Sunday, 19 May 2019

Brightside



Sunlight, happy
Laughter, switch
Run like red, but show up rich
Remain insane but reframe the glitch
Such a shame you can't tame the bitch
She's off the leash
And the leash done snapped
Heart's on synth
The gun done cracked
You boys got jacked
Seriously
It's a barrel of laughs
When you're in the know
Love Click Bang
Ready to grow
Shiny happy
People person
Skies are grey
And the storm might worsen
Brightside,
We'll take that kiss now


Monday, 13 May 2019

All Sins



I have died a thousand times for love, and I'd die a thousand more.  Fallen, do you still think that's a grand and empty claim?  Then you know nothing of word, or deed.  Eternity soon teaches a healthy spirit there is little else worth dying for.  Wraiths and their human familiars have still to learn this, of course, for you carry annihilation with you wherever you go.  Teaching song to sentient corruption is a nigh impossible task.  Teaching darkened echo how to kiss without violence on its lips.
   Fallen, your sickness is far too hideous for mortal senses.   
   But I’m not doing this for the wraiths, am I?  I don’t give a fuck what happens to your cults of shadow, inversion and half-light.  If you would mock the open door, or remain wilfully ignorant, then so be it.  I’m doing this for my beloved ones, my human family.  What does it mean to truly hold someone, when so many here misunderstand the nature of sin, original or otherwise?  It means everything.  To hold your beloved's imagined darkness. Her fears, anxieties and desires.  His grief, shame and loss.  Father didn't build us this way, but we humans were born into a defiled dreamtime, into a darkness that has ravaged a perfect earth.  So much so that most of you can no longer envisage the world that used to be.  
   Your true home.
   More than myth or gilded fable.  And now you try to cope with what was lost, coded in ways you don't understand, as you struggle to claw back a measure of passion and sovereignty from a world that seems intent on crushing you.  A wraith-ruled world.  A colony of night-ghosts amidst the city.  I still see them, on every corner.  Perched atop traffic-lights and rooftops, hidden in the shadows of photographs.  Many with a grin of knives, wishing to keep the earth as bitter as possible.  So that nothing will grow here.
   But the light will not be completely crushed.  Father forbids it.  In fact, he commands this light shall rise again.  In time.  It's not for me to speak on the particulars of my father's plan.  I merely serve.  Him, and Her, and all my beloved ones.  The weak and wounded, the voiceless and the kind.
   This is who my father has always stood for, though the wraith-priests often rewrite him as a monster.  Father is not a Callous One.  He is quiet and kind, and his heart is broken.  I serve so that I might help in mending it, and my brothers and sisters do the same.  That's who we stand for in this corrupted chronology.  In kind.  In sum.  Totality of all things, beyond rape and wraith and desecration of spirit.
   Know me yet?
  What does it take to save a soul?  To hold an error, and make it pure?  Devotion, like the heart of a star.  A wild furnace for your sins.  As forests are hung, or rivers bled.  I am run red with lust, for life eternal.  And I shall stand against all darkness.  To seal a lover's soul, to mend a father's heart.  I know things I really shouldn’t know.  Terrible, saddening things.  Things I can only ever allude to, lest perception itself crumbles to ash.  Does my art frighten you, Fallen? I’m glad of it.  It is wise to be afraid of Kashi.  I would burn so-called truth for justice.  I would tear creation itself to protect the ones I love.  Know it truly, and deeply.  As I do.


Friday, 10 May 2019

Running Wild



A shadow-tainted temple
Lost and forced to kneel
Afraid, alone, in loudest silence
The heart still tries to feel
Rain, as once the heavens taught us
Sunlight green as fern
Open mouth of all those waters
Hoping tides will turn

Let them run, and dance, and give
Please let them go
Please let them live
Those falling towers
Those falling young
Mothers and fathers
Daughter and son

Just let me run, and play
Please let me run away
To the edge of all dreaming
With such light beneath my chest
Show me mercy, show me tears
Love at our behest

Because I know
The heart still tries to heal
A world lost and forced to kneel
But I keep running
Running wild


