not joy of the now till the morrow
Who can vouch that the morrow, the now shall trail?
Month of Sha’aban put not down the jug of wine
Till the end of Ramadan you’ll miss this Holy Grail.
Hold dear all the flowers and commune
Came to be and will whither with a breeze or a gale.
This feast is for friends, O minstrel, play and sing
Sing again, it came thus and went thus, to what avail?
Hafiz, for your sake, entered this tale
Walk with him, say farewell, he’ll tear the veil.

weep not for loss but
give thanks for the gift of life;
a world built on sand

This tired life, is in the flood of age,
With a full cup, it began this outrage.
Wake up, and see the carrier of time
Slowly, carry you along passage of time.

– RUBAIYAT (verse 20)

A new challenge everyday
You keep away and delay;
When I act to close the gap
Fate says there is a bigger play.

– RUBAIYAT (verse 7)

O friend, from your foes
your heart should be released.
Confer with those you know,
and open your heart to please.
Enjoy the pleasant company
with the good wine and ease.
And from the ignorant fleas,
flee like the breeze.
– Hafiz Shirazi

https://musicaandina2011.blogspot.com/2012/08/virgenes-del-sol.html?m=1
O Sun, whith a radiant glow,
Light up my nation!
Bereft, in sad loneliness.

Make my beloved come back now.
Everything is is loneliness,
in this my sad heart.

Come, oh my sweet dear,
with my love I swore
without you I die.

The atmosphere at Crocus City Hall … the song “Cranes” plays.

People can’t hold back their tears.

(short vid clip)

https://t.me/VA_Nikonov/23975

defeat and victory
in every silent footfall –
the looming summit

The Cup of Life

Come hither, wanderers, with hearts bereft,
And drink from the Cup of Life, again;
The crow has packed up its tent and left,
And the lion is in the lion’s den.

None are denied that fulsome draught,
Not fevered youth, not palsied age.
Restitutive tears, cried and laughed,
Must be replenished, and so assuaged.

Come raise that Cup and drink at length,
It matters not wherefore thou art;
Whether you wax or wane in strength,
Whether you caught or threw the dart.

Raise your fallen eyes, my friend,
And drink from the Cup extended to thee;
That God may have you in the end,
So all that comes to pass must be.

Drain thy Cup to the very last drop,
And give thanks for the gift of life each day.
And when you reach your mountaintop,
All pain and limitation will fade away!

Drink from the Cup and become wise men,
O, broken hearted wanderers, all;
Drink from the Cup again and again…
That you may hear God’s whisper and heed His call!

30 03 2024

He is Risen! Happy Easter …

===================

Easter 2024 in the Holy Land: a holiday marked by Palestinian Christian sorrow

Serial poster here … 😉

b at MoA has posted his annual theme … ‘Let’s Go For A Easter Walk’

It’s lovely …

https://www.moonofalabama.org/2024/03/easter-walk.html#more

The Soul

The Soul is not a tangible thing,
It loves to play and dance and sing.
It leaves Its trace upon the face,
And fills the heart with endless grace.

The Soul is like the rarest of birds,
One in whom the Word has stirred;
Each day It sheds Its cloak at dawn
And flies to the Source of the Reed forlorn.

The Soul has no colour, no creed or race,
Is older than time and deeper than space.
Dwells in an Ocean where Gods convene,
And Spirit responds to all that It dreams!

The Soul It moves to Its own silent beat,
It follows Its heart and trusts Its feet;
In concert with Life and all that It meets,
Knows when to advance and when to retreat.

The Soul is not a tangible thing,
It loves to play and dance and sing.
It fills the heart with endless grace,
And is the light in every face.

The games we play,
And the price we pay…

I Find Myself

I find myself in moments when
I think of how I loved you then.
Of why we had to let it go,
And curse my bitter stars and woe.

We were so much younger then,
Yet to learn to count to ten.
It’s how it was when things went well,
And how it was when things were hell.

Looking into each other’s eyes,
Trying our bodies on for size.
The things we said and the things we meant,
The things we wanted and the way it went.

How I’d fawn and beg and seek,
And want your love when I was weak;
How you’d play and string me along
And scorn my love when you were strong.

Now we live different lives,
With different husbands and different wives.
In different seasons and hemispheres,
With different secrets for different ears…

I find myself in moments when
I think of how I loved you then.
Of why we had to let it go,
And curse my bitter stars and woe.

