I have finally succumbed to my poetic urges, and thus I present my poetry page. I will be keeping to a Nature theme for these poems, and I hope they inspire you to see the beauty in Nature as I do.
The Remote Hawk
The hawk sees what was
and what is to come.
A stillness of mind
like a pinpoint in time.
Thought is surrendered
and memory is one.
of thermic breezes.
Upswell of images, geometries and friezes.
A skinflint second of pure recognition,
Then a fall into pattern
Both ancient and sudden.
Rewarding and living and knowing
COMMENT: This poem was inspired by my work with remote viewing, and by the thought-form of Gwalchmai – the Hawk of May. I have fused the concepts together here, engendering the requirements for remote viewing with the vision of the hawk, and brought the two together in the idea that the bird is my totem animal.
The Sylph Inside
Cleaver of clouds, flitter of wings
Racer of blusters, a moving thing
You have no face, no form, no span
Here I stand earth-bound beneath you,
How can I catch you, grasp, understand
how you scrape the heavens, skim sky
now then land?
Breathless against you, tugger of strings
Cool friends you cluster, a choir sings
But you have no heart, no head, no hands
And I am beneath you, wrapped up in flesh,
just a man
Who longs to fly with you
longs to, and can!
Cailleach the Crone is one of her names
But she asked me to call her Theodora.
Like a lone soul searching for a mate
I sought her out, and the explorer
In me gave no resistance, no blame.
She had something I needed and more.
Our conjunction was predictable, ornate,
Like a star moving through an aurora.
I asked her to teach me Nature’s ways
and she did so scarce batting an eye.
In a cowl she hid her deep-lined face
Where the ages had passed her and died.
When the Spring begins to lighten the days
I suspect she’ll reveal how she’s tried
To teach me before in previous lives
And how this is the one that has listened.
How I long for a glimpse of her occult eyes
Where the tears trace the lines as they glisten.
Welcome In The Winter
Slow contrast, the deepening furrows of darkness
She weaves into my routine as she shifts
From time-delay warmth
To pendulous moth-cloud dullness.
The half-lid interim from wake to sleep.
A sneering sister of bright Spring.
For all her taunts she is the more constant
Her palette drained of gaudy greens
An inevitable rust to dust decay
Whose low-light seed she sheens with ice.
I welcome in the Winter.
She’ll come anyway, in spite.
She’ll come anyway, preserving light.