In The Houses Of Mystery

The universe
is a kaleidoscope:
now hopelessness, now hope
now spring, now fall.
Forget its ups and downs:
do not vex yourself:
The remedy for pain
is the pain
– Sarmad

"The High, The Holy" - Gwyllm 2014
“The High, The Holy” – Gwyllm 2014

The High, The Holy“, a new piece. With tints of Syrian Rue Red(It’s in the carpets folks, for a reason!), and the Moon to propel it, “The High, The Holy” is a visual song/homage to my background and studies over the years. I hope you enjoy it.

Dear Friends,

It has been a week of contrast; a week of sorrow, a week of joy, a week of discovery, a week of release. One of the better ones on so many levels.
After Sophie passed Thursday night last and all of the tumblings of grief, and receiving her ashes on Tuesday morning, we began the process of letting her go. Not the easiest thing to do, but what else can one do? Seeing a life reduced to a tin of ashes, to the basic carbon.

Come Wednesday morning we had Rak Razam from Australia arrive who is/was touring his film & book Aya:Awakenings. Finally meeting Rak after all these years of talking on line we finally got to spend some time together. It was good having this time with him, we have collaborated on projects over the years and finally getting to sit down and talk about all and sundry was refreshing. Only so much communication can be achieved on line, it is so much richer in person. His presentation on Thursday night at the Clinton Theatre went very well, and the audience received it enthusiastically. Rak included me on the panel for the discussion afterwards, where I sat with our friend Gayle Highpine (what a mind!) who helps run The Ayahusaca Forums on, & Charles Shaw, who you might know through his works ExileNation and elsewhere say in Reality Sandwich.( Charles is a Nice Guy!) It was a lovely discussion with some nice synergy. The night ended with Rak and I standing in our kitchen talking metaphysics and entheogens into the early morning. The next day we dropped him off on his way up to Vancouver B.C. for his last stop on this tour. It was a lovely time.

Rak, Charles & Gwyllm
Rak, Charles, & Yers Truly

So I return to the essentials, work, which is always a blessing in what forms it comes in and with a capital A, Art, which finds me working on some new pieces (see above!)

Life is good, no matter what is being served up it seems. I wish you beauty in all that you do, and experience.

This week’s entry is BIG. I have had a lot going on in my head, especially about the ancient interchange of culture between the Persian/Middle East & The Celtic World. Hopefully the blend works well for you.

Bright Blessings,
On The Menu:
Omar Faruk Tekbilek – Sufi
Sarmad: Poetry
The Piper & The Puca
A Flight Through the Universe
The Smart Rabbit
Poetry: A.E.
Great Masters of the Oud – A tribute to Nasser Shamma (نصير شمة)
Omar Faruk Tekbilek – Sufi

Sarmad: Poetry


My heart searched for your fragrance
in the breeze moving at dawn,
my eyes searched for the flower of your face
in the garden of creation.
Neither could lead me to your abode —
contemplation alone showed me the way.

Once I was bathed in the Light of Truth within,
I abandoned all planning and scheming.
If you, too, seek this transcendence,
leave your lower self — then from head to foot
you will see your whole being as God’s refulgence.

The ocean of his generosity has no shore.
The tongue is powerless to thank,
the heart too bewildered to understand.
Though my sins are many
his compassion is greater still–
I swim in the sea of disobedience
but I do not drown.

To the dignified station of love I was raised,
And from the favours of the people I was freed.
Like a candle I was melted in this assembly,
By being burnt, in the divine mysteries I was initiated.

Along the road, you were my companion
Seeking the path, you were my guide

No matter to whom I spoke, it was you who answered
When Sun called Moon to Sky, it was you who shined

In the Night of aloneness, you
were my comforter

When I laughed, you were the smile on my lips
When I cried, you were the tears on my face

When I wrote, you were the verse
When I sang, you were the song

Rarely did my heart desire another lover
Then when it did, you came to me in the other.
Every man who knows his secret
becomes a secret,
hidden from the skies.

The sage says Ahmad rose to the heavens;
Sarmad says the heavens
rose in him!
The Piper & The Puca

Douglas Hyde HYDE (Translated literally from the Irish of the Leabhar Sgeulaigheachta)

In the old times, there was a half fool living in Dunmore, in the county Galway, and although he was excessively fond of music, he was unable to learn more than one tune, and that was the “Black Rogue.” He used to get a good deal of money from the gentlemen, for they used to get sport out of him. One night the piper was coming home from a house where there had been a dance, and he half drunk. When he came to a little bridge that was up by his mother’s house, he squeezed the pipes on, and began playing the “Black Rogue” (an rógaire dubh). The Púca came behind him, and flung him up on his own back. There were long horns on the Púca, and the piper got a good grip of them, and then he said–

“Destruction on you, you nasty beast, let me home. I have a ten-penny piece in my pocket for my mother, and she wants snuff.”

“Never mind your mother,” said the Púca, “but keep your hold. If you fall, you will break your neck and your pipes.” Then the Púca said to him, “Play up for me the ‘Shan Van Vocht’ (an t-seann-bhean bhocht).”

“I don’t know it,” said the piper.

“Never mind whether you do or you don’t,” said the Púca. “Play up, and I’ll make you know.”

The piper put wind in his bag, and he played such music as made himself wonder.

“Upon my word, you’re a fine music-master,” says the piper then; “but tell me where you’re for bringing me.”

“There’s a great feast in the house of the Banshee, on the top of Croagh Patric tonight,” says the Púca, “and I’m for bringing you there to play music, and, take my word, you’ll get the price of your trouble.”

“By my word, you’ll save me a journey, then,” says the piper, “for Father William put a journey to Croagh Patric on me, because I stole the white gander from him last Martinmas.”

The Púca rushed him across hills and bogs and rough places, till he brought him to the top of Croagh Patric. Then the Púca struck three blows with his foot, and a great door opened, and they passed in together, into a fine room.

The piper saw a golden table in the middle of the room, and hundreds of old women (cailleacha) sitting round about it. The old woman rose up, and said, “A hundred thousand welcomes to you, you Púca of November (na Samhna). Who is this you have brought with you?”

“The best piper in Ireland,” says the Púca.

One of the old women struck a blow on the ground, and a door opened in the side of the wall, and what should the piper see coming out but the white gander which he had stolen from Father William.

“By my conscience, then,” says the piper, “myself and my mother ate every taste of that gander, only one wing, and I gave that to Moy-rua (Red Mary), and it’s she told the priest I stole his gander.”

