From time to time a poem

Learn from your experiences throughout your past.
Look at your reflection in the looking glass.
Be the one to look for when life is bleak.
The bold, the true, the peaceful, for others to seek.
In service you grow, from works you know, which path, from here, to go.
Focus, knowledge and wisdom show, which path, from here, to go.

There once was a Great Jedi named Alex,
Who would emphasise text with italics,
With a drowsy head,
He went off to bed,
And led to his subconscious dream palace.

Please Hear What I'm Not Saying


Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that's second nature with me,
but don't be fooled,
for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command
and that I need no one,
but don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
and I know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
from my own self-built prison walls,
from the barriers I so painstakingly erect.
It's the only thing that will assure me
of what I can't assure myself,
that I'm really worth something.
But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
will not be followed by love.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me,
that you'll laugh, and your laugh would kill me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing
and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without
and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's really nothing,
and nothing of what's everything,
of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I'm saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,
what I'd like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can't say.

I don't like hiding.
I don't like playing superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
but you've got to help me.
You've got to hold out your hand
even when that's the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes
the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
each time you try to understand because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings--
very small wings,
very feeble wings,
but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling
you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator--
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to.

Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me the blinder I may strike back.
It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man
often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls
with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and I am every woman you meet.

Charles C. Finn
September 1966

The Pinhole and the Shutter

The pinhole and the shutter
Press her into stills and frames
She tarried here a while,
Now another wears her name

Two lovers in the graveyard
As the cherries end their bloom
Each promise kept, ungiven
Due reward, the prize, consumed

Those dayless memories fail us
Dogeared by each passing hand
Fingers smudging out the faces
Of a woman, of a man

The spidery script disguises
All the webs it could not weave
She is going now; she whispers
"My condolences", and leaves.

As always, not poetry.. but here it is..

I did not know this place was here, the cavern under the cathedral.. I stand at the edge, toes almost at the drop, and stare down into the blackness, the light from the oil lamps reflecting only on the marble at the edge, but nothing deeper.

Breath held, I listen… silence, but the small flickering flames… nothing below stirs, or moves, or breathes.

He makes his presence known, not seen but felt, the quiet inner strength that grows curiosity and wings with which to fly.

I heard it then, a whisper, barely audible, perhaps heard within rather than with my ears, but it was there.. it said my hidden name.

Decision! I had made it, his presence had been growing but greatest now, inflating my soul and spreading my wings wide.

At the edge of the cavern I bowed to the light and bade it farewell, diving into the deep pool of darkness.
As I went deeper and deeper it felt like I was ascending up into another plane, another place and I realised it was the absence of fear. Here in the darkness was freedom and trust and strength, and it was all mine.

And what was at the bottom of the cavern? I cannot possibly say!

Not poetry... but nowhere else that fits...

The safety of the sanctum… the warmth of the darkness envelopes…

I call his name and sense the presence once more… instinctively I turn around and he is there.. blonde hair, dark eyes and a knowing smile.

He greets me, and takes seat on a bench… but I cannot sit.. out into the room I walk, turn around, then return.. pacing…

“What’s wrong” he asks…

“I don’t know what I am”.. I stop.. hoping for the answer…

He smiles, “your focus is wrong.”

“Why?”

“Look at this room… it exists but it doesn’t… it has limits and yet, it is limitless… but you are not concerned over what ‘it’ is.. it simply is and you accept it for all that it is.”

I sit on the marble floor, bringing my legs up to my chest as I take in his words… I am aware suddenly of both the enormity and the apparent smallness of the room… He says nothing, looking around absent mindedly while I think, playing with the button on his sleeve, the rings on his fingers.

“I am simply me… no other definition required” I say finally.. the words sounding oddly loud for once against the silence.

He smiles, standing… and walks away, back into the darkness.

Visions

Grace of silence from a special place
Distant lands hold her smiling face
Knightly armor on a heart so true
Cuts the skin ‘till it’s black and blue

Eyes of magic casting for a look
Sacred thoughts of her open book
Voice of wonder as it hits my ear
Sings a song of a truth so dear

Soul of a blackbird's feathered wings
Takes its flight with the song it sings
Winds of change flowing down the trail
Blows her leaves with their open sail

Watch with faith of a timeless sight
Stars of the belt guiding through the night
Dreams of a love mirrored in the source
Steer it steady as to stay on course

- G. E. Marrs (2016)

More writing... still not poetry.... perhaps I should find somewhere else to put this... we'll see...

