Volume 2. / 1.) The Counting-Fall

THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND:  Volume Two:  THE COUNTING-FALL

The counting-fall,

And through the crested loop

There your footsteps . . .

And your steady progress

To where I lodge:

The stuff of inner tremours

Making all the difference

Telling of this blind new magic

In a bold waiting delight

Forging deep within me

A new crystal fountain

Of liquid life welling up:

All words well clear of Sensennae’s

Deceiving waters, of course,

But in, newer, fluid words:

A ‘fall-which-matters;’

And a farther entering-in

With which to grasp

The pearl-shaped thing;

And find again, the silver thread

Which once, in another time,

Captivated the whole rest of me

And sincerely took for good...my entire life.

Yes, the counting-fall!

It is you who come stepping near

Clothed in dark garments

Ready to frighten me

But it is too late! I know!

You cannot fool me now!

Drawing near

You fill me full with ecstasy,

Round, golden, and terribly rare

Rare . . . rare . . . 

And no one hears your step but me . . .
I am deaf . . .
Dead to all but you

Poetry Diary: Returning...

I want to get back into letting the flow continue...

I miss not having the time to let it out.

But I have been working on my book 

The Light Tree Journal...

Editing it...

And it seems like, that...could go on forever...

The more I write, the more I see to write.

And it is continually growing... and growing.

That, I think, is because it is a living book,

And so, it is forever evolving.

I am doing too many different things

At the same time;

Weighing priorities is hard...

Which should I give my time to?

All of me wants to do nothing but poetry...

And do that here...

Amethyst Poetry... ... ...

Tomorrow...

Poetry Diary: Still Unheard...

                   I look, I wait, perhaps you will come visit again
                   I miss you...
                   I once heard your steps... and from so far away...
                   And I wondered if you would write
                   Just a note...
                   But perhaps I am just imagining it
                   And you are not really there at all...
                   Will I go forever, unheard...?

Poetry Diary: The Unheard Book . . .

Poetry Diary: / The Light Tree...

