DRAGON MASTER

A Solstice meditation, 2012.

 

 

Guarding the Book of Karma

Hunches a red Dragon,

Wings partly unfurled as if

Anticipating interlopers

Who would steal my essence away.

 

Scales glowing with inner fire

That imbues eyes and mind with truth

Of the life few but I can see.

It reaches full power on the midnight hour

At this Winter Solstice time.

 

Upon my Guardian's back I fly

Through dimensions by science uncharted

To the Druid's retreat where the Prophet's words,

Uttered in a time of madness divine,

Are as yet in granite unset.

 

And on the summit of His sacred Hill,

Dwarfed by mountains above,

I gaze over wintry landscape below

Where the Dragon Master, withdrawn, observes

From Annwn* beneath the ground.

 

He's alert and stands in readiness

As Clas Myrddin's* direst need

Draws ever closer with latter-day man's

Greed, selfishness and disregard

For all life but his own.

 

Now a nearby Hawthorn Tree emits

Golden unearthly light.

Then from within, Emrys steps out.

He increases my auric vibrational speed,

Aligning it with his.

 

In awe, I'm filled with abject fear

That my brain will overload

If it mediates One from the Fifth Dimension.

But his soothing voice cuts in,

"Just relax and I'll do the rest!"

 

Before me I see the entire population

All at once - it seems that I

Have acquired spontaneous cosmic vision.

And I'm no longer me - it appears I've become

A channel for His wisdom.

 

Now, mind-to-mind He's linked us together,

Like a Spiritual Internet.

So I beg of you please open your heart

To the Spirit of Alban Arthuan tonight

And allow his words inside:

 

"I, Emrys, can see beyond

The mirror of your Soul.

I've been observing your progress through

Your many lives on Earth.

But this present one is all-important,

With free-will you wield great power:

You have the choice to love, not hate,

To calmly accept and tolerate

Those who differ from you...

 

Choose wisely from your Higher Self -

Only then can your World be saved..."

 

 

*Annwn - The Celtic Underworld.

*Clas Myrddin - Merlyn's Enclosure (The British Isles).

 

 

 

Solstice Blessings

          xxx

 

 



 

UNORTHODOX MATHEMATICIAN

You must have been born
under a mathematical sign,
because everything
has to add up
reduce down
divide into
or multiply by:
three
seven
or nine.

I once lived in a six-roomed apartment,
and no amount of cajoling could induce you
to set foot over the threshold;
not even when I swore on my life
that your world really wouldn't implode
if you did.
You just sat there on my doorstep,
sipping your coffee and shivering
in the dead of winter, saying
you'd much rather freeze to death
than dare risk tempting fate!

I expect you remember, too, that time
when five letters landed on your doormat?
How you had a major panic attack?
You simply couldn't get your head around
the audacity of these
little white squares of paper
to challenge you to such a degree.
You screamed at me to 'GET RID OF THEM!'
I refused, 'because,' I said,
'they may be important.'
So you sat on the floor in the hall,
dumbly staring at them; clearly
in some kind of trauma.
In the end,
you had to tear two of them in half - to
make up seven, of course.
But even then you couldn't rest:
had to go back and tear
another two to make nine,
it being the higher and, therefore,
most important of the
three numbers.

And as for crossing the road - a
simple enough task, one would think.
Not for you!
Seven vehicles have to pass
before you dare step onto the highway.
It has to be seven precisely,
even if the eighth is following
perilously close behind it.
How many times has an enraged
number eight threatened to kill you,
after screeching to a halt
with number nine firmly embedded
up his backside?
I'm more than convinced you really do
have eight more lives in reserve!

Another big ordeal for you
is eating a packet of crisps.
You have to open them,
count them out,
and if the contents inside aren't divisible
by one of your three numbers
then they're consigned to the nearest bin.
Another pack is then opened
and the process begins again.
Needless to say, you
have to buy your crisps
by the truckload.

And as for your love-life, well,
that has always been 'troubled'
to put it mildly.
The phrase 'one-to-one' just isn't
in your vocabulary.
You're nothing if not predictable.
There have to be three, seven,
or nine on the go at any one time
(now there's a surprise!).
The black eyes, broken noses
and lost teeth must surely
earn you an entry in the
Guinness Book of Records
as 'Most Fought-Over Woman!'