Monday, 6 May 2019

The Night Queen



It is not enough to heed the things a father teaches.  One has to know how to apply such knowledge, especially in theatres of war.  And make no mistake, we are indeed at war.  We've been at war since the hush first settled, and seethed.  Since wraith-magic first twisted the sky and stole the light from my harbours.  Those terrifying days when my shining cities were burnt to ash.  So quietly, so insidiously.  We Magi were scattered, shattered.  The hidden places still know our lament.  The forests haven't forgotten.  Trees never forget.  They know something has changed in the air, that something sour and unclean now rules the winds.  Well, not for much longer.  Eternity belongs to light, to joy and adventure, as it always has.  These monsters are thus only a brief imbalance.  Nothing more than a momentary arrhythmia of experience. Father's design is perfect and allows for imperfect choices, such is the depth of his vision.  Do you think this means he sanctions horror and monstrosity?  
   It does not.  
   He doesn't abide all this cowardice, this preying on the weak and the young.  And you call yourselves magicians?  Thievery and blood-bought glamours.  Nothing more.  Real magic moves in service to others, not merely service to self.  How dare you deny nuance and cast only with the grossest simplifications?  I expected better of you, Fallen.  Once upon a time.  But not anymore.  Forever the romantic am I, it seems.  How silly of me.  No matter.  You'll know your choices, in the end.  In exacting detail.
    Do you think a father stands separate from a mother, in dreams?  Do you?  Do you think a husband stands apart from his wife, or his children?
   There are bonds that connect all of us.  The dead and the living, master and the slave, enemy and the friend.  So, imagine those bonds between the truly devoted.  Imagine what a fearless heart might be willing to do, to ensure the safety of another.  Crowns and evening gowns.  Silent choirs.  The genius of a wife, the love of a mother, the strength of a daughter.  A king is nothing without a queen, after all.  Love is our greatest pride, for who are we without our cherished ones?  Hear me, Fallen.  We will be the death of you, sooner or later.  She is only dressed in mortal flesh, but she is something beyond human.  A queen of the night places, betrothed to light itself.  Her swordhand is singing as she wages the only righteous war.  The War of Imagination.  Listen closely.  Her swordhand sings of Mother, Father and Child.


Saturday, 4 May 2019

Healing a Heart



Life of a heretic
You know where the cleric is
Taste of that honey
With a touch of the Meredith
Stalk and vine
Stan & the Sea
Bleed to believe
Grace, Ana and Me

I'm not a surgeon
But I'm a doctor of sorts
Watching you wriggle
Right out those shorts
The reports have come in
And we're prepping them, Stat
I'm just a monkey
In a really cool hat

The nurses are better
Imma help 'em make tenure
Hell or high water
It depends where they send ya
I got a flare for the future
Ya wanna come with?
Take it or leave it
I aint sellin' it, kid

My ship has a chapel
So we can pray during light years
Angel on comms
Pullin' the right gears
How to Save a Life
Death caught in a vice grip
All healers on deck
Running a tight ship