     It was only a dream, but it seemed so real. I turned a corner in a park. I passed another flower garden then came upon a large grassy place. It was early, a huge golden sun rising above an azure horizon, and my heart, in truth as open as this place, found before it a splendid gift. A widely spreading tree stood alone, and the sun was shining through it, through the very heart of it, and it seemed as if it were made entirely of light.   Its leaves, shaped like the leaves of a flame tree, were vivid green, shining like emeralds upon which were writings. The tree pulsated with light and life, every part of it, alive, energized, and complete! It was a picture of a glorious destiny, a promised end; and before the beginning of it had even begun! I do not know how I knew this.   As I looked, I was drawn nearer, and I saw it more clearly. A great golden ring of light circled through its branches and down through its roots. In the tree was a door, open; through which one could only yearn to enter, and live! Out of the door and from between the roots of the tree a river of living water was flowing.
   A wind came. Little by little some of the leaves were loosed from the tree. They went hovering around it, but staying close to the tree, not leaving its environs. Though these leaves were indeed severed from the tree, the light went all through them as though they were still joined. They were as broken pieces from the heart of the tree where the light shines through; where pierced by the truth and torn asunder, it had learned its secret lessons, found its hidden treasure.
   I could hardly breathe. It was as if I had never seen anything more beautiful. Everything within me yearned for the light of the living tree so great was the love which was in it and flowed from it; and it was imprinted within my own heart as living burning truth.
   I gasped. Suddenly the tree became so vast I could not comprehend it. The light so bright I shut my eyes. All in one split second, I had heard and seen all I could and turned my head away. Received of all it needed in the instant, and all of everything! But to know what I could not know, for fear of bursting at the seams, yet find it was all contained within me, and as though it were nothing, and of no consequence, words fail to describe so strange a thing it is beyond me.
   Through the years the remembrance of the light tree was a comfort. But sometimes when I was far away and in darkness the form of its impression as ‘a tree’ would fade and I forgot it as such. But then, so present was its formless substance of light and life within that it just had to break out somewhere, and in other forms, and in other dimensions. Its influence as water, which seeping out through even the tiniest crack in me, and evaporating into thin air, could somehow quench my thirsting thoughts for meaning in my life, while ever enthusing my inner being to search for more. And it did so, by my making things. Things which appeared beautiful to me; but which now, looking back I know were only my half-desperate efforts to make sense of what I could not yet understand! But, by making something beautiful, that I could see, and touch, and hear, which somehow spoke to me of the lost light tree and embodied it I found I was comforted, in an outer sort of way. But, oh, I knew there was so much more… further, and deeper, and beyond it.
   Beauty enchanted me. It drew me onwards. Because somehow I knew it connected with truth. Something beautiful and true was effectual. It transported the heart to a place where it could hear. Opened it so that it could see. To me beauty and truth had become inseparable. When I found one I had found the other. One was a path leading to the other. Where they met there was a simplicity which delighted. Where neither sought their own profit they could please, and in all things. Made one . . . there . . . there was love, true peace and freedom.
   The simple things I made were always out of broken pieces; and those things through which the sunlight could shine or reflect, and which the wind could sound in. It seemed appropriate to describe the light in terms of fragments and broken things. Why, I do not know. Perhaps, there could be several different reasons. Because as physical things mingle with heavenly things truth becomes layered in different levels of understanding as the foreshadowing of it gives way for its substance. But the simplest reason why is probably because the light is utterly vast, and I am not, and being broken in pieces myself I can only think of one part of a thing at a time! For just as the leaves of the living light tree, were many, and each one, expressing only the tiniest part of the whole, at any one time, so I!   I can only grasp one ‘story-leaf:’ one ‘living-letter:’ one chink of light, one portion of living truth from the tree of life, as and when I have need of it in my own life. And from it learning anew, as I give up something of my own selfish self, I am renewed in that vacated place! It becomes a ‘further’ truer part of me; and my eyes and ears, see and hear, where once they didn’t! Then I am set at liberty to describe what it is I see; picturing it, in part, either in the natural realm, by a physical work of art, or in the heavenly realm, by the ethereal written word. Both can bear the light: both do. Because the light is everywhere and pieces all things together! Making complete: a seamless whole! Even making ‘me’ whole: binding my every crack it seeped or shone through!   And so the fruit of my life: whether it was in artworks, or written ‘story-leaves’ and ‘letters,’ all were caught up, and loosely held aloft by a central thread of light, going turning about in the wind of the Spirit, as it was blowing gently upon them giving them life and light…to truly... see!

                                                        *

Poetry / Volume 1. ) In the Light of Innocence . . . We Were So Nearly There

from THE RAGGED WRITINGS OF EVERLAND: Volume One

We were so nearly there

For further fly all our cherished aspirations 

Than we could ever imagine

Our bright hopes

Though they be only thought and so briefly seen

Have breath and life

What we once conceived of virtue and true living

Of beauty beyond all our fondest dreams

That which came so close, and was so real awhile  

Went softly streaming by

Veiled in silken clouds and airy wine

Oh, but we were so nearly there 

We felt the flicker of life’s wings

Living things brushed past

But reaching out to touch

We lost

Oh, had we only known then

How to enter in  

But before we knew it

The vision had slipped on by and fled us

What had seemed so possible was now only a dream

And, oh, the emptier we felt for having seen

But no bright purpose was ever lost that once has been…

Truth’s star’s still there

As deep inside as it is above 

Where night’s endless light is                                           

Our mansion’s kept, our heart’s voice mapped

Upon Love’s palm our place

And the everlasting vision etched

Out held, kind, ever offering

Love’s hand is always there… 

‘We always may be what we might have been.’

                                      *

IN THE LIGHT of innocence

Things can be that aren’t

Babes can outwit the weighty

And where their foolish or

Imprudent things confound

Can there quite suddenly

Surprise the wise!

In the light of innocence

Things can turn inside out

And upside down

And there whole glories can

Be seen as flowers

Which before,

The wrong way round,

Had been considered only weeds!

In the light of innocence

Improbable things can steal by

Real as butterfly wings

And there these strange

Fortuitous sightings

Appearing all impossible

Find all the more a certain appeal!

Oh, for eyes of innocence

And a simpler heart

To go against the flow

Of the ugly and predictive

The usual, the norm, and what

We’re used to---

And choose instead life’s inner-gold

And the courage to be different!