The gander cleaned the table, and carried it away, and the Púca said, “Play up music for these ladies.”

The piper played up, and the old women began dancing, and they were dancing till they were tired. Then the Púca said to pay the piper, and every old woman drew out a gold piece, and gave it to him.

“By the tooth of Patric,” said he, “I’m as rich as the son of a lord.”

“Come with me,” says the Púca, “and I’ll bring you home.”

They went out then, and just as he was going to ride on the Púca, the gander came up to him, and gave him a new set of pipes. The Púca was not long until he brought him to Dunmore, and he threw the piper off at the little bridge, and then he told him to go home, and says to him, “You have two things now that you never had before–you have sense and music (ciall agus ceól).

The piper went home, and he knocked at his mother’s door, saying, “Let me in, I’m as rich as a lord, and I’m the best piper in Ireland.”

“You’re drunk,” said the mother.

“No, indeed,” says the piper, “I haven’t drunk a drop.”

The mother let him in, and he gave her the gold pieces, and, “Wait now,” says he, “till you hear the music, I’ll play.”

He buckled on the pipes, but instead of music, there came a sound as if all the geese and ganders in Ireland were screeching together. He awakened the neighbours and they all were mocking him, until he put on the old pipes, and then he played melodious music for them; and after that he told them all he had gone through that night.

The next morning, when his mother went to look at the gold pieces, there was nothing there but the leaves of a plant.

The piper went to the priest, and told him his story, but the priest would not believe a word from him, until he put the pipes on him, and then the screeching of the ganders and geese began.

“Leave my sight, you thief,” said the priest.

But nothing would do the piper till he would put the old pipes on him to show the priest that his story was true.

He buckled on the old pipes, and he played melodious music, and from that day till the day of his death, there was never a piper in the county Galway was as good as he was.
and when you get too caught up in your life and its twistings and turnings, this appears. Timely.
A Flight Through the Universe, by the Sloan Digital Sky Survey


Persian Tales: The Smart Rabbit

Far away from here there was once a lovely tree-covered valley, surrounded by high mountains. A mighty river ran through this valley, watering all the variety of trees and other plants that grew there. Many animals made this valley their home — rabbits, birds, squirrels, and deer. They all lived happily in the valley, because there were no wolves or lions there to eat them.

But one day, a wolf climbed down the mountains and entered the valley. No sooner had he arrived than he started to chase after the helpless animals, and ate them one by one. Only on rare occasions would one of the animals manage to run away unscathed, but all the animals were worried that next, it would be their turn.

In their worry, the animals turned to the old owl, and asked him to find a way to rid the valley of the wolf. The owl replied that there was no way to fight the wolf, whose fangs and paws were more powerful than any other animal in the valley, and so they must learn to live with the wolf, the old owl counseled.

The animals protested that they could live in constant fear of being eaten, and so they hatched a desperate plan: it was agreed everyday, one of the animals would be selected by the others, who would go to the wolf and be eaten. That way, the rest of the animals would rest peacefully, knowing that the wolf had eaten that day and would not be chasing them.

Naturally the wolf, who was tired of chasing the animals and relished the idea of his food coming to him by itself, agreed to this plan without hesitation.

And so the following day, the animals gathered together in the early morning and decided that the the little rabbit, who was the smallest and weakest resident of the valley, was to be fed to the wolf.

The rabbit was scared and first tried to run away, but soon realized that he had nowhere to go. He then considered fighting the wolf, but soon realized that the wolf was far too powerful for him. So he meekly trudged to the wolf’s lair, and once there, cried out “Oh wolf! Oh wolf! Come out of your lair, for I am to be your supper today.”

The wolf immediately came out of its lair, and sniffed the rabbit hungrily. “Why, what a delicious little morel you will make!” said the wolf, “I can’t believe my luck in finding this valley where the animals sacrifice themselves to me so willingly!”

“It is true, I was brought here by my own four little feet,” the rabbit sighed, “for I know that I cannot escape my fate, and such a mighty wolf as you, even though you’re not the scariest or most powerful wolf in the valley.”

At this, the vain wolf was dumbfounded. “Wha..? What do you mean, I’m not the scariest or most powerful wolf in this valley? I am the only wolf here, and there are no other wolves in this valley!” cried the wolf, indignantly.

“Oh, you don’t know about the other wolf,” said the rabbit. “No matter, you should go ahead and eat me now, for even if I escape your clutches, no animal could ever hope to escape the other, scarier and more powerful, wolf.” The rabbit then tried to climb into the wolf’s mouth.

The wolf bristled at the rabbit’s words, shook him out of his mouth and said, “Take me to this other wolf, and I will spare you for today, my delicious little morsel. Show me were this other wolf who thinks he’s better than me lives.”

The rabbit let out a little sigh and said, “Oh what difference does it make to me, for in the end I will be eaten by a wolf, whether it is you or the other wolf, with the bigger teeth and stronger legs. Follow me then.”

“Humph!” said the wolf, “We shall see who is bigger and stronger. Lead on!”

So the wolf followed the rabbit as they walked a ways, until they reached an old abandoned well.

“There,” pointed the rabbit, “There is the lair of the other wolf, who is stronger and meaner than you. All you have to do is look down into the well, an I am sure you will see him in there, resting from his last feast.”

At this, the wolf jumped up onto the well wall, and peered down into the darkness.

“I don’t see anything, it is too dark!” said the wolf.

“You have to look more closely, for I am sure he’s in there. Put your whole head down into the well, and you will see him looking back at you,” replied the rabbit.

So the wolf bent over, and stuck his head into the well. After a few moments, when his eyes had a chance to adjust to the darkness, the wolf saw his own reflection in the water at the bottom of the well, as if it was another wolf looking back at him.

“Aha! Now I see you, you coward!” the wolf yelled into the well. No sooner had he done this, than his own voice echoed back from the bottom of the well.

“Did you just call me a coward? How dare you! Come here, and we’ll see who is the nastier wolf!” yelled the wolf. But again, his own voice echoed back to him from the well.

The rabbit, who had witnessed the wolf arguing with himself in the well, told the wolf, “I don’t think he’s coming out here. Naturally, the bigger and scarier wolf will have to chase after the smaller, less-scary one.”

The wolf heard the rabbit and without hesitation, jumped into the well, chasing after his own reflect in the water. But since the wolf did not know how to swim, he never came out of the old well, and the valley was rid of the evil old wolf — thanks to a small, weak rabbit.
Poetry: A.E.
The Unknown God

Far up the dim twilight fluttered
Moth-wings of vapour and flame:
The lights danced over the mountains,
Star after star they came.

