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(More selected poems from the poets 'Mystic Seed' collection to familiarise you.)   Please enjoy   


Read 'ORGANIC' Poem

Fossil image of a kind
through millions of orbital years
to the glance of a moment,
would I be here
if you had not played your part then -
still swimming in the seas of my mind?

(In praise of Ken Wilber's four Quadrants)
You scoff at my remarks
how  spring blossoms
imply  the eye,
and  I would ask
if you were colour - blind
would your world be as grey ?
And I would add
that the seed's cause
is seen in the blossom :
in this regard
developes in the heart.

(Our deepest part is elsewhere)
Is this your casino
prior to your birth ?                                           
Does that end - game asteroid
collide with mother earth ?
Are you in your matrix
playing pitch and toss ?                             
And is your cataclysm
to be the end of us?
Are you at a table
bluffing with your eye ?
Are you never here to lose
so that you never die ?

   (Climate change)

The sun, in climbing to it's throne
will reign on all that lives below,
when drought  has cracked the dried up span
and opened up the heart of man
to each, his own imagined God;
years without a cloud of comfort
and cursing at the arid sod,
will dying, show him culpable
and only death, how man is God ?


The crickets in the heather
around the edge of town,
is not the world dream - like
the  way the sun goes down ?
When time seems hanging in the air
or moving to the west,
tomorrow always to the east
makes now, seem still, and best !
Is not  the world dream - like
and is it not a rune,
with wisdom shining on a pond
beneath  a  lazy moon ?
Is not the world dream - like
that  wispers in a stream,
'dont  wake my dear at sunrise
to fall asleep and dream'.

There was a humble man
in empathy with cosmic light,
who in desert climes
filled his head with stars at night,
distilling their bright beauty
to shine within his mystic soul,
in rays of old, blue wisdom,
reminded him,  of how
their sight had arrived
from their long, long journey
to the magic in his own eyes :
Some called him Christ.
imbued him from above
and from the ancient east
but to the west
his sun would set on scorn,
save those who loved him as a man.
Few  words would serve the vision
that he served so well,
and few can tell
how words,  became the disease
set down on papyri,
how man might reign -
pay  lip - service to distorted truth
and cork the wine of centuries.
When his path came to a dead end
a tall,  magnificent tree
gripped the edge with it's roots
and he bravely,  hung there to climb it,
to see  out,  far and wide,
in grief  to know,
accused of blasphemy
how little he was understood,
when ' nil by mouth '
and with no tubes to feed him
he cried out and died,
pointing to what he had seen
and how narrow his way had been.

The eternal waiter,  smiles and pours the wine
that  we,  my friend  must taste before we dine,
until the tired motion of our feet
fall  back into the street
that  waits  upon the waiting mind ;
lets not talk too much or walk
towards the public clocks, that tick
tomorrow towards the wrong sun -
lets move toward the inward light of our own sun,
we gobble up existence when we run.
The insane grasp of our in-built greed-
the whole structure of our being -
the sad gold - rush of our need,
yet our world keeps turning at the same speed
and going nowhere, is guaranteed.
Does mother earth hold the secret
of our fulfillment - to change direction,
is her patience revealed in endless orbits?
From inward growth comes her perfection
endlessly waiting upon us.

I arrive from the forgotten
through birth to a deception
that  shrivels me as blight upon the rose,
therefore I shrink from what I think ; -
eternity has subtle ways
of changing what the mind has wrought
by freeing us from chains of thought.


    To the corner of my eye
fleeting  shadows pass me by,
in old - time forms from past tenses
when mystery surrounds the senses ;
the moon, in arching like the cat
shone silent, reigning down on that,
old tom was wrapping round my feet
in dim light in a gas - lit street,
indeed, I heard that clattering
from horse and carriage - flesh and bone,
out of time  yet here post mortem -
an isolated wind had brought them
to  echo on the cobblestone,
all unaware that we were there :

As all dissolved in midnight air
I thought, are we the ghosts at large -
the phantoms of our own longing
that never stop to take us elsewhere ?
A  spirit that will always roam
innately feeling far from home.