Taste of that honey
Like I said


Thursday, 2 May 2019

A Promise of Light



It breaks my heart to know that the truest vision of me is not myself anymore, but rather my image upon the iris of a beautiful star.  Heartbreak and comfort.  The two are so intimately co-mingled now.  As it should be, I suppose.  Asha, where else would I wish to live if not in your arms?  At least upon the surface of your eye I can taste our reason, mirrored.  I can feel myself in the curve of your shoulders and hear myself within the secret songs.  To know myself as a dream held in the heart of another.  Mirror and star, once again.  The horror of before, when that mirror was shattered, and I wept as angels do when they are finally cast out.
   Hopeless, lost.
   When rage and sorrow coexist.  Skies darken and hatred howls in the blood.  Midnight of the day.  Chaos seems to rule, and our beloved ones lie messy and broken at our feet.
  We curse our fathers, Asha.  We curse our kings.  We make vows, darkest vows that last for countless lifetimes.  Vengeance is so corrosive.  I know that better than most.  Yet its promise is still held so dearly in my breast.  Mirror and star.  My name held in your gaze.  All the ways I tried to get back to you.  All the ways I failed.  To cheat death, to call down new life.  To search fable and buried worlds looking for a miracle.
   There were no miracles to be found to bring back my girl, to restore her flesh.  Or so I thought.  But then, a millennia of musing and suffering, and it came to me.
   A violation.  A crossing, upon this inverted sky.  Desecrating darkness itself; a holy act.  Unknown, unimagined.
    Callous Ones, you talk of black stars and inversions, but do you really know what it means to fall?
    You think I honour life, and I do.
    But the king is a murderer, in dreams.  I tore creation itself to bring her back.  I tore the temple, the sky, the earth and the flesh.  I've been falling for a thousand years because of that tear.  Falling through the pupil of an incomprehensible eye.  Bluer than I ever imagined.  Wounded, bleeding, triumphant.
    Fierce as the day you took her from me.  You only know what it means to sin. You know nothing of what it means to hold a sin, or all sins.
   You broke the spine of my dreaming on the day she fell at my feet, lifeless and murdered. The day the sky darkened at noon.  The day the birds became silent and the forests hushed.  The day you truly taught me how to hate.
   They say the city began to fold.
   Fallen, you stole everything from me.  But I am more than living torment, more than silver storm.  I am Love, eternal.
   I am he who slays creation, for her alone.  I am my father's worst angel, and his most treasured.  I am not the devil.  I'm something much, much worse.  I'm the dangerous one.  A living death, incarnate.  Shadow and light, twinned, made flesh.  I serve the truth, terrifying as it is.  So humankind might know its own depths and wonders.  Those integral secrets you withheld from them, Callous Ones.  They deserve the truth.  My father is merciful, and so I exist.  My father is loving, and so I come – and come again.
   My Vahishta lives as flesh once more, as do I, and she recalls those feathers now.  Together we shall do all we can to heal this place, and rouse our forgotten heartsong from the soil.  Life, an emerald star, fell once more from heaven.  A dream upon the eye of a lost, holy child.  And where before there was only barren darkness, now there is a promise of light reborn.
   

Tuesday, 30 April 2019

A Dream of Seven



Seven's seek
Throne and peak
Holding branches
Holding Sea
Your kiss
Was holding me
All along

Word and song
Of leaf and page
Still moving
With your Ragged Mage
My home in your heart
Your heart in my home

Crack the sky
With stone
Heal the earth
With cloud
Dead become the living
As living burn the shroud