The lights grew thicker unheeded,
For silent and still were we;
Our hearts were drunk with a beauty
Our eyes could never see.

One thing in all things have I seen:
One thought has haunted earth and air:
Clangour and silence both have been
Its palace chambers. Everywhere

I saw the mystic vision flow
And live in men and woods and streams,
Until I could no longer know
The dream of life from my own dreams.

Sometimes it rose like fire in me
Within the depths of my own mind,
And spreading to infinity,
It took the voices of the wind:

It scrawled the human mystery —
Dim heraldry — on light and air;
Wavering along the starry sea
I saw the flying vision there.

Each fire that in God’s temple lit
Burns fierce before the inner shrine,
Dimmed as my fire grew near to it
And darkened at the light of mine.

At last, at last, the meaning caught —
The spirit wears its diadem;
It shakes its wondrous plumes of thought
And trails the stars along with them.
Divine Visitation

The heavens lay hold on us: the starry rays
Fondle with flickering fingers brow and eyes:
A new enchantment lights the ancient skies.
What is it looks between us gaze on gaze;
Does the wild spirit of the endless days
Chase through my heart some lure that ever flies?
Only I know the vast within me cries
Finding in thee the ending of all ways.
Ah, but they vanish; the immortal train
From thee, from me, depart, yet take from thee
Memorial grace: laden with adoration
Forth from this heart they flow that all in vain
Would stay the proud eternal powers that flee
After the chase in burning exultation.
Great Masters of the Oud – A tribute to Nasser Shamma (نصير شمة)

That Eternal Moment

But ask now the beasts,
and they shall teach thee;
and the fowls of the air,
and they shall tell thee:

Or speak to the earth,
and it shall teach thee:
and the fishes of the sea
shall declare unto thee.
Job 12:7-8

"Invocation" - Gwyllm 2014
“Invocation” – Gwyllm 2014

I really enjoyed working on Invocation. It is a real departure for me, a little more overt compared to some of my other pieces.  If interested, it is located here: “Invocation”
Dear Friends,

The core of Turfing has always been poetry, and that is something that I celebrate. Poetry is in the heart of all things, one has but to listen to catch the cadence, the beauty, the air.
This last week has been a one of beauty, joy, and sorrow.
That is life. It takes all and enfolds all.

Live those moments fully. Breathe deeply of each moment, every moment tells a story, whispers a secret, reveals a truth.

Here is to the now, I lift up my glass to all of you who share in the mystery of being.


On The Menu:
The Links
Dead Can Dance – ‘Return of the She-King’
Poetry: Wendell Berry
Origin of the Welsh
Dead Can Dance – ‘Agape’
Mr. Whitman Says
The Links:
Ted Talks…
Other Universes
Mahabharata & Acoustic Levitation
Who Dreamed Up The Dreamtime?
Our sweet pup passed suddenly this last Thursday. She will be sorely missed. I find myself getting up early to let her out, and expect her nudge against my leg whilst I am sitting at the computer.

A most amazing, loving being who treated everyone with love & respect. She was with us for 11 years.  Sometimes you think it will last forever.
Dear Dog, you will be missed.
Dead Can Dance – ‘Return of the She-King’

Poetry: Wendell Berry

The Peace of Wild Things

When despair grows in me
and I wake in the middle of the night at the least sound
in fear of what my life and my children’s lives may be,
I go and lie down where the wood drake
rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds.
I come into the peace of wild things
who do not tax their lives with forethought
of grief. I come into the presence of still water.
And I feel above me the day-blind stars
waiting for their light. For a time
I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.
The Country Of Marriage

I dream of you walking at night along the streams
of the country of my birth, warm blooms and the nightsongs
of birds opening around you as you walk.
You are holding in your body the dark seed of my sleep.

This comes after silence. Was it something I said
that bound me to you, some mere promise
or, worse, the fear of loneliness and death?
A man lost in the woods in the dark, I stood
still and said nothing. And then there rose in me,
like the earth’s empowering brew rising
in root and branch, the words of a dream of you
I did not know I had dreamed. I was a wanderer
who feels the solace of his native land
under his feet again and moving in his blood.
I went on, blind and faithful. Where I stepped
my track was there to steady me. It was no abyss
that lay before me, but only the level ground.

Sometimes our life reminds me
of a forest in which there is a graceful clearing
and in that opening a house,
an orchard and garden,
comfortable shades, and flowers
red and yellow in the sun, a pattern
made in the light for the light to return to.
The forest is mostly dark, its ways
to be made anew day after day, the dark
richer than the light and more blessed,
provided we stay brave
enough to keep on going in.

How many times have I come to you out of my head
with joy, if ever a man was,
for to approach you I have given up the light
and all directions. I come to you
lost, wholly trusting as a man who goes
into the forest unarmed. It is as though I descend
slowly earthward out of the air. I rest in peace
in you, when I arrive at last.

Our bond is no little economy based on the exchange
of my love and work for yours, so much for so much
of an expendable fund. We don’t know what its limits are–
that puts us in the dark. We are more together
than we know, how else could we keep on discovering
we are more together than we thought?
You are the known way leading always to the unknown,
and you are the known place to which the unknown is always
leading me back. More blessed in you than I know,
I possess nothing worthy to give you, nothing
not belittled by my saying that I possess it.
Even an hour of love is a moral predicament, a blessing
a man may be hard up to be worthy of. He can only
accept it, as a plant accepts from all the bounty of the light
enough to live, and then accepts the dark,
passing unencumbered back to the earth, as I
have fallen tine and again from the great strength
of my desire, helpless, into your arms.

What I am learning to give you is my death
to set you free of me, and me from myself
into the dark and the new light. Like the water
of a deep stream, love is always too much. We
did not make it. Though we drink till we burst
we cannot have it all, or want it all.
In its abundance it survives our thirst.
In the evening we come down to the shore
to drink our fill, and sleep, while it
flows through the regions of the dark.
It does not hold us, except we keep returning
to its rich waters thirsty. We enter,
willing to die, into the commonwealth of its joy.