The sun sits high in the sky, no clouds and no shadow. I walk towards the pyramid, the hot sand overflowing my sandals at each step. Stopping, I stand in remembrance… I was here before, long ago… I remember the presences, but my guide from the cathedral is not here, not in this place, this is not his kingdom.

The ruins of the temple remain, the low walls marking its outline but the alters and statues gone except fragments long buried. It is not the temple that calls me, it is the pyramid… its sides long lost their golden shell but its impressiveness not diminished… still marking the landscape as a place of direction to the gods.

I walk the steps to the opening, it is dark in the passage, and narrow… no fear however, and I sense someone, though there is only silence within.
I cannot see but still I know the way, feeling my hands along the stone as the path is illuminated in my memory… deeper down I go until I am beneath the structure itself. Careful, each step careful.

Then light, flickering, a rushlight no doubt.. I head towards it to the chamber. In the time before the chamber was filled with adherents all on their knees, bowing to his divinity. Their voices had recited prayers I had not understood, but still I had knelt and joined them then, though another voice had told me to go. I would not leave this time I knew, Ptah had been my teacher but he had gone from the temple outside, no more lessons to be had in the burning sun.

Through the doorway I went into the chamber… the smell, dry but sweet, brought a rush of emotion and memory causing me to pause a moment. On the far wall his grand throne still stood but it was empty and I wondered for a second whether I had misunderstood, perhaps I had misheard the call? Slowly I approached and I had a sudden urge to sit on it, reaching out to the arm and feeling the surprisingly cold stone under my fingers. I leant forward slightly only to hear a low laugh behind me. I turned to face the other doorway to my right, opposite which the throne sat. In the time before a man had guarded this doorway, a tall staff in his right hand, the keeper of the inner sanctum… but he was gone also, and in his place stood Set

He had asked to me leave the last time I had been here, telling me I was not ready… I wondered where the others had gone, had they been ready or merely his worshippers? He smiled as he heard my thoughts… “All things in their time.”

Moving before him I realised that he was not as imposing as I had remembered; I could sense the power emanating from him, not of strength (though it was clear he was strong) but of will… “It too is yours to possess…”

Kneeling before him had felt right before, but now it felt as though it may be odd… I did not feel to be the adherent now, the worshipper, but the student, and even perhaps, closer to his equal. That thought felt blasphemous, but he only smiled.

He stood aside, opening the corridor to me that I had been denied before and pointed into it. “Where does it go?” I asked, peering down and seeing only more darkness beyond the faint glow of the rushlights.

“The same place all paths lead.”

The End of Days

The cycle of pain has now ended
It is what was intended
No more pain
No more stealing of energy
To gain
Forgiveness only
No more assault
No more left to be
Lonely
Exalt
Only
A peaceful plane of existence left
It was always there
Underneath
Peace, love, harmony
Connection to God
We constantly
Seek
If pain resurfaces
Breathe IN
Breathe OUT
Release
Shout now
Only For joy
Feel only peace
Become free
Filled only with love
Co-operation
A Sense of Rejuvenation
Freedom to be the true you
Freedom To ultimately
Be Me
Free
At last
Now letting go
Of the past
Moving into the now
This is the moment that counts
The present moment
Of existence
Filled with assistance
From on high
Lessons relearned now
Stop
Look
Listen
Be still
Connect
Empty
Then Fill
With light
Create now with all your conscious might
No more fights
Lesson remembered now
Teach
Only do what's right
Share
Strip the negativity bare
Naked
Cover now
Only with light
Divine being
Express
Delight!
_{© Gabrielle Bowen}

BUDDHA AT KAMAKURA

"And there is a Japanese idol at Kamakura"

Oh ye who tread the Narrow Way
By Tophet-flare to Judgment Day,
Be gentle when the "heathen" pray
To Buddha at Kamakura!


To him the Way, the Law, Apart,
Whom Maya held beneath her heart,
Ananda's Lord the Bodhisat,
The Buddha of Kamakura.