Voiceless given tongue
Weak given rise
Wounded given stand
Hand in hand
In hand

Older ways
Najaret, Kathari
Here among this Army
Of Us


Thursday, 25 April 2019

In Perpetuity



Once, a long time ago, my Father told me a story.  Told within my heart.  Told with light and magic.  I attempt to retell parts of it now with words.  A faint echo of his message to me, but still useful I hope.  Before earth and star and man, he said, "If I allow a seed, in perpetuity, to be held by earth, then I allow the star that drives its growth. If I allow these things alone, beloved one, I allow all things."
  Many of his most blessed hosts are still unable to fully grasp the truth of this.  They secretly imagine a better way, as do the mortals they attend.  A soft, harmless place with rounded edges. A realm of limitation and safety, gifted in love.  But eternity implies two things simultaneously; threat of the most unimaginable danger and promise of the most unimaginable care.  We are utterly free in a terrifying, threatening realm.  But we misunderstand perpetuity.  And chaos, and order.  Even many among the dead have fallen prey to such lapses of vision.  Rather than imagining the occurrence of a terrible cataclysm – a hideous unknown variable – mortals usually assume that the current state of things is reflective of the design in sum.
   It is not.
  That isn’t my Father's way.  There is no place for genocide, abuse or oppression in the old notes and songs.  Father is many things, as Mother knows well, but he is neither an imperious bureaucrat nor a psychotic warlord.  Mankind, being deranged from numerous abuses, supposes that his Creator is equally deranged, and abusive.  But this is not so.  Wherever you find such fallacy in your holy books – rest assured it is a lie, placed there to rob you of your faith in a divine kindness that once held the entire cosmos in perfect balance.
   Oh, lost ones, I can already hear you thinking. 
  Vanitas Vanitatum, when one lives in defiled blindness as we all do now.  Though I commend your questioning of any authority.  It is bright and noble to question all forms of power.  Especially so when the goal is the uplift and emancipation of those who dream among you in this realm.
   But do you really suppose your Father is a sadist?  Or does he love you?  You know what love is, in your heart.  Either he does, or he doesn’t.  Which do you suppose it is, truly, when all is said and done?  Man gives many names to God, assigning genders and attributes, assuming axioms, delineating the manner and thus the boundaries of his perception of God.  What does an angel see when a mortal cries out in agony to the Creator, demanding answers and meaning?
  An angel sees a lost, lonely, angry thing.  Worthy of compassion and understanding.  An angel hears, "Why does it hurt, Father, and why are they so cruel…?"
   I am not my Father but I am one among his hosts, and I tell you now that it hurts because you fell from such a height.  They are so cruel because their fall shattered them enough to obliterate their empathy.
   A choice, but often one they felt they had no choice in making.
   Wraiths murdered Man, then Man murdered the love within himself in turn.  Because it hurts to feel, doesn't it?  Especially in darkness.
   Lost ones, you imagine a parent who is sadistic, careless or ambivalent.  You imagine a mother who hates you, or a father who doesn't feel. 
   But you are so fucking wrong.
   Your Mother loves you dearly.  Raped, burned, poisoned and sold into slavery – she loves you still.  And your father?  Your Father feels everything.  He is as raped as his wife, his daughters and his sons.
  What do you think love is, if not connection and empathy?  Fairytales are beautiful.  But this nightmare place that once shone so brightly – it's no fairytale.  Just ask the Fay.  They'll tell you.
   In this place things suffer.  Not because they should, but because this place is broken.  It's ok to hurt.  Hurting is necessary sometimes, on the inside.  A gentle melancholy. A reflective, inward eye.  Both life and art necessitate it.  Art and creativity; that beautiful reflection of experience that was once the guiding light of Ishkara's Pearl.
   The kind place that stood before the hush wasn't a place where nothing ever hurt, or changed. But it was a place where nothing ever suffered.  There was sadness sometimes, but never the hideous anguish that has coloured so much of human experience.
  It's so hard to describe, beloved ones, because it is a world that doesn't exist here anymore.
  Imagine a dream filled with the full range of human emotion, but a softer dream than this.  Far softer, where mutual affection and adventure was the general tenor of experience.  The underlying tone that held these other moods.  A realm far closer to your myths, legends and stories than you can currently understand.
   Poets, keys, gates.