I give you what is unbounded, passing from dark to dark,
containing darkness: a night of rain, an early morning.
I give you the life I have let live for the love of you:
a clump of orange-blooming weeds beside the road,
the young orchard waiting in the snow, our own life
that we have planted in the ground, as I
have planted mine in you. I give you my love for all
beautiful and honest women that you gather to yourself
again and again, and satisfy–and this poem,
no more mine than any man’s who has loved a woman.
A Timbered Choir

Even while I dreamed I prayed that what I saw was only fear and no foretelling,
for I saw the last known landscape destroyed for the sake
of the objective, the soil bludgeoned, the rock blasted.
Those who had wanted to go home would never get there now.

I visited the offices where for the sake of the objective the planners planned
at blank desks set in rows. I visited the loud factories
where the machines were made that would drive ever forward
toward the objective. I saw the forest reduced to stumps and gullies; I saw
the poisoned river, the mountain cast into the valley;
I came to the city that nobody recognized because it looked like every other city.
I saw the passages worn by the unnumbered
footfalls of those whose eyes were fixed upon the objective.

Their passing had obliterated the graves and the monuments
of those who had died in pursuit of the objective
and who had long ago forever been forgotten, according
to the inevitable rule that those who have forgotten forget
that they have forgotten. Men, women, and children now pursued the objective
as if nobody ever had pursued it before.

The races and the sexes now intermingled perfectly in pursuit of the objective.
the once-enslaved, the once-oppressed were now free
to sell themselves to the highest bidder
and to enter the best paying prisons
in pursuit of the objective, which was the destruction of all enemies,
which was the destruction of all obstacles, which was the destruction of all objects,
which was to clear the way to victory, which was to clear the way to promotion, to salvation, to progress,
to the completed sale, to the signature
on the contract, which was to clear the way
to self-realization, to self-creation, from which nobody who ever wanted to go home
would ever get there now, for every remembered place
had been displaced; the signposts had been bent to the ground and covered over.

Every place had been displaced, every love
unloved, every vow unsworn, every word unmeant
to make way for the passage of the crowd
of the individuated, the autonomous, the self-actuated, the homeless
with their many eyes opened toward the objective
which they did not yet perceive in the far distance,
having never known where they were going,
having never known where they came from.
The Hidden Singer

The gods are less for their love of praise.
Above and below them all is a spirit that needs nothing
but its own wholeness, its health and ours.
It has made all things by dividing itself.
It will be whole again.
To its joy we come together —
the seer and the seen, the eater and the eaten,
the lover and the loved.
In our joining it knows itself. It is with us then,
not as the gods whose names crest in unearthly fire,
but as a little bird hidden in the leaves
who sings quietly and waits, and sings.
Origin of the Welsh

Many years ago there lived several wild tribes round the King of Persia’s city, and the king’s men were always annoying and harassing them, exacting yearly a heavy tribute. Now these tribes, though very brave in warfare, could not hold their own before the Persian army when sent out against them, so that they paid their yearly tribute grudgingly, but took revenge, whenever they could, upon travellers to or from the city, robbing and killing them.

At last one of the tribesmen, a clever old chieftain, thought of a cunning plan whereby to defeat the Persians, and free themselves from the yearly tribute. And this was his scheme:

The wild wastes where these tribes lived were infested with large birds called “Rohs”, [Footnote: Pronounced softly.] which were very destructive to human beings—devouring men, women, and children greedily whenever they could catch them. Such a terror were they that the tribes had to protect their village with high walls, [Footnote: Can this have anything to do with the idea of walling-in the cuckoo?] and then they slept securely, for the Roh hunted by night. This old chieftain determined to watch the birds, and find out their nesting-places; so he had a series of towers built, in which the watchmen could sleep securely by night. These towers were advanced in whatever direction the birds were seen to congregate by night. The observers reported that the Roh could not fly, but ran very swiftly, being fleeter than any horse.

At length, by watching, their nesting-places were found in a sandy plain, and it was discovered that those monstrous birds stole sheep and cattle in great numbers.

The chieftain then gave orders for the watchmen to keep on guard until the young birds were hatched, when they were commanded to secure fifty, and bring them into the walled town. The order was carried out, and one night they secured fifty young birds just out of the egg, and brought them to the town.

The old chieftain then told off fifty skilful warriors, a man to each bird, to his son being allotted the largest bird. These warriors were ordered to feed the birds on flesh, and to train them for battle. The birds grew up as tame as horses. Saddles and bridles were made for them, and they were trained and exercised just like chargers.

When the next tribute day came round, the King of Persia sent his emissaries to collect the tax, but the chieftains of the tribes insulted and defied them, so that they returned to the king, who at once sent forward his army.

The chieftain then marshalled his men, and forty-six of the Rohs were drawn up in front of the army, the chief getting on the strongest bird. The remaining four were placed on the right flank, and ordered at a signal to advance and cut off the army, should they retreat.

The Rohs had small scales, like those of a fish, on their necks and bodies, the scales being hidden under a soft hair, except on the upper half of the neck. They had no feathers except on their wings. So they were invulnerable except as to the eyes—for in those days the Persians only had bows and arrows, and light javelins. When the Persian army advanced, the Rohs advanced at lightning speed, and made fearful havoc, the birds murdering and trampling the soldiers under foot, and beating them down with their powerful wings. In less than two hours half the Persian army was slain, and the rest had escaped. The tribes returned to their walled towns, delighted with their victory.

When the news of his defeat reached the King of Persia he was wroth beyond expression, and could not sleep for rage. So the next morning he called for his magician.

“What are you going to do with the birds?” asked the king.

“Well, I’ve been thinking the matter over,” replied the magician.

“Cannot you destroy all of them?”

“No, your majesty; I cannot destroy them, for I have not the power; but I can get rid of them in one way; for though I cannot put out life, I have the power of turning one life into some other living creature.”

“Well, what will you turn them into?” asked the king.

“I’ll consider to-night, your majesty,” replied the magician.

“Well, mind and be sure to do it.”

“Yes, I’ll be sure to do it, your majesty.”

* * * * *

The next day, at ten, the magician appeared before the king, who asked:

“Have you considered well?”

“Yes, your majesty.”

“Well, how are you going to act?”

“Your majesty, I’ve thought and thought during the night, and the best thing we can do is to turn all the birds into fairies.”

“What are fairies?” asked the king.

“I’ve planned it all out, and I hope your majesty will agree.”

“Oh! I’ll agree, as long as they never molest us more.”

“Well, your majesty, I’m going to turn them to fairies—small living creatures to live in caves in the bowels of the earth, and they shall only visit people living on the earth once a year. They shall be harmless, and hurt nothing; they shall be fairies, and do nothing but dance and sing, and I shall allow them to go about on earth for twenty-four hours once a year and play their antics, but they shall do no mischief.”

