Witness all the beings who trivialize life
reduce their gift to perceptual concern
over insignificant frivalities.
Worried about their bodies and possessions
while neglecting their immortal soul.
Seeking power over mere molehills
while burying their true potential power;
attempting to gain unimportant knowledge
while ignoring buried treasures of wisdom.
Bodies controlling their lives
as they completely forget their true selves.
The soul is separate from the body,
no only are they separate – they are enemies.
What the soul needs the body protests,
what the body desire the soul detests.
Why should this opposition occur,
why should their desires not concur?
Well the soul and body have different needs
and to serve the one means to neglect the other.
Pain and hunger, thirst and knowledge
these are of the body
but joy and sorrow, anger and guilt,
love and wisdom are of the soul.
To search for food, to strive for wealth,
to benefit our bodies
means to feel envy and greed and to corrupt our souls,
but to give to the poor, and to fast and pray
feeds our souls but corrupts our bodies.
Ah! County Guy, the hour is nigh,
The sun has left the lea,
The orange flower perfumes the bower,
The breeze is on the sea.
The lark his lay who thrill’d all day
Sits hush’d his partner nigh:
Breeze, bird, and flower confess the hour,
But where is County Guy?
The village maid steals through the shade,
Her shepherd’s suit to hear;
To beauty shy, by lattice high,
Sings high-born Cavalier.
The star of Love, all stars above
Now reigns o’er earth and sky;
And high and low the influence know–
But where is County Guy?
Baby, sweet baby, with tears in your eyes
Rest your head gently, there’s no need to cry,
Come let me sing you a soft lullaby
The sandman is coming and dreamland is nigh;
Baby, sweet baby, with skin soft and fair
And little pink ribbons done up in your hair,
In your tiny world there should not be a care
May angels surround you and send you a prayer;
Baby, sweet baby, your cute button nose
Your soft tiny fingers and sweet baby toes
Have truly bewitched me and nobody knows
How the depth of my love for you just grows and grows;
So precious and tender your love is to me,
Until I first held you, I never could see
How wonderfully magical my life could be –
You’ve opened my heart and my spirit is free!
We’re all lashed
to Cultural Helms
narrowed to squinty plane
and not mine
Culture is the Gardener’s Death
who’s kind to only one flower;
other’s bloom in the garden darkened
by blindness over-powered.
Strain some may
against the mast
yet they most times
cultivate only their own gardens;
time and the past
cause other flowers
to bloom and wither
before our very countenance.
Tempted we may be
by soul’s desire
to look beyond the garden walls:
But few cannot,
but lift the spade
and plow the same furrows,
which etch our brow
contain our lives
until our death
we having known
only one garden flower:
and narrow furrows.
A few sometimes
smell other blooms
thereby open up
to sip and know
Not Like We-Ness.
Go little book,
To him who, on a lute with horns of pearl,
Sang of the white feet of the Golden Girl:
And bid him look
Into thy pages: it may hap that he
May find that golden maidens dance through thee.
MILTON! I think thy spirit hath passed away
From these white cliffs, and high-embattled towers;
This gorgeous fiery-coloured world of ours
Seems fallen into ashes dull and grey,
And the age changed unto a mimic play
Wherein we waste our else too-crowded hours:
For all our pomp and pageantry and powers
We are but fit to delve the common clay,
Seeing this little isle on which we stand,
This England, this sea-lion of the sea,
By ignorant demagogues is held in fee,
Who love her not: Dear God! is this the land
Which bare a triple empire in her hand
When Cromwell spake the word Democracy!
To govern simply by statute and to maintain order by means of penalties is to
render the people evasive and devoid of a sense of shame.