The Lord of Karma

The Lord of Karma is imposing and tall.
He speaks with an accent from his days

on Earth, when his family were councillors
to Ghengis Khan. Keeping decrees secret,

that power may always remain one step
ahead of consequence. His baritone is

rich and sonorous and used to great effect.
His oratory skills are renowned both wide

and far. Few dare challenge the Lord of
Karma, except when he’s called upon to

pass judgement on individuals or bodies
higher up than himself. As above, so below!

When considering judgement of another,
ask yourself, where does the buck stop?

It’s a hung jury. What will the Lord of
Karma decide? His choice. His skin.

When We Lose Our Way

clouds roll in dramatically from
the east obscuring the sun

that old resting spot by the river,
dismantled and gone

swallows over the Sahara –
falling like flies into nothingness

a rising wind brings with it
drops of welcome rain

the moon turns red before
disappearing entirely

an attacking army, its
banners finally in disarray

the sadness in a child’s eyes can at any
moment become happiness – and do!

the journey to one place
ends in another place

the way is infinitely more interesting
when we lose ourselves

when we lose our way and forget
where we wanted to get to

and go with the way
that’s opened up!

the sadness in a child’s eyes can at any
moment become happiness – and does!

The Politician

Traded in my father’s plough,
Found a way to milk that cow.

Traded in my old tired mule,
Now my horse is super cool.

Traded in my old blind dog,
Now I have a barking frog.

Traded in my old fried voice,
Now my coach’s name is Joyce.

Traded in my worn out face,
Now I’m the picture of blooming grace.

Traded in my ‘pound o’ strife’,
Now I have a trophy wife.

Traded in my eyes of blue,
Now I have a yacht or two.

I sop my bread in the fat of the land,
And people pay to kiss my hand!

I used to stand at four-foot-two;
Now I work on foreign coups!

I’ll take my chances on a one-way bet,
And play dumb when it’s time to pay my debt:

Sometimes I hear the old fool now;
“First grow the tree then shake the bough!”

“All men are corrupt”, he used to say.
“What gains the thief if king for a day?”

earth is for the meek,
heaven is for the bold
and courageous

The Cliffhanger

High up above the valley below,
The cliffhanger hangs on fingers and toes.

The sun on his face, the wind in his hair,
His heart held aloft beyond all despair.

He’s come here to heal, away from the crowd,
To scale the sheer stone and cry out aloud.

Love laughs in the day, rejoices in light,
But grows in a bed of pain by night!

High up above, the valley below,
The cliffhanger hangs on fingers and toes;

The wind in his hair, the sun on his face,
His heart held aloft in the gentlest embrace.

The Morning Star

Come wake up, my darling, it’s time to depart,
Yesterday’s dreams have broken apart;
With anguish afoot and despair on its heels,
Come let us partake of one last meal!

Come rise up my love, give thanks for the day,
Let’s gather our things and be on our way;
Drink this sweet water; our well ‘tis nigh empty,
Our journey is long with dangers aplenty.

Down by the shore the boatman awaits,
The water is wide; his skills are first rate;
In some other land we’ll seek our true fate,
The way is prepared so let’s not be late!

How the morning star shines in the sky so clear,
How my heart sings whenever you’re near;
Give thanks where it’s due and say your goodbyes,
Adventure awaits your brightening eyes!

Come wake up, my darling, it’s time to leave;
Yesterday’s dreams cannot be retrieved.
With anguish upon us and despair to arrive…
If we stay here we will not survive!

Our Love Is A Secret

Our love is a secret.
This way of being we
have cannot be explained.

We communicate without
words; a nod of the head,

sign language, whatever
the occasion calls for.

Thank God, you exist!
Otherwise, there would
be no purpose to existence!

what you want and what
you get; you never know until
you take it home

Just Because the Devil Says Boo!

Down is up and up is down,
When the devil is in town.
Good is bad and bad is good,
When the devil’s in the ‘hood.

I lost my friend down Reno way,
Found my heaven late in the day;
She was the girl he left behind,
The devil he laughed, but I paid no mind.

She was sweet and kind, a bit headstrong at first,
I was rambling and blind and dying of thirst.
She took me in and she let me stay –
The devil locked out for many a day!

But wrong is right and right is wrong,
When the devil tags along.
And loss is win and win is loss,
When the devil is your boss.