Story. ) A Point of View . . .

(from book manuscript: A Circle of Swift Songs: A Circlet of Inner-Life Stories)




                                  A Point of View

   THE MORE I LISTENED the more I understood; and the more I saw that I was one thing and God was another, altogether other! I could see in some ways, but God could see in all ways. And as I learned, and from six year-old Anna, years ago: people, they have a point of view, but God has points to view; and that makes all the difference!

   Oh, I had points of view, ad infinitum. But I saw them like I was seeing only one; for I stood upon my point, and I looked at ‘it.’ I looked at it for ages. I looked at it for so long, that the space around it grew smaller and smaller. It went in and in. I went in and in on it. And, more and more, till in the end, it got so pinned down, that all I saw was only a fraction of what I began with; and I got lost inside; and got stuck.

   I came to see that I needed to draw a picture of this, to better understand what it was that I was actually learning. So I fetched a page of cartridge paper and the stub of a pencil; and I drew.

   I drew a large square, on my nice piece of white paper, and then I wrote, and near the bottom of the page: ‘This is my ‘first-thought-square.’ It is the beginning of my point of view. It is a lovely big shape. It is a broad view.’ I looked at it awhile, and considered.

   Then, taking up my pencil again, I drew another square, of the same shape, but inside the first one, a bit smaller. I kept going drawing shape after shape inside the one before it; until I couldn’t fit in any more, inside my original shape.

   Now I had a picture of my way of viewing things.

   I added to what I had written: ‘Now I can see my view if I keep staring at it. I can see what happens to it. It gets smaller and smaller; narrower and narrower; and so un-broad, in fact, that I lose my way in it.  I get trapped: forever, lost, looking inside it!’

   I stood back from my drawing. And again, considered it for a time. Of course. It was yet another picture of life. Of the way things are. And how and why it happened that people became shrunk.

   It was like a child’s ‘first-thought’ of: “GOD.” The child starts with one big thought of him. It is big. It is very big. It is huge! But then eventually the child discovers for himself, (or, as is more usually the case, somebody kindly discovers for him, to ‘help’ him,) A Point of View. The child’s freedom immediately shrinks, his picture zooms in and in; and he gets stuck in it . . . and, sometimes, for a very long time.

   Yes. Once we all had one opinion. Now we had squillions of them. But I know that God is different to us: he is the other way around; he has squillions of Points to View: an infinite number of points to view from. So, having every viewing point that there could possibly be to view everything from, he is everywhere, and sees everything!

   From a squillion standing places God looks out. Not in.

   He doesn’t judge things he doesn’t have a point of view.

   He has points he can view from. So, he, the light, can show us everything; and all the time; and with no condemnation; because he isn’t anywhere standing on a point, but everywhere standing on them all! And that makes all the difference!

   As he sees things he reveals them: he opens them out, and shows them; he shows them not in opinions nor in judgments, but in truth, truth to view. (…It is we who get him wrong and make him ‘back-to-front:’ in our own image.)

   A Point of View has edges to it; it is become, a certain thing, so it has a certain, form, shape: edges. But Viewing Points have no comprehension of edges; for they are places to look out from.

   My view locks me in. God’s view lets me out.

   There is no judging from ‘points-to-view-from,’ no condemning: for all seen all known; and all known all understood; and all understood all forgiven; and all forgiven all loved; and all the World! And everyone in it!

   We see from the outside and look in.

   God sees from the inside and looks out.

   I picked up my bit of pencil and the piece of paper again, and beneath the first drawing of my life – of shapes going in and in – I drew a new one, of the opposite, of all the shapes going out; outside, and beyond, the one before.

   God looks out and out; and out. And his vision expands wider and wider; and wider. So his view has no end. And in having no end it had no edges. And his edge-less way is how I would see, now, too. I am inside of him. And with him see from his seeing places. And light, it keeps growing and opening . . . and exploding! Shooting out, and beyond, through everything . . . and everywhere!  ‘Viewing Places’ . . . it made all the difference!

  

                                                           *

   

____________________ 

 ‘The diffrense from a person and an angel is easy. Most of an angel is in the inside and most of a person is on the outside.’ -  Mister God, This is Anna;  by Fynn.