For though he neither burns nor sees,
Nor hears ye thank your Deities,
Ye have not sinned with such as these,
His children at Kamakura;


Yet spare us still the Western joke
When joss-sticks turn to scented smoke
The little sins of little folk
That worship at Kamakura—


The grey-robed, gay-sashed butterflies
That flit beneath the Master's eyes—
He is beyond the Mysteries
But loves them at Kamakura.


And whoso will, from Pride released,
Contemning neither creed nor priest,
May feel the soul of all the East
About him at Kamakura.


Yea, every tale Ananda heard,
Of birth as fish or beast or bird,
While yet in lives the Master stirred,
The warm wind brings Kamakura.


Till drowsy eyelids seem to see
A-flower 'neath her golden htee
The Shwe-Dagon flare easterly
From Burmah to Kamakura;


And down the loaded air there comes
The thunder of Thibetan drums,
And droned—"Om mane padme oms"—
A world's width from Kamakura.


Yet Brahmans rule Benares still,
Buddh-Gaya's ruins pit the hill,
And beef-fed zealots threaten ill
To Buddha and Kamakura.


A tourist-show, a legend told,
A rusting bulk of bronze and gold,
So much, and scarce so much, ye hold
The meaning of Kamakura?


But when the morning prayer is prayed,
Think, ere ye pass to strife and trade,
Is God in human image made
No nearer than Kamakura?

Rudyard Kipling

Tuesday

Your children, in their way
Fathered you to me,
Return themselves in you

Broken lines trace back
Adrift through shifting lands
And times to us unknown

All laying itself bare,
With eyes that cannot see,
With voice that cannot speak.

An outpost forms within,
A jetty, ocean-hewn
A once-glimpsed hinterland

Teeth can gnash, no fear
Through pain, resilience
These words an oath inside

One-handed, not one-eyed
The sundered throne restored
Within its living shrine.

I love it Alex!

In days of rain
Through nights of pain
When times are dark
I miss you

In moods of mad
In times so sad
With smiles so few
I miss you

In nights so cold
Without your hold
No thoughts of new
I miss you

In dreams so sweet
Through love I meet
The thought of how
I miss you

In times of change
When all seems strange
All that I do
Is miss you

In ways too real
How cold I feel
It hurts so bad
I miss you

In thoughts so deep
With tears I weep
I cry because
I miss you

With hope so strong
In pain so long
I hope you know...

I miss you.


- G. E. Marrs

The Birch Tree

The branches of the birch tree spread out above me, the leaves appeared still, and the white trunk glowed with a silvery aura.

I had not been away long, but in my absence this tree had grown strong, spreading into the space my mind normally filled. I sensed that the cathedral, though usually feeling enclosed, had opened to the sky and that we, me and tree, both stood beneath the stars.

I didn’t need to look at him to know that he was there, sitting back on the bench in sight of the tree. “I haven’t been away that long, have I?”

Neither did I need to look to know he was smiling at me, “time means little here.”

A breeze came from somewhere, rippling the leaves a little; it seemed such a natural action, so peaceful… I knelt down and sat back on my feet. Watching the leaves, hearing them, it felt like time might exist only within the loop of movement on the birch.. he was right, time did mean little here.

“Why is it here?” It had been, in linear time, perhaps almost two hours spent sitting watching the tree and only now had the question occurred to me.

“Come now, you know that anything here has been created by you. Why do you think it’s here?”

“If I had to guess… every branch goes in a different direction, and yet each branch is still connected to the central trunk. However confusing my path gets, however far I feel like I have gone, that path is still connected back to my central one… therefore any diversion I take is simply a distraction from the truth….”

“Which is?”

I finally looked back at him, I was right, he was smiling… “Which is… there is only one path, mine.”

He looked up at the tree, seeming distant, and it appeared that he was marvelling at the sight of such a beautiful thing within the cathedral. For a few moments then it seemed to me that he could exist beyond the confines of my own universe.

Fear and Victory

Fear and victory
Go hand in hand
For to achieve victory
One is uncertain

One is steeped in a dark path
One finds himself afraid
And unsure of his choice that
Led him on this foolish quest

But as one continues to do his best
He feels his burdens lighten
And his path begins to brighten
The strife is a'quieten

And then many years later
In peaceful serenity
He looks back and sees
The battle with uncertainty
As a time filled with glee.