She thought she knew what was best for us all
Took the devil in hand, said, ‘Now youre small.’
All Hell broke loose but she just didnt care,
As she showed that Devil a bigger pair!

Now the Devil displaying his ruthless guile
Knew better than to risk a woman’s wile.
Said, “Tell you what, let’s call it a truce!”;
Devil’s white flag turned out to be “deuce”…

Now, mouse is man and man is mouse
When the devil is in your house,
‘Cause small is big and big is small
When the devil’s ten feet tall.

But fibs ain’t truth and truth ain’t fibs
Just because the devil calls dibs,
And true ain’t false and false ain’t true
Just because the Devil says “Boo!”

Love is a Smoke Made with the Fume of Sighs

Lovers concur that love is a smoke,
Made with the fume of sighs.
It twists and it curls and hangs in the air
Until it eventually dies.

Lovers attest that love is a plume
Fed by infernal fires,
Destined to fade and to go the way
Of all unnatural desires.

Lovers agree that love is a fog
That smothers and puts down the will.
Where angels and demons fight to prevail
Over the soul fo the kill.

Lovers contend that love is a mist,
A paradise lost and regained;
A malodorous tale of deceit and betrayal
Whose purpose is never explained.

Love, to lovers, is a will-o-the-wisp,
Fair and faint and oft perfumed;
Yet fire, to which we slowly submit
Until we’re finally consumed!

The casual reader may ask, “In the previous lines, he states ‘love is a smoke made with the fume of sighs’, and here he extolls love as the ‘be-all, end-all of everything’… but of course, the answer lies in the matter of states of consciousness. The nature of human love is entirely different to that of Divine Love, the former is selfish, or, if not always, selfish, takes into account the self and its interests “somewhere in the chain of effects”, while Divine Love does not. The Lover of God has, ideally, placed every aspect of his welfare and being in God’s hands. This isn’t to say that he does not have selfish concerns, he does, but he knows how to separate himself from these…

Make Love Thy Master

soul cannot be bound
up in fear and worry and
expect to be free

do not fear pain for
God is taking away that
which you no longer need

as the sun must shine
and the bird sing, so too
must man love

make love thy master, for
love is God and whosoever
loves shall find God

soul dwells beyond time
and space in that nameless world
ye know as God

little grasshopper,
running before it can hop –
practice makes perfect

Dear Dimitar … thank you for your poems … they lift our spirits and remind us that there is life … beyond war and its horrors …

Blessings …

AHH … so thankful you had some quality time with family … your note on toddlers stirs memories …

Thank you, cronetoo, you are most welcome.

The Old People’s Home

the old people’s home;
an aviary of curious
cockatiels

poked and prodded;
a fate worse than animals,
and yet merciful

cloudy with a chance
of meatballs; mush for breakfast
lunch and dinner

the unruly guest;
Aha! the Pope has come to visit –
nice teeth!

silent sunlight,
the only way out is death;
fallen white pigeon

beneath the Norfolk island pines;
bittersweet slivers
of a life once lived

20 04 2024

The Greater Seer

naked and alone,
a newborn babe fending
for itself

a year and a day;
waves of that which used to be
slowly fade away

unknown to but a few;
“the leader of all priests”
gently nudging us on

in every face,
in every thing, in all of life
is he the divine seed

time and the eagle,
the lion and bear, all bow
in deference to thee

recognising and
accepting the presence within;
the greater seer

20 04 2024

Mr. P …

I found this for you especially … hope you enjoy …

a man is not
defeated by external
circumstances, but by
ignorance of the laws of life

the diamond
to the thief
is anathema

you can take the fool
out of folly, but never folly
out of the fool

you shall know the
pretender by the strangeness
of his speech and manner

no stratagem
devised by man’s mind can
pierce the armour of love

fortune favours
the bold, and never
the weak or hesitant

slander and mockery
is a guard for the market
of love and a cleaner
of it’s dirt

man has always sought
distance from the world
and at the same time hated
being that far from it

Russel, iirc, told among many this story, which reveals his character as a boy, imho.

Just a kid hitch-hiking around the city looking to find some marijuana…what? 16? and got a ride from two deviate sadistic perverts. These bad men had been kidnapping and torturing and raping their victims to death… Of course Russel didn’t know this at the moment…he sat in the back seat of the car…they said “y’all wanna go to a party?”