“How long are the birds to remain in that state?” asked the king.

“I’ll give them 2,000 years, your majesty; and at the end of that time they are to go back into birds, as they were before. And after the birds change from the fairy state back into birds, they shall never breed more, but die a natural death.”

So the tribes lost their birds, and the King of Persia made such fearful havoc amongst them that they decided to leave the country.

They travelled, supporting themselves by robbery; until they came to a place where they built a city, and called it Troy, where they were besieged for a long time.

At length the besiegers built a large caravan, with a large man’s head in front; the head was all gilded with gold. When the caravan was finished they put 150 of the best warriors inside, provided with food, and one of them had a trumpet. Then they pulled the caravan, which ran upon eight broad wheels, up to the gates of the city, and left it there, their army being drawn up in a valley near by. It was, agreed that when the caravan got inside the gates the bugler should blow three loud blasts to warn, the army, who would immediately advance into the city.

The men on the ramparts saw this curious caravan, and they began wondering what it was, and for two or three days they left it alone.

At last an old chieftain said, “It must be their food.”

On the third day they opened the gates, and attaching ropes, began to haul it into the city; then the warriors leaped out, and the horn blew, and the army hurried up, and the town was taken after great slaughter; but a number escaped with their wives and children, and fled on to the Crimea, whence they were driven by the Russians, so they marched away along the sea to Spain, and bearing up through France, they stopped. Some wanted to go across the sea, and some stayed in the heart of France: they were the Bretoons. [Footnote: Bretons.] The others came on over in boats, and landed in England, and they were the first people settled in Great Britain: they were the Welsh.
Dead Can Dance – ‘Agape’

Mr. Whitman Says
I want to close with this, from Mr. Whitman.


“I think I could turn and live with the animals, they are so placid and self contained;
I stand and look at them long and long.
They do not sweat and whine about their condition;
They do not lie awake in the dark and weep for their sins;
They do not make me sick discussing their duty to God;
Not one is dissatisfied-not one is demented with the mania of owning things;
Not one kneels to another, nor his kind that lived thousands of years ago;
Not one is responsible or industrious over the whole earth.”
― Walt Whitman

In The Field Of The Seraphim

“When a society is afraid of its poets, it is afraid of itself. A society afraid of itself stands as another definition of hell.”
— Lenore Kandel

In The Field Of The Seraphim - Gwyllm 2014
In The Field Of The Seraphim – Gwyllm 2014

Before I stand accused of nostalgia, let me offer this up: This entry is a telling of a tale of exploration, and perhaps illumination, not unlike countless others across time and the universe, but it has a set and setting…

I am not one to relive/rehash my youth. I am quite happy in this day and age. As far as youth goes it was not the most comfortable of times, in my way I was awkward, and not quite in step with the society of the time.

Part of this tale is the discovery that one had been indoctrinated from early age consciously and unconsciously.  The shock of this realization can engender a certain amount of despair and darkness that one has to muck out. Spiritual and psychological awakenings are births, and as such are messy by nature. I think that everyone has these realizations along the way. For me it came early, as you shall read.

I hope you enjoy this story, and that you find it revealing if not of me, then of those times.

Bright Blessings,


On The Menu:
Psychedelic Quotes
In The Field Of The Seraphim
Lenore Kandel Poetry
Richard Brautigan Poetry
Jefferson Airplane
Country Joe & The Fish
Psychedelic Quotes:


“I am 100 percent in favor of the intelligent use of drugs, and 1,000 percent against the thoughtless use of them, whether caffeine or LSD. And drugs are not central to my life.” – Timothy Leary

“Acid doesn’t give you truths; it builds machines that push the envelope of perception. Whatever revelations came to me then have dissolved like skywriting. All I really know is that those few years saddled me with a faith in the redemptive potential of the imagination which, however flat, stale and unprofitable the world seems to me now, I cannot for the life of me shake.”
-Erik Davis

“Objects and their functions no longer had any significance. All I perceived was perception itself, the hell of forms and figures devoid of human emotion and detached from the reality of my unreal environment. I was an instrument in a virtual world that constantly renewed its own meaningless image in a living world that was itself perceived outside of nature. And since the appearance of things was no longer definitive but limitless, this paradisiacal awareness freed me from the reality external to myself. The fire and the rose, as it were, became one.”
― Federico Fellini

“It’s a very salutary thing to realize that the rather dull universe in which most of us spend most of our time is not the only universe there is. I think it’s healthy that people should have this experience.”
― Aldous Huxley, Moksha: Writings on Psychedelics & the Visionary Experience

“Part of what psychedelics do is they decondition you from cultural values. This is what makes it such a political hot potato. Since all culture is a kind of con game, the most dangerous candy you can hand out is one which causes people to start questioning the rules of the game.”
― Terence McKenna

“I wish creatine (and whey) could solve all world problems… and lift humanity into the next level of consciousness. Apparently, psychedelics are more likely to do so…”
― Deepak ‘The Fitness Doc’ Hiwale

In The Field Of The Seraphim

Gwyllm - 1966
Gwyllm – 1966

 Intro: In the early summer of 1966 I left home at the age of 14 and headed to downtown Denver for most of that summer.  I worked at what was one of the few remaining Beat Coffee shops, “The Green Spider”, which was located at 17th and Pearl Streets,  2 or 3 doors down from “The Folklore Center” which was an instrument and music store that I spent an inordinate amount of time hanging out in.  I discovered The Blues, not the derivative stuff coming out of Britain, but The Blues there, and layers upon layers of Folk Music and the emerging Psychedelic Music from The West Coast and elsewhere.  Pretty heady stuff for a young guy, but I leapt into it with the assistance of Harry who owned The Folklore Center, and his chief sales assistant, Michael O’Sullivan.  Michael turned me on to the first EP of Country Joe & The Fish, and the early Big Brother album amongst others.  Michael had been in the Air Force but had bailed I think with an insanity plea, he had the longest hair I had ever seen, an he talked to me all the time about his times in San Francisco in the Haight Ashbury community.  He was like someone who had had a vision, and he wanted to spread the good news.  He talked about a band that he’d seen, and that it was the most amazing band ever.  He talked about the vocalist, and the sound.  “It’s like no other band” he said, “The Jefferson Airplane, they are fantastic!”  By the time early August came, I was considering heading to San Francisco to see what it was all about.  I walked over to the Folklore Center one afternoon, and Michael met me at the door. “I’ve got something for you to listen too!” he exclaimed. And it was The Airplanes’ first album:

I was entranced. I mentioned it to my friend James, about this burning desire to go to the Bay Area to see The Jefferson Airplane.  Now James was about 3 years older than yours truly, which seemed almost ancient.  He had tales of riding freights to Chicago to see Blues Bands, and tales of riding across to California.  He smoked rolled up cigarettes, usually garnering the tobacco from butts and the like.  He was the epitome of boho cool to me.  He knew the poets, and he was obviously more experienced than I! ….. 

