The Resuscitation Garden

He feels like he hadn’t noticed he was dying.
All this bad news: a plague, a disease, a virus.
Hospitalized, quarantined, forced into hibernation.
Down to the ‘essentials’, bedded down, on life support.
Fixated on the cellphone, the laptop, the ‘news’.
How are the vital signs, the stats, the numbers?
Imprisoned in this prism, this hall of mirrors and lies.
There’s been flowers of course, new input into the garden.
Seeds become seedlings, pot-plants flowering, harvesting.
Surrounded by beauty, he dreams lazily on this deathbed.
He’s not really allowed to see anyone, but they come,
Keeping their distance, respectful silences and smalltalk.
His body aches, strains to hear the doctors in the hall.
Whispering, conspiring, working hard on his behalf.
He shouldn’t bother them, but he grows anxious listening.
‘Infection rate, chance of dying, no resuscitation order.’
Seems like there’s no coming back to life.
Friends at a distance, no hugs, no touch, a mask on.
Apparently there’s new orders and visit restrictions.
The roads are emptying, it’s every man for himself.
Some refute, they mock, drinking in the halls of their friends.
But at Calvary Hospital the chimney at the morgue is smoking.
He gasps for breath but his lungs heave and burn.
He calls for the doctor, why am I abandoned!
But the doctor is busy, the nurse comes, holds his hand.
In the distance the crows crowd and cackle on the hill.
He is pinned, machines beep, then there is no beeping.
The nurses take his body into the garden.
They wrap him in long cloths after his body is washed.
The light lingers over the body of Christ.
He is lifted and welcomed into the place
Where new seeds lay asleep in the garden.

10-4-2020

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Of Purple Dreams (inspired by ‘Purple Dreams’ video by Murat Sayginer)

Be bathed in purple.
An eggtimer wheels through the lights.
The God in his element in the sea of being.
The Christ stands with cool and warm.

(Blue and Red make Purple).
At the end of the arcade, the arbour of maidens,
Markers of the Aquarian age
Sits a Buddha.

And so we go inside Him, our kaleidoscopic being.
And find the key, warm or cool, on the Tree of Staghorn.
Here is the Diamond Point of clarity.
If up is out, and down is in,
And an eggtimer marks gravity’s spin,
What would come forth from our imagination?

A slippery fish supplants time, the purple sea churns as
Everything else ‘outside’ spins, and red and blue, cool and warm
Become purple, become mellow, and the Third Eye light comes on
Within an incarnation in the universal age.

Inside my mind is installed the Purple Dream.
The figures of man, stag, keys, and diamond are withdrawn,
The transmission flickers for an instant,
And the Black Hole is driven in.

Heard My First

Heard my first Christmas song today,
You need not know where.

Here we go again! Into the tinsel, the tacky,
The shiveringly weird and wacky

Father Xmas show comes to town again!
Starring third-world slave-made tinsel-crapola,

Weird adolescent adult idiots running around
With red noses and brown plastic antlers on,

The word ‘Christmas’ (Christmas! Christmas!)
Coming at you from every direction (Buy! Buy!)

Buy your friends, buy them with tinsel and crap
Made in China. Let the little ones suck on shit

Full of colouring and ‘flavour’ (ing!)
Ring the bells of commerce! Ring ring!

Ring the merry bells,
Cash registers register-ing

A massive Bling!
Angels weeping.