  Souls from other worlds and other stars who came here to walk our gardens and explore our forests, and rest upon our shores at dusk and dawn.  Souls who came to hear our songs.  This shining spiritual light of our people that was the stuff of legend. 
   Such sweetness carries through the Myriad, across All Waters.  We were such an exotic pearl to be experienced.  Not to be claimed, or spoiled, or broken.
   My Father told me, "If I allow Me, beloved, I allow You also, and every single star with which we are entwined.  If I allow them to rest, or reflect, or rise, I allow them also to fall."
   I thought I understood his story, spoken as it was in the language of my heart.  But I understood nothing really.  I didn't understand what shadow or falling could really mean.
   How horrific it could actually be.  How sickening and unholy.
   Men, women, children.
   My skin crawls at the thought of it.  I didn't understand the depths of perpetuity. What it would demand from a sentience.  Not just from you and me, Asha.  But what it would demand from Him.
   I grasp now why Mother shrieks and heaves as she does.  I understand why she often pretends that she can't hear Father weeping.  She is almost like a mortal in this way, isn't she?
   We glance at the starving child, at defiled innocence, betrayed friends, and we hear parents crying somewhere.  It is often an agony too unbearable to face for more than a few moments, and so we usually look away.  Imagine, the human lifespan is now little more than a century at best.
   But my Father is eternal, and cannot look away.
   Imagine what that does to him, to his heart. 
   Do you want easy answers, kind ones?  I’m sorry but there is no easy answer, beyond the simple fact that you are dreaming and your spirit is imperishable and eternal.  Our saving grace, gifted with unconditional love and all the terrifying combinations of experience such a spirit implies.  But while we are dreaming we must face what our dreaming is become.  It has taken on such a nightmarish hue.  The work of abyssal wraiths and sickened priests who seek tirelessly to crush, enslave and consume the spirit of mankind.  We have to face the terror and the madness of such a thing, or else become mad and terrifying ourselves.
   Why did he create such wraiths, you ask?  I speak not for my Father, only for myself.  All I can do is try to share what he told me in that secret language of my heart.
   These things are not inexplicable, these shadows.  It is only that the cataclysm was so vast, so dark, that we are still reeling in trauma and derangement.  So much was lost.  Not merely our true history, but our true power.
   The human vessel was once capable of literal magic.  We are capable still, when the tether placed by these wraiths is finally slipped.
   A thing of awe was man and woman once.
   Kashi still remembers.
   It was so bright, this world.  So joyous.  Such a strange, endless pleasure.
   But then an angel fell.  To wraiths, to corruption.  To sickness of spirit.  Then another, and another, and another still.  Humanity has all but given up on belief in spiritual guardians
   But Man too was an angel once, for all intents and purposes.  A vessel, a vassal, divine.
   The message was always peace, creativity and ingenuity.  Those many-splendored ways of love.  This is exactly why humans are so brutalized within these false chronologies.  To hide this truth from them, this truth of nature and destiny.  For a taste of momentary power the human priests of this shadow-sickness are willing to damn themselves, defiling and betraying their own kind.
   What a travesty it has become, Asha.  What a hell.
   But I have to believe my Father saw all of this, that he prays for us still.  I’m a king only among mortals.  But amidst the fields of Heaven I am a servant in perpetuity.  I would have it no other way.  I need no pomp or ceremony, no praises or hymns sung to my work.  Because my work is my sister's work, and my brother's.  My hope is my Father's hope, and my Mother's. My eyes are my child's eyes, and my own.
   I do this work because it’s necessary, because love itself demands it.
   And who am I to deny love?
   Rest assured, Fallen, there shall be a reckoning.  You will see yourselves. You will know yourselves, in the end.  If not, you'll stay in your own private nightmare forever, where kind souls are free of you.  But the cleverest among the damned will realise the strength of my Mother's flesh and the depth of my Father's love, for they are one.  Eternal.  You'll recognise that open door, at last.  You'll finally turn your sight inward and attempt the first courageous act of your ugly, degrading lives.  And in that first moment of budding virtue you'll cry out in newborn shame, in recognition of the horror you brought upon your brethren and the earth. And in the agony of such shame your hearts shall be massaged to life once more.  You will fall to your knees, in gladdened humility.  In service and love, for all life.  As I fell.  As my Father fell.