Prt 1. Travelling The Rails

James & I made our plans, including a raid on an Air Raid Shelter in the basement of the apartment house across from The Green Spider for saltless crackers, candy etc. It was all very exciting, and in a week or so we caught a ride from friends up to to Cheyenne, right in the middle of “Frontier Days”. If there was ever a backward facing place in 1966, Wyoming was it. The one hip location in town was a Coffee Shop, with military recruitment posters as decor. Mind Boggling.

Having to kill time, we snuck into the Frontier Days Event for a while, and caught “Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs” (not bad, they gave us a knowing nod whilst they played), having missed those psychedelic crusaders, “The Doppler Effect” who were traveling through with a light show (first on the block kids!), and their assorted circle of freaks… We dodged drunk cowboys looking for fights half the night until we made our escape out to the rail yard around midnight… 

FreightWe eventually caught the Highball to Ogden/Salt Lake, in a refrigerated car without the refrigeration on of course… we climbed down into the refrigeration unit from the top. It was a long trip, and though we had crackers and candy, we realized we had no water. Thirst started to build up… and the noise, dust and dirt was a straight assault on the senses. We rode for awhile on top of the car, stars wheeling as we laughed into the darkness.

It seemed an eternity, but we finally arrived into the Ogden/Salt Lake Rail Yards half way towards the next evening. we spent the next couple of hours dodging Rail Dicks armed with axe-handles looking for bums and freeloaders… (which we qualified for in spades at this point) We finally connected onto another train just as it was leaving for California, with pursuit close behind. We landed on a moving piggy-back car, that as it gained speed, gave no relief from the wind. By the time it was dark we were hurtling over the great Salt Lake at what seemed 80 miles an hour.


We were starting to chill down, having sweated with the heat, and no water, with the wind buffeting us, our temperatures started to dip. I was miserable. James decided to open up the Truck Trailer so we could get some relief from the cold and wind… He was at the end of the car struggling with the trailer door when the wind caught him, and the door swung James off the car holding on for dear life to the door handle over the Salt Lake. I grabbed the door and pushed and pulled him back in. He had let out a mighty scream at first, but held on for dear life.

We crawled up into the car when we finally got it all under control.. Ah heaven! and then, we began to sneeze.. we both started to have the most amazing allergy attack.

The trailer had been used to haul fruit, and it was full of pollen, and mold. We finally crawled back out of the trailer and spent a very cold night huddled at the front of the car, buffeted by the wind.

Next morning we pulled into the railhead in Nevada at Sparks. Plenty of rail dicks, but we just huddled down, too exhausted to move. The train eventually started up again, and we headed into the Sierra Nevada. We started to become very excited, knowing that we were on the edge of California! We knew we would dead-head at Roseville above Sacramento, and we figured it was about 6-7 hours away. We started babbling about water, and bathing and getting into the bay area. We sucked on the candy, as our mouths were cracking most painfully.

maprailThings were picking up. The higher we went the cooler it got. We were elated, and then up ahead, we saw a tunnel. Into it we went, and all of a sudden, we were choking on diesel fumes from the 4 engines ahead. I ended up wrapping my shirt around my face trying to filter out the smoke and carbon monoxide. There was nothing for it. Just hold on, keep your face down and try not to breath… for 8 miles!

Finally we burst out of the tunnel. We were covered in soot, my hair was caked with grease and stood straight back. James was rolling with laughter on the cars floor, until I pointed out he was just as filthy. We eventually came to the peak elevation, and then started winding down into the Sacramento Valley. Heaven. That fabulous light that defines California was cascading down.

We talked about the bands we would see, and the people we would meet up with. We finally got into Roseville, and as we slid off the piggy-back car, a jeep pulled up with rail-dicks. One was on the radio, and we heard him say, “we got two more” I just knew we were in for it. The one on the radio walked up, looked at us, and said, “come over here” He led us to the jeep, and pulled out a watermelon and gave it to us! He pointed out a potable water source, and told us how to get to the highway. He said, ” you look rough… take the bus next time!” We thanked them profusely, first for not arresting us, and for the kind gift. You never know when you might run into a Saint, I swear. I held my head under the water and it ran black. We drank and drank until we could drink no more. Water never, never tasted better. We had been 3 days without, across the great American desert. Luck must bless youth. I didn’t realize the danger we were in for quite awhile…. Speaking of danger, a day or so later a maintenance crew found a body in the tunnel be. Someone had slit his throat and threw him off a moving train.  It could of possibly been the same train James & I were on. You just never know.

So we made it to the highway, stuck out our thumbs and got a ride immediately by a trucker on his way to the Bay Area. He dropped us off 4 blocks from where we were going to stay in Berkeley.

Prt 2 In Berkeley:

Jabberwock-Coffee House
Jabberwock-Coffee House

So we rest up in Berkeley… I connect with friends/acquaintances I had met in Denver who had been passing through from New York City. (They had given us the address of the commune we were staying at) Franz and Stephanie. Nice couple, he, a hair dresser from the Village, and Stephanie was a designer. They had hitched through Denver a month before I ventured west. They stayed with me in one of the many places I crashed that summer. (in their case, the Speed House – kinda explanatory!) We had some great times and good conversations. 

Well we were in Berkeley, in a commune with very nice people. 4 blocks to the west of Telegraph or so. It has been a long time, I wouldn’t be able to find it now. Berkeley was buzzing in that summer. The Peace Movement, SDS, Telegraph of course, and Sproul Plaza. I wandered everywhere. Fog at night. Hungry, always hungry. How come a 14 year old is always so hungry? I couldn’t busk fast enough or panhandle fast enough for food. We ate the crackers, ate the candy, and every bowl of brown rice pushed in our faces at the commune. The main room in the house had a pool table. I really wasn’t very good at it, and felt a fool everytime I picked up a cue. It was fun though. Music was always playing. Bob Dylan – Sad Eyed Lady Of The Low Lands. I had listened to Dylan for a couple of years at that point, but I fell head over heels for Blond on Blond. Evenings drifting with cannabis smoke in the air, and Dylans’ voice floating through the rooms and the back yard. 

