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Posts Tagged ‘collective unconscious’

VOICES FROM WHITE NOISE ( a dream stream)

I have tuned my ears towards the voice and must try to narrate, to corner sense, 
scribbling 
urgent message 
mind map 
message 
wittering.
I have heard the ravings of the cellared recidivist, the relentless, insistent heretic.
I have chosen,on a whim, to sit next to the glassy stared lunatic on the bus, the Ancient Mariner, and must bend and blow in that breeze.

There is a thread, 
a whisper, a word 
that travels through our dreams. 
Something that remains, that delicately holds on. 
How long does an idea flicker and burn in darkness before it expires? 
(The sigh of acquiesced defeat.)

Deceit is freely given, not asked for, cajoling. Truth must be asked for, urgently, earnestly sought. Why? Truth cannot be weighed out, patted neat and square like butter, wrapped and satisfactory. Truth does not fare well as a commodity. It is a map from only where you are, only from that place, whispered to you alone. Not one great instruction for all. Only madmen rave about universal truths. Each truth is an apple. Each the most round, succulent sweetness produces a thousand seeds all different: some soft, some bitter, some long-lasting, some fragrant. And no one can tell which might be which but by time and patience and the eventual taste of it.

So some of us wake to our dreams, 
scribble in the dark urged to construct, 
to record, 
to remember whispers. 
A reconstruction of echoes.

If I should continue long enough, listen, mould, worry it, then shall it eventually run true, discordant chaos becoming rejoicing refrain, voices emerging from the white noise. The mandala will become populated, the statues shall speak, the mirror offer wise advice, sound reflection….

It fails, it falters with daylight.
What was clear, insistent, cogent,
Pales and hollows.
Dismiss the howls, the complaints,
The sequences that seemed fair.
Tuned out, they rant in another quadrant
Of time and space, stiffled by yawns,
Inconsistent with birdsong.
The Furies, the Oracles,
Sinking slowly
To darker depths,
Slipping,
Spiral-wise,
Melodramatic
Monologues,
Mouths filling
With sifting sands….

——-

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FADING

It is a wonder we remain so long,
So pitted against the odds,
So tossed by ill-considered notions,
So ill-equiped,
So abandoned by squabbling gods
Who sense their own slow demise,
( the flowers of eternity caught
In first frost, petals bruised
And falling.

They will let go, even,
They will forget the juice
Of absolute power,
Leaving their cities
By the ocean’s side,
Leaving their phosphorescent palaces,
Their plastic groaning tables,
Their self-absorbed contemplations.

Before they smell the rot
And sink to feed the soil
They will wander into the mountains,
Mendicants with eyes on fire,
Find caves, light lamps,
Light incense,
Searching for that place
Where they took that wrong turn,
Missed the point,
Laughed at the wrong line,
Stepped across a void,
Instead of falling.

And they shall stay
Until they, and we too,
Fade to a line of footprints,
( they were moving quickly,
Hand in hand),
Shallow dips slowly
Filling with rain,
Reflecting the spindrift
Birth and death
Of spiral galaxies.

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