These days,
I often sit and wonder
how it will eventually end - your
life, I mean.
Knowing you as I do, it
certainly won't be peacefully
in bed, of old age.
You'd loath that.
No. It would have to be
in some way numerical and dramatic,
such as the Celtic Triple Death.
Yes, that's it!
Falling,
hanging
then drowning.
And, naturally, you'd accept no less
than a pyramid
as your final resting place -
guarded, of course, by
a triumvirate of Goddess statues.
Only then would you rest in peace:
the unorthodox mathematician
numerically lulled to sleep.


 

LOT 22

 Catalogue page: British Car Auctions

 

 

An auction hall filled with cars.

Vintage, classic, collector's vehicles; all

shapes, sizes, colours and marques

on display here today - all

for some reason no longer wanted.

A discordant cacophony

 

of excited voices conjure images

of a cattle market with all

the anxiety and suffering that implies

for those poor wretched animals - like these

with their four wheels and polished bonnets

instead of legs and fur coats.

 

Unbidden emotions begin to stir

in my solar plexus. My eyes

prickle with embryonic tears and I wish

to be a million miles away - or just

at home sipping coffee from my favourite mug

on an ordinary, nothing special day.

 

But this is an horrendous day, an

'I wish I could re-write history' day; when

grief and remorse are simultaneously

devouring me from the inside out.

All I want is to be sitting inside her

on Portsdown Hill admiring the view.

I need one last day with her.

 

Checking my watch. There's still

twenty minutes of ownership left.

So my attention focuses on the other entries.

And it strikes me that each one of these

beauties has a story to tell - about us,

and that brings me full circle

 

back to UNK. I've loved in her,

laughed in her, cried and screamed

words of anger - all this raw emotion

recorded in the fabric of her being

will exist for as long as she does.

But, soon, a new layer will bury mine.

 

At the appointed hour, the auctioneer's voice

is carried through the Tannoy into each corner

of the packed hall. Instant silence.

Anticipation is almost palpable.

Most of the first twenty-one entries

fail to reach their reserve prices, and

 

I can't help but hope it will be the same

with UNK, can't bear the idea

of a stranger's hands on her steering wheel.

Then those words like a sword through the heart:

'Lot 22!' Please don't let anyone bid

I pray silently inside my head.

 

But attack comes from every direction

like a conquering army, even through

the airways from France and elsewhere.

Figures rise, up, up. Spirits sink proportionately

It's as if I'm losing a love. No, worse,

a part of myself for twenty-one years.

 

Eventually it stops. The hammer falls.

Death sentence on ownership is passed.

All hope is lost. She's almost quadrupled

her reserve price, but how can mere money

compensate for the empty space I'll have to face

in the garage and in my heart?

 

'Well, we had a result there!' our agent

smiles, shaking hands with us and mistaking

these now falling tears for those of joy.

For how he know we'd let her go

not out of choice, but that increasing needs

for maintenance overwhelmed us?

 

Now, as we leave this fateful building

there are trailers everywhere

with happy buyers celebrating

their latest pride and joys.

And how it cuts me up inside

to walk away from mine.

 

 





DESCENT

Contracting
crushing sensations.
Descending
narrow tunnel
dark as death,
turning red
like hell.
Primal fear
of change,
of Utopia
lost.

Blinding lights,
deafening roar
of sounds
unfamiliar.
Air pressure,
compressing
brain and tissue.
Sinking feeling
of vulnerability,
as fingers prod
and poke.
Lifeline severed.
Habitat stolen,
then destroyed
with afterbirth.

Plastic tube
stretching
tiny airway.
Agony of lungs
unaccustomed to air
over inflating.
Terror
of giants'
alien faces
hovering above.
I don't
like it here.
I want
to go home!

Water cold
on tender skin
washing away
last comfort
of amniotic mucus:
bloodstained
final caress
of maternal medium
dissolved.

Heart filling
with grief
uninterpreted.
Piteous yells:
Please please
just hold me?
Comfort me?
I am
so helpless,
so alone;
so lost;
so afraid.

I
have
become
MORTAL.