His suspicions and intuition snapped … and in an instant he had a nice sharp Buck knife against the driver’s throat. “You can let me out here, motherphucker”

Later on he found out who they were.

(fwiw I too as a kid, not looking for pot, felt the hair raise upon such “offers” about “parties” (and did not get in the car!) ..and v. Luckner relates a similar story from his time in Hawaii as a common sailor, tells of a nice man, a taylor who offered to fit a new set of clothes for free, at his digs… in a rich house…going along to the rural place, and noticing a severed human thumb on the window sill…from such “ordinary” tales ah suspicion there are way too many sadistic perverts. That said, it’s treatable, eh? 😉 )

I too always carried a knife as a young fella, and often a revolver in my kit. So did many people…they didn’t wave them around though. Father’s suggestion, learned from fightin’ th’ Bowery gangs a million years ago.

Bless the martyrs

This ought to be Mrs Bentley’s appeal to the Czar…bless her.

https://theduran.locals.com/post/5554531/appeal-of-the-victim-lyudmila-bentley-in-the-case-of-disappearance-of-her-lawful-husband-russell-b

I have not the skills to separate the video from the hosting person’s place.

The video of Russel and the fellas playin’ in the studio made me cry.

Best! P

Further to Mr P’s sharing above, at around the age of 20, I found myself in the situation of having to hitchhike from the most southern city in Australia, Melbourne to the Far North Coast of New South Wales, a distance of around just under 2000 km. Having made it through the first leg of the journey to Sydney by late evening of the first day, I spent the night (cannot remember where, some 40 odd years ago now,) but bright and early the next morning, having caught a train to the outskirts of the northern Sydney suburbs I found myself standing on the side of the famed Pacific Highway, bright and bushytailed, with my thumb out and ‘hoping for the best’.

A dark coloured station wagon pulls up and a rather sizeable fellow askes where I’m heading. I tell him, he invites me in, saying “I am travelling to Newcastle, and can take you there”, (about 100 kms up the road). I felt some apprehension as I entered his vehicle but engaged in the small talk that casually ensued. As the journey progressed, he told me that he was an Aussie expat who was now a US citizen and by profession, a Wrestler in the US. He explained that his specialty was tag-team wrestling, and that the gimmick he and his partner used was that they presented themselves as Gay. A mean pair of gay muthas you might say. Near the end of the journey he made a veiled pass in my direction (being more of an androgynous than your obvious alpha male, esp. in those days when long hair was the go), which I refused as gracefully as I could being definitely inclined toward the fairer sex, he nevertheless did not like the rebuff and I noticed an uncomfortable silence, thinking to myself, “What have I gotten myself into here?”

Shortly, he told me that his exit was approaching., but what if, “I was to take you on this detour and murder you? How could you stop me?” He continued in a cool but threatening tone, looking over at me for effect. I shot back, without thinking too much, ” I happen to have spiritual protection, and any such overture in that direction would result in disastrous consequences for you, in spite of what may happen to me.” Something in my tone set him back, and I detected a visible reaction, followed by silence. I can no longer remember where the conversation then went, in thrall of the adrenalin within at that point as I was, while repeating a spiritually charged word inwardly over and over. After an uncomforable silence he tried to lighten the mood, and assumed his former faux friendly tone, saying “Well, I had ypou therer for a minute didn’t I?” before letting me out. Ah, the follies of youth.

This post goes out to Sudhi, whom we haven’t seen here at The Cornucopia for a while. Sudhi, I hope you’re well, we’re missing you here, please drop by to say hello, let us know you’re well if you happen by. This exchange was from the Moveable Feast Cafe, @ Saker, circa Oct. ’21.

A Poem from Sudhi, and one from myself in reply.

In the dense silences between
the efforts towards wisdom

In the spaces in between
Time and unsuitable time

In the eyes vision of
our shining hearts

In the flights of limitless thoughts
let us make a conjecture in time

In this purposeful imagination
the mysterious can now be seen

In between our varying times, the
unseen celestial dance of our souls

Time

Time is neither good nor bad,
But thinking makes it so.
When we’re happy it moves too fast,
And when we’re sad, oh so slow.

Time is neither cruel nor kind,
But faithless to the very last.
We strut our stuff upon the stage
Until our fretful hour’s passed.

Time is neither friend nor foe,
But consigns to each the perfect part.
It marks the acts and the passing show,
And serves to advance the player’s art.