It was a good time.

I needed work, and things were tight. So, I found out that you could do day labor on farms in the valley. With one of the guys at the Commune, I went to Oakland at 4:00AM to catch a bus. The whole bus was full of Mexican migrant farm workers. We were the only 2 gringos’ aboard.

I swear, there is nothing harder than picking crops or clearing weeds from 6 in the morning to 6 at night on an empty stomach. I actually ended up in the hole owing the bus and the crew chief. The Mexicans were blazingly fast, and kind, very kind. Everytime one sped past me, he stuffed my basket with veg. I was humbled. They knew me from Adam, and yet they helped me as they could. I sit here typing, and I am smiling at the memories of them. 

Finally (cutting to the chase) after much discussion about LSD, one of the commune members mentioned that I could partake if I wanted. Being the weekend, the whole house was geared up for this. I had sat and watched 2 or so earlier sessions, demuring. I was curious though, very curious. The fact was I had said to my friends from NY (“Of course I have!”) when I first met them. Of course, I also said I was 16 which we all know was not the truth….

So, the story goes like this…

around 6:00 in the evening, I am offered the Host. Supposedly it is something called “Sandoz” said with much gravity and smiling. I accept it, swallow and out the door we go, wandering up to Telegraph, where we eventually wander into the Jabberwock Cafe. We sit back, have a espresso, and Country Joe and the Fish wander on to the stage and start playing. The music is wonderful, and as it goes on, “it” becomes wider and wider. The Farfisa Organ takes on a calling sound, that I soon find irresistible, and soon I find myself crawling under the organ to sit and soak it all in, to the bemusement of the band and my friends. At the end of the set, we head out. I hear the music reverberating throughout my being.

The night is slowly coming on, and we head down the streets to the commune, and it seems like eternity…

I notice that there is an inner dialogue going on, and it is like nothing I have ever experienced. I am looking at myself, and “someone” is commenting on my actions and thoughts. It seems to be painful, and it unfolds deeper and deeper. I see motivations, and the “accidents” and paths chosen that have led me to this place. I am soon being stripped bare in a light that is to some point alien, but not unfamilar. I can see that my life is not a good one. I have started to cover up my being with coatings of un-truth. And each coating is re-enforced by each action regardless. I am smothering. I am uncomfortable, and I have to walk, and get away and…

Oh, the ragman draws circles
Up and down the block.
I’d ask him what the matter was
But i know that he don’t talk.
And the ladies treat me kindly
And furnish me with tape,
But deep inside my heart
I know i can’t escape.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
Well, shakespeare, he’s in the alley
With his pointed shoes and his bells,
Speaking to some french girl,
Who says she knows me well.
And i would send a message
To find out if she’s talked,
But the post office has been stolen
And the mailbox is locked.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

reverberates through my head. I wander out of my revelry, and find myself in the living room watching a pool game. I realize I know where every ball will go before it happens, because there are lines radiating out from each ball with the path it will take. They also leave the lines behind them, glowing and whispering…

Mona tried to tell me
To stay away from the train line.
She said that all the railroad men
Just drink up your blood like wine.
An’ i said, “oh, i didn’t know that,
But then again, there’s only one i’ve met
An’ he just smoked my eyelids
An’ punched my cigarette.”
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
Grandpa died last week
And now he’s buried in the rocks,
But everybody still talks about
How badly they were shocked.
But me, i expected it to happen,
I knew he’d lost control
When he built a fire on main street
And shot it full of holes.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again..”

I am totally enraptured by what is occuring. I am also afraid. I am of two minds. I am of many minds. I certainly am confused.
My friends from New York (Franz and Stephanie) sit down next to me on the couch. Gentle probing questions come. “How are you doing”? “What are you seeing”? “Do you have something you need to share”? So I pour my heart out, about seeing the Truth of my young self. I painfully confess my age. “Oh, we knew, we were waiting for you to tell us though” came the reply.

So we sit and talk about being truthful to your self, and learning to love the truth even when it hurts. On one hand this seems like a great idea, on the other hand, this is killing me. I feel the waves going back and forth inside.

Now the senator came down here
Showing ev’ryone his gun,
Handing out free tickets
To the wedding of his son.
An’ me, i nearly got busted
An’ wouldn’t it be my luck
To get caught without a ticket
And be discovered beneath a truck.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
Now the preacher looked so baffled
When i asked him why he dressed
With twenty pounds of headlines
Stapled to his chest.
But he cursed me when i proved it to him,
Then i whispered, “not even you can hide.
You see, you’re just like me,
I hope you’re satisfied.”
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

The night wears on. I am standing in a hallway, staring at a light bulb above me. I walk then outside into the garden. It is heavy with presence and beauty. I sit beneath a eucalyptus tree. I feel odd. I feel cleansed. I feel like myself. I go deeper and deeper. People wander out to check on me. I realize that they care. This seems to be first in my life.

The night breathes in and out of me. I examine the story of my life further. I see that there is a path, and I have to find it. My mind boggles at the whole idea. Confusion is like a river and it carries us all along. I see the world as a river. I see time stretching out behind and before me. I am skewered in the now.

Now the rainman gave me two cures,
Then he said, “jump right in.”
The one was texas medicine,
The other was just railroad gin.
An’ like a fool i mixed them
An’ it strangled up my mind,
An’ now people just get uglier
An’ i have no sense of time.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.
When ruthie says come see her
In her honky-tonk lagoon,
Where i can watch her waltz for free
‘neath her panamanian moon.
An’ i say, “aw come on now,
You must know about my debutante.”
An’ she says, “your debutante just knows what you need
But i know what you want.”
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

The hours keep rolling past. People sit, and talk. For the first time, I feel no separation between them and myself. I find a place like peace. Everything looks like a giant fish eye lense photo. Everything is like a giant calliope! It is a celebration! Everyone knows the great secret! The world swirls ever so fast.
I hear an echoing laugh going on and on and on. I realize it is coming out of me.

Faces look like plastic. I find myself staring in a mirror. I loathe what I see, I see something else, what am I doing in the Bathroom? I find myself in the hall staring at light bulb again. My head truly hurts with all that is inside. Will this ever end?
I have to get outside, I have to walk!

“Now the bricks lay on grand street
Where the neon madmen climb.
They all fall there so perfectly,
It all seems so well timed.
An’ here i sit so patiently
Waiting to find out what price
You have to pay to get out of
Going through all these things twice.
Oh, mama, can this really be the end,
To be stuck inside of mobile
With the memphis blues again.”