Next random installment of my non-poetry...

~~~~~~~~~~~

It had been a while since the cathedral had served its first purpose, that of a place of worship.

The stone altar, which had so far been swallowed by the shadow unnoticed, stood now in a pool of candlelight. A circle of red church candles surrounded it, each barely melted and smelling strongly of their wax. The book from the plinth now rested on the altar open to a page around the beginning, one of the earlier writings and less legible. The robes I barely ever wore hung heavy on me, a mirror of the feelings I had about not having performed the ritual more often.

My finger on the page at the first words, I noticed suddenly that he was standing beside me.
“This is for you,” I said, confused.

“And I am here for you” he replied. I nodded.

I lit the incense and together we spoke the ancient words, their sound echoing not just throughout the cathedral but through my own body. They sounded like nonsense but each word held a meaning understood by flesh as well as mind. I was the priest, not just in robe and word, but in feeling and knowledge also. I struck the gong and the sound reverberated through every cell in my body and every thought in my head… for a moment the two of us were one within the sound, both vibrating at the same frequency. I knew all that he knew, felt what he felt, thought as he thought… all manner of being directed into this channel, him experiencing my reflection in return.

The sound dissolved, my consciousness returning to my own… I breathed deeply in the found silence and felt a new strength.

“Thank you” I said, turning to him… but he was no longer there. And I noticed, as I looked down at my hand on the book, that I was now wearing his ring.

Just Wait - Anon

I said to my soul, be still and wait,
And wait without hope
For hope would be hope for the wrong thing
And wait without love
For love could be love for the wrong thing

And wait without thought
For you are not yet ready for the thought

There is yet faith
But, the faith, and the love, and the hope, are all in the waiting.

So the darkness shall be the light,
and the stillness the dancing!

Another one...

The sun was rising above the city; I sat on the rooftop of the cathedral, leaning back on my elbows, admiring the bleeding of red and orange sun into a lightening blue sky. The people down below, the few who were out, were small and difficult to make out. I had watched them only briefly when the terracotta tiles had first become my seat.

There was a slight breeze rustling leaves, and a pleasant chill to the air, the smell of the morning waking up the world.

Footsteps behind, then the familiar presence joined me at the edge.

“This is an unusual spot for you” he noted, as he sat himself, legs dangling, over the edge of the roof.

“Sometimes I need to remind myself the light is there” I replied, and it was especially beautiful this particular morning.

“Pensive?”

“Always.”

“So tell me about it.” It didn’t matter where I was or what I was doing, there was a warmth to his words that always comforted. Minutes in his company, or hours, he always had the time, exactly the right time, to listen.

“Whenever I think I have solved my issues with how I feel, I find that I in fact simply moved them about a bit.”

“Well,” he replied, admiring the sun briefly, “that is because it is not a problem that has a solution, as you think.” He tensed a little, “you see, whenever we talk you go away feeling that you’re somehow a little broken still. You put those feelings to the back of your mind and you leave here for a while, you go out into the world and be one of those little people below."

There was a shout below us, both looking down to see its origin, it faded, and our attentions returned.

“You hold everything in, retreating into yourself so you can be ‘normal’ for just a little while. But then who you really are starts to gain strength again, slowly taking hold and for a while you own that.”

Listening was hard and I found that I couldn’t look at him as he spoke, my focus honed on birds on a distant rooftop.

“Look at me!”

Momentarily I paused, before I broke my gaze and slowly met his eyes.

“But, you let the fear of being strange beat you down again. And in the shadows you show yourself only to the little flame, before extinguishing it once the day is done.”

He leaned forward and took my hand with both of his, “Be you! In all that you are, in all that you believe, seize it! And don’t be afraid."

I wrote this years ago when I was very sad with love and writing about it a lot. It's a short couplet, but it still strikes a chord with me now even though I'm not as love-hungry as I once was
(P.S. Sorry, the English version is pretty rough - I feel it doesn't translate as poetically, ha ha!)


Cette pauvre petite; cette Cyrano, cette Éponine,
Fait verser ses larmes en ruisselets de mine

~~~
This poor little one; this Cyrano, this Éponine,
Pours out her tears in streams of words