The infant forms like tumbleweed
blown by the wind on a dry plain,
held by the hand of a loving trust
but what of the vortex and the dust !
What if his essence is more like sky
that margin of blue that dissolves the eye,
what memories do to the likes of this
gathering all to give him a past,
coil upon coil to wrap round his bliss
as the stars do from a cosmic blast;
a drop of sun, a drifting cloud
to seek oblivion  and a  shroud.

( ‘Where you are is where you are not’ T.S. Eliot)

Everything comes from the inside of the inside
Though the inside of the outside are one and the same :
No reaping swallows
fill your summer air,
you are not blind,  my friend
but cannot see out there,
if inside looks like azure blue
you see no world outside of you :
Your stars above shine for your stars
and that is how, inside your head
they fashioned you  to only see for them -
you are the blossom and they  the root and stem,
and should your vision be suspended
their sight through you my friend, has ended
but who would guess that you were never
with you, trans temporal  as ever.


We cannot travel far and wide
to be something more or less,
there is no door to step outside
our own consciousness; -
lifting a latch to be born,
being restricted  to place,
forgotten there and forlorn
floating through time and space
where memories wrap round the spirit -
that accretion of dust that we know,
from the flickering light of a star
comes the dust of the globe and the ego,
and it will remain a phantom
clutching our last  vital  breath
then falling away from the soul of the whole
that has no doorway  to  death.


The world is ‘ time out ‘ from timelessness,
asleep  to the awareness of sleep,
the cold, hard facts of the world out there,
the  cold light of day, -
our vision and what we make of it ;
and under the dreaming sky blue
part too, of the cold, grey dream,
and it would seem for the most  part
that the whole maelstrom, the whole
edifice of human thought, thinks not !
Forget hope or Kingdoms to come -
there is no place to lay the head down -
heaven may be hell for us,
or for those who cannot wake
to ‘where’ and ‘what’ we are !

(A point of view)
I  watched the angler  cast his rod
throwing his weight at the face of God,
as the God Poseidon,  at the edge -
the element  for life beneath,
that whispered rush of saline surf
the exhalation  of it's breath.
The massive oceanic  weight
that stirs the lug to feed the fish
would try his wit to simulate ;
his explanation was caught  short,
unsure his need to call it sport -
he will not eat it, he will kill it
to gratify his nascent spirit ;
I do not mean to be unkind -
all day he stood there with a frown,
that concentrated  hook  of  mind
that reeled it in to see it drown.


What then of this
that time would drown,
the holy gaze of bliss
found fathoms down !
And to the God of gaps
man severed from the past,
what heritage to lose
when flooded by the ice caps !
As earth gives up her secrets so
then what does anybody know !
What now of wisdom
in this moronic age !
I' ve heard the sages say
life often hides the truth
that flies on wings of myth,
for bewrayed here is the evidence
once hewn from solid rock,
and what a sacred shock
when prehistoric us
is sitting in the lotus !


Tonight's moon
looks like a hooded one,
with tallow dimly lit
finding a dark  cloister,
passing like a vow of silence :
Circadian cipher to decipher    -
light once removed as emulation,
the sun shines always in the heavens
as knowing does  in meditation.


The humble daisy in sunlight
is so bright
but seems to shrivel up at night,
it also seems to me
that man is much like that
without his inward light.
Lets face it
they crowd the unattended lawn
but at the dawn
seem as numberless as the stars,
playing their dancing music
to the dead eyes and ears of night !

( For J. D. Krishnamurti.)
The causal spirit
imbues the seed,
that roots to feed
and send the sap
up to the blossom,
so tarry there a while
in summer light,
dont pass on by
but  let the wild - rose
fill your eye;
and if in spirit
you hear that inner voice
that speaks to you as beauty,
you might rejoice -
that inner voice is you !

Theres spirit in my robin
that sports his summer wear,
his company seems fleeting
yet he is always there,
his tiny form seems thought - like
to hop within my wake,
he knows the worm down below
the soil that I must break ;
his head, turned round to face me,
to fix me with his eye,
distract me from a trouble
to lift my spirit high ;
theres spirit in my robin,
the cause of nature's  way,
it took so long to know it -
now I am old and grey.


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All poems are © copyright of R.K.Austin. 2006. All rights reserved

All images/artwork and photography copyright © Sarah Austin.
All poems and article text copyright © R.K.Austin.
2006. All rights reserved
No photographs or other material to be reproduced elsewhere without permission.