Berkeley Sunrise
Berkeley Sunrise

The sun is rising, and we are walking in the morning mist, up into the hills. I watch the sun come up. Everything is suffused with beauty. I hear the world waking up. I think I must be a madman. This passes. I feel happy. I want to do this again. No, it was much to painful. We walk down the hill back to the commune and I finally fall asleep out in the yard in the chair.

My life would never be the same again.

Things that I did not do on that visit to California:
I did not make it to San Francisco.
I did not see the Jefferson Airplane.
I missed the Beatles last show
I missed the last Acid Test

Somewhere along the line James disappeared.  Perhaps to Big Sur, or down to L.A.  One minute he was there, and the next, gone.

I realize in writing all this out, that my date for my first LSD experience was in August. August 30th to be exact. I went and researched play dates of Country Joe and the Fish. They played the Jabberwock at the end of August. I also realize that as I wandered down Telegraph that I was there when the Beatles Revolver Album came out. (August 15th to be exact for the US release) Yellow Submarine made much more sense on August 31st. The window display at a record store changed when I was there from the Byrds’ Fifth Dimension to The Revolver Album. I have a mind for trivia.

I still get Bob Dylan fixations all these years later. I still like watching pool balls. I know longer know where they are going though. And that is alright.

On this trip, I did not see colours, or visions. What I saw was my young life, and how it was unfolding. LSD saved my life, or at least my spirit. I am sure that it is not that different than many others experienced that month in Berkeley. I got to meet my shadow, and a new possible self. LSD is a powerful tool. Use it wisely.

If LSD can begin to turn someones life around in one go, then it must be a blessing. I have spent much time pondering that night and morning. It is the dividing line in my life, then and now. Still in the now. The watershed so to speak.

I want to thank the gentle souls who guided me that night, and protected me as my soul came forth. Many thanks to Franz for his probing questions and gentle guidance, and Stephanies’ caring and constant cups of tea. I never saw them again after I left Berkeley. I don’t know where they are, but my gratitude goes out to them still all these years on.
Looking Back: I realize years later that this first experience exposed me to what I would call the observer self for the first time.  Before I studied the works of Gurdjieff, or read the works of Jung, I came face to face with the observer, and my life was never the same.  One of the difficulties afterwards, and for years after was finding the language for these experiences. As I grow older, the language has emerged, and resolution along with deeper understanding.

Bright Blessings,
Lenore Kandel Poetry

The Love Book
The Love Book

Invocation for Maitreya

to invoke the divinity in man with the mutual gift of love
with love as animate and bright as death
the alchemical transfiguration of two separate entities
into one efflorescent deity made manifest in radiant human flesh
our bodies whirling through the cosmos, the kiss of heartbeats
the subtle cognizance of hand for hand, and tongue for tongue
the warm moist fabric of the body opening into star-shot rose flowers
the dewy cock effulgent as it bursts the star
sweet cunt-mouth of world serpent Ouroboros girding the universe
as it takes in its own eternal cock, and cock and cunt united
join the circle
moving through realms of flesh made fantasy and fantasy made flesh
love as a force that melts the skin so that our bodies join
one cell at a time
until there is nothing left but the radiant universe
the meteors of light flaming through wordless skies
until there is nothing left but the smell of love
but the taste of love, but the fact of love
until love lies dreaming in the crotch of god …
Enlightenment Poem

we have all been brothers, hermaphroditic as oysters

bestowing our pearls carelessly

no one yet had invented ownership

nor guilt nor time
we watched the seasons pass, we were as crystalline as snow

and melted gently into newer forms

as stars spun round our heads

we had not yet learned betrayal
our selves were pearls

irritants transmuted into luster

and offered carelessly

our pearls became more precious and our sexes static

mutability grew a shell, we devised different languages

new words for new concepts, we intvented alarm clocks

fences loyalty

still… even now… making a feint at communion

infinite perceptions

I remember

we have all been brothers

and offer carelessly

To Whom It Does Concern

Do you believe me when I say / you’re beautiful
I stand here and look at you out of the vision of my eyes
and into the vision of your eyes and I see you and you’re an
and I see you and you’re divine and I see you and you’re a
divine animal
and you’re beautiful
the divine is not separate from the beast; it is the total crea-
ture that
transcends itself
the messiah that has been invoked is already here
you are that messiah waiting to be born again into awareness
you are beautiful; we are all beautiful
you are divine; we are all divine
divinity becomes apparent on its own recognition
accept the being that you are and illuminate yourself”
Poem for Tyrants

sentient beings are numberless-
I vow to enlighten them all

-The First Vow of Buddhism

it seems I must love even you
easier loving the pretty things
the children the morning glories
easier (as compassion grows)
to love the stranger

easy even to realize (with compassion)
the pain and terror implicit in those
who treat the world around them
with such brutality such hate

but oh I am no christ
blessing my executioners
I am no buddha no saint
nor have I that incandescent strength
of faith illuminated

yet even so
you are a sentient being
breathing this air
even as I am a sentient being
breathing this air
seeking my own enlightenment
I must seek yours

if I had love enough
if I had faith enough
perhaps I could transcend your path
and alter even that

forgive me, then―
I cannot love you yet
Richard Brautigan Poetry

Richard Brautigan
Richard Brautigan

At the California Institute of Technology

I don’t care how God-damn smart
these guys are: I’m bored.
Gee, You’re So Beautiful That It’s Starting To Rain

Oh, Marcia,
I want your long blonde beauty
to be taught in high school,
so kids will learn that God
lives like music in the skin
and sounds like a sunshine harpsicord.
I want high school report cards
to look like this:
Just Because

Just because
people love your mind,
doesn’t mean they
have to have
your body,
Yes, the Fish Music

A trout-colored wind blows
through my eyes, through my fingers,
and I remember how the trout
used to hide from the dinosaurs
when they came to drink at the river.
The trout hid in subways, castles,
and automobiles. They waited patiently for the dinosaurs to go away.


The Calling - Gwyllm 2013
The Calling – Gwyllm 2013


Embracing Tao, you become embraced.
Supple, breathing gently, you become reborn.
Clearing your vision, you become clear.
Nurturing your beloved, you become impartial.
Opening your heart, you become accepted.
Accepting the World, you embrace Tao.
Bearing and nurturing,
Creating but not owning,
Giving without demanding,
Controlling without authority,
This is love.
– Lao Tzu