Life (unfortunately?) is not a linear progression of continual transcendence.
We loop-the-loop in periodic cycles whose zenith
Is the acquisition of higher consciousness given as grace or guidance,
And whose nadir is the sacrificial ordeal of the redemption of lower consciousness
And the gift of initiation.
A catalyst kicks it off, a season of the soul.
Looking back I can reflect ‘that was the period of my life when..’
How did that one begin? What started the wheel to spin?
We were on a roll, a spark ignited, something fired the imagination,
And we got caught on the rising tide, the movement of transformation.
The ‘New Age’ is largely a solar cult, fashioned from sunny California.
The sparkle of spiritual images from the commodity capital of Hollywood.
Bought in the marketplace we must make them our own,
Bringing image together with shadow to become real,
Find what is uniquely ours from all the ideas that appeal.
A calling turns us inward, beyond the public domain.
What got us kudos was not enough, the outward expression is flagging.
What was once professed we must now confess we know not where it came from.
And we ask in declining days of summer if we might humble ourselves to listen
and accept the lessons of the guiding ones.
Grace is the gift of those who have stopped seeking or struggling.
Outward confidence becomes the inner ability to confide in oneself.
Something nudges us from our certainty and calls into question
The mission we thought we were on.
Sweet season of touching the future self where it’s already all been done.
A crisis takes us full circumstance, opposite where we began.
We must enter the underworld embrace and allow an understanding.
Every aspect of ourselves wants to be accounted for and included.
The stretch in ourselves as we remind ourselves of the light while in the shadows.
It is the shamanic ordeal to use these tools for transformation.
And in that said period of your life, wasn’t there the determination,
To break several cycles of similar fate to gain an initiation?
The gift you receive becomes your service to see where others are caught.
What gold did you uncover? The rhythm and pulse of life discovered.
Seasons of the soul beyond which realization is sought.
~ Tony French 1998
Thomas undertook a radical revision of his life.
His life he felt to be a fiction unread by most men.
By ‘most men’ he reckoned anyone unacquainted with strife.
With strife at his roots, is there anyone who could not understand,
Not understand more than a superficial gloss or first glance?
“First glances won’t tell a thing about me”, he declared.
He declared to himself a radical revision the only chance,
The only chance to be read where the level of fact was bared.
Was bared and naked of fictions the place where he’d see?
He’d see if the answer was to be found at the roots.
The roots were where no words could capture such truth.
Such truth was not the various versions of him it suits…
“It ‘suits’ of others, yes!” he said, “but not of me.
Of me they know so little. Deep at my core is pain.
Is pain and strife the ‘fact’ of my deep enquiry?
Deep enquiry then is at least a form of vision I gain.”
I gainsay you’ll guess the insight that occurred to Thomas.
To Thomas was given a gift when indeed he saw again.
A gain begotten when the light of awareness is on us.
On us the onus to clear the path of our life of the slain.
The slain are the dead-eyed men we see ourselves as,
Ourselves as lonely and unwitnessed by others at the core.
The core in truth has always possessed the light that it has.
It has been covered by a fear that it’s only ourselves that we saw.
We saw that without others loneliness seems to win.
To win new eyes to see we must give up one more view.
More view in fact that to see only ourselves here is to sin.
To sin is to see the ‘I’ and not become the ‘Eye’ that’s all of you.
Knew that sensation of being under and down
Shedding light skin rubbed smudged bunching dull edges
Infinitude left in the moment carries right right the way down
Inner thighs the bruised breath the head rests near the bevel
Undone beneath brow ridge the eye suns in the sundown
Cast arcs reaching far past the cave where heart gauges
Thumps fear beats the loudest the darkest is down
Prise prison til lengthen the sentence lies down
Narrow scent sent long long hallways serious sound
Check echoes of memory the trail follows the ground down
Shoulders relay it follows rolling train of the serpentine spine
Phantom arms yearn for knowledge from every ledge down
No hips hold such blood vesselled in delicate harbour
Sorrow shifts levels tails ripples in destinies down
Marrow and morrow and endless days laying down
Subterranean terrors near carefully sharpened sense
Eyes are streaming dreams in the darkened way down
Shutters of shadows flashing light waves listing in rhymes
Borrowed burrowed furrowed the body smoothes it down
The groove grows the road ploughs rows tossed in dust
Childhead turns in undertows mid time laid down
30 – 11 – 10
Apple night the quiet young moon is dead.
Splash splash on the windowsill shows where she bled.
With wind on the lake the warmth of the land
Will curl and unfurl mist over the sand.
In starlight the child might sleep through the dream.
An owl flies by but nothing is seen.
My murder has happened a long time ago.
See here it was there that I felt the first blow.
A very rare fear
Make bear hide half a year,
Hibe burn nate ting in dark of his cave.
Scar rred by this fate
In lair bare but for hair,
Lies the bear head hear ring him bear rate.
Hear him bare his bear soul
Hate of self for the fear most,
Lost to whol worl dark goes in his mind.
Bury in side his bear hide
Feel here hole in his side,
Paws and sole of his feet same dull ache.
Have hurt seep ping at best
Home call him take king a rest,
Fear not I wont hunt you I am one of your kind.
Death is but a blink of day,
An eyelid of the night.
It only happens on the surface of things.
Deep within, life goes on.
Rolled up into rhyme
Flocks of greedy
Whorls in wonderland
No gotten gains
4 – 02 – 07