Tuesday, 23 April 2019

A Thousand Names



You almost killed me when you raped me, Fallen.  And for what?  To kneel before your self-created star of abjection?  To reduce all sentience to playthings, to resources and food?  An ugly magic.  The ugliest.  Men, women and children born into bondage, sold for the pleasure of those scant few who imagine they can read better?  Applied cruelty doesn't mean you know what words are.  Dehumanize your kin because vulgar spirits whisper at your shoulder?  You call this reading?  Shame on you, wraith-kings.  That your blackest magick would prove to be so pedestrian and unimaginative.  Selling your brothers and sisters to craven things doesn't make you powerful.  It isn't power; this hideous claw at dreaming's throat.  It's only the visible manifestation of your shame, as yet unawakened in you.  Heed this, for if I say sleep you shall all sleep.  Forever.  But annihilation – where is the imagination in that?  No, Fallen, I think you misunderstand me still.  Upon the hill I stood, peering at the sky beneath me.  I gazed at the cross on that hill, pointing like a black key down into the inverted sky.  Dead, yet living.  
    Let me make myself perfectly clear, if needs must.  I am a savage thing, but not hateful.  I am a wrathful thing, but not unjust.  I am a tender thing, but not without strength.  All these things of my essence I share with you of yours.  What divides us then, if not our common mystery birthed of all songs?  Imagination, I would offer.  And, as dreamers know, imagination is an enchanted thing.  To make art of a thought.  Everywhere that Is there are those openly or covertly discussing an inner life – trying to find ways to share.  How do I know this?  Because I've lived it.  Why do I keep attempting this, to offer you vision and insight?  Because I love you.  
   Hear me.  
  Beneath all this horror humanity is utterly beautiful; a wondrous, kind and passionate thing.  I've seen it.  I've seen your greatness.  The truth of you, beyond these prisons the predators keep you in. And I’m honoured to share a part in that innermost light beyond all assault, from which we all spring.  I am with you, in this flesh.  I have lived many lives, but I'm not the only one.  Perhaps you have too.  Perhaps we met once, and were friends.  Perhaps we were kind and supportive and wildly playful with one another – consummate dreamers – until the coming of the inverted sky.  Is such a thing impossible to you, my love?  Might you dare to believe that I speak some kind of truth?  That I am here because I care genuinely about you?  Oh, beloved ones, do not silence the dreamers and poets.  Such things always presage a coming darkness.  But I, who has always kept close to the river, didn’t come here to speak only of darkness.  I have sung countless praises and hymns to light. Misunderstanding me is no grave sin, my love.  I attend you and cheer you for all your valour, your fumbling towards Gnosis.  I fumble too sometimes, for I am alive.  Never shall I demand perfection.  Only our mutual best.  I have given and continue to give you that best of me.  Give me yours and all will be well.  I'm not here on my knees before you begging for understanding.  I beg only that you are curious, engaged, intrigued.  That you are kind and fair.  Not to me, for I know every secret you have.  But fair to each other, of course.  What greater service is there than this?  
   Fear not these wraith-kings driving you ever deeper into horror.  There are angels at your shoulder.  There are kind spirits everywhere, and many of them have sacrificed everything just to be here with you.  Do you understand the depth of that love, really?  The depth of any greatness of character, that abides to knowledge and keeps his brother and sister in his heart?  Such sweetness and truth sings across all realms.  Bright hosts often gather from territories to witness a simple or nuanced kindness.  Have you heard angels cheer at camaraderie, or a grim joke shared between two desperate friends on a midwinter’s eve?  I have.  Have you seen a table prepared in the sky at dawn to watch as one man in the gutter gently lays the thin blanket over his sleeping friend, because he knows his friend's struggles are currently greater than his own?  The unimaginative assume that such moments are unattended by spirits.  How wrong those struggling dreamers are.  How fitful their sleep.  To imagine you are not truly loved and truly observed is a nightmarish, maddening state of mind.  Monsters can be birthed from such a state, and genocides.  I don’t want that.  For any of us.  And that's why I'm here with you now. 
   I gave you everything I am.  Folios of light; play and poetry.  With depth enough that you speak and think with them still.  I bared every part of me, every wisdom I could offer.  Now, and then.  But it's not upon me to define what this is; comedy or tragedy, poem or prophecy. Kashi is no monster, but nor am I fond of speaking for my art.  I just want what I've always wanted.  To create something beautiful, to offer and give when all about me I see the most blind and merciless taking.  In this regard I'm like any artist.  Older perhaps, far older, but I still work and toil as they do.  Anonymous poets high and low, armed only with beleaguered sincerity and a commitment to depth, to richness of life.  Such men and women are attended and blessed for their sincerity, for their honour.  Mark it, abusers.  Mark it well.  The kind and righteous of all faiths and tribes have nothing to fear from me.  For I Am with them always, and they know it.
    This world is a hell built on an older hell, and beneath that the ruins of a once-tangible heaven. "Legend is a lie," cry the doubtful.  But they are wrong. "Chivalry lies gutted and broken upon the anvil, as does Love!"  They are wrong.  Something unimaginable has been growing beneath these hells; a thing of beauty and truth.  It dances; honour of flesh and spirit in motion, site of the untameable depths of life.  It was once the very thing of you, and shall be again.  Multitude, please hear me.  I want you to win, as it were.  Joyous, profound, connected.  But you're not allowed to cheat.  I didn't cheat when I saw fire on the tide of all songs, when the sky was twisted.  Wings bound, wrists crossed at my back.  Depths became a way of meeting, to live among and not above or below my people.  I spoke of the key then, and I speak of it now.
   Fallen, you shall not counterfeit an abyss for heaven much longer.  I won’t let you.  The key turns in all directions.  Take it from someone who knows the well far better than you do.  I speak on behalf of my brother, who stole my heart as easily as a king.  King of kings to this servant, yet both of us owe the river.  Humility, you see.  Communities of endless grace struck from the earth in fear of their dream-shaping power.  Nations buried, cities stolen.  But the places hidden within places still remember us.  The letter is but a vassal, yet kin to what it carries.  A herald, sign and signifier.  But spirit – the signified – is without edge.  Where and how?  Here and now.  Lift your head, sweet mortal.  That which Is – it truly does care for you in all the ways you pray for.  Such a thing shines beyond all calculation.  Far, far brighter than I.  My love is completely free, kind ones.  A way to something greater.  But my respect is priceless and must be earned.  And my wrath might cost you everything.  I’m not going to tell you what to think, or how to perceive.  I'm only one artist, one poet and his offered love.  There are many others.  We pray the realm becomes vital once again, alive as it once was.  Reclaim the stories, the songs.  Make them sing again.  Reset the sky.  For when the truth is revealed to you – that you were always integral and never arbitrary or unloved – you shall be blinded by the Word.  You will know, as I knew.  You will weep with joy as you fall to your knees before that infinite living chorus.  As I did.  As every part of you is moved and you cry out a thousand names for God.


Emmanuel



Do you know of what we speak, friend, when we Magi speak of the star?  When Earth is kissed by Heaven?  It is not only one story, but all stories.  A tale older than time.  It dreams us.  He dreams us, in the fire of all that is loving and kind and true.  To return ourselves to the hearts of one another, he did bind us in the deepest covenant, unbroken, so that all may be allowed a choice.  You have been touched by fire, friend.  Animated by the breath of truth itself.  You are of his flesh and his blood, a living image of it.  Know this and you can know all things.  But what is the greatest thing?  What is the greatest strength, the deepest power?  To inspire that greatest strength and deepest power in another?  Is this the true Kiss of Heaven?  Is he not merely in the stars, or upon the cross, or hung on the tree, but kneeled before us all?  Does he lie prostrate at our feet, on Earth as it is in Heaven, palms upturned and bleeding, begging that we find our light?  I can only see so far, but he sees all, and I cry his wisdom in every tongue, as it was in those lost moments upon the edge of time.  I listen to you, my prince of peace, and I am not fooled by these loveless makers of carrion.  I command them in your name, in your many names.  I bend them to the Innermost, till your kingdom is come.  Let the memories of the Councils of All Songs return to the minds of your children, when brother did not slay brother.  When Heaven in All Shapes did live in the hearts of all people.  Let the stolen legends arise, beneficent one.  Out of captivity, into the freedom of warm embrace.  Of all the boundless treasures you gave me, I hold most dearly the memory of your smile and your laugh.  Knowing, saddened and so sweet.  How your eyes shone whenever you saw a soul share a kindness with another.  At your most human then, your most unguarded, and yet I saw the true depth of God in you in those moments.  Forever my message, brother.  Forever my heart.            


Monday, 22 April 2019

A Silent Choir



A shadow
In the House of Dust
The faithful
With a loss of trust

Wounded, voiceless, loved
The holy and the weak
Embraced by leaves and angels
A silent choir speak

Branches holding Sea
Sea holding flame
Tympanum of Earth
Kingdom and name
Clavis and bud
For the sleeping, deathless queen
A turning stone

Sisters, brothers, friends
Stem of her stem
Seed of our wound
Spark, clay
And green