Old world wisdom

The wisdom of the people who live close to the earth and who live by the measure of the sun and the seasons chooses to speak with words in a particular order and of an order of gravity seldom if ever used by city dwellers of today.
What words they say and how they say them are surprising to us. They catch our attention with their disarming plain factual truths. The words they speak often shine a light on our everyday with a brightness that brings us directly back to our perceptions of the everyday and bathes the dull way we live and speak in a refreshing glow of solemn beauty.
Their vision is lucid, because their needs are met on paths of least resistance connected to their own survival. And their need to survive with honour and with dignity is something they express and celebrate without pride or vainglory.
They regard themselves as one group of beings among other kinds of beings, both animate and inanimate. For these peoples, it is self-evident that they live by the exact same laws of the sanctity of life as each of the other groups. They apply to themselves rules that life itself lays down and they do not regard them as either better or worse, but valid according to their patterns of need.
There are the nomadic people, the people in our cities who exist in the unseen margins, the subsistence communities, those groups who still live with minimal contact with the world of the twentieth century. All of these are people who preserve ways of seeing and saying which are remarkable for their lack of artifice, embellishment, overtones or undertones of meaning.
They speak words in harmonious combination, which I, a lifelong city dweller, recognise as expressions of a reality without distraction and interference, refined always with compassion, dignity and above all humility by the immediate imperatives of daily living.
And I willingly concede that in my daily life I have lost touch with much of their valuable experience. Whenever I’m privileged to hear their speech, I gratefully receive the clarity of expression, the innate wisdom, and the suddenly obvious commonsense in the logic of thought.

*To dust we return*

* To dust we return *
Not only are we not alone, but we are never alone. It takes one full stop, hurtling from off the end of an unregarded non-Earth sentence, to remind us.
We are inseparably conjoined to events far, very far, from our earthy self-interests. So keep good company. Befriend the stars, respect their gassy dusty origins. From dust we come…





Reflection on a drop of dew!

[Photo: Magic Vial Charm – Deep Forest]

There be sadness. Yes. True.

Inside a tiny crystal bottle,
no larger than a wish in solitude,
sits an antidote, a cure-all, an elixir!
Can you see the lights that seem to shine inside?
Like the blackest night sky,
whose stars are contained
in the reflection on the surface of a drop of dew?
No dream, but purest imagined interstellar rocket fuel!
All you do is remove the stopper
from your sacred phial!
Tremble to taste!
Take a deep long draught.
Take a long deep draught of “Love to Live”, by EveryNow
~ Love is present EveryNow


Look out, clutter free, uncomplicated..
with faith, hope and love..
Allow each dawn its full draught of surprise
This moment of Sunrise is thunderous
in its completeness.
It contains no axmixture of sunrise past.
Here is no inkling of what tomorrow’s light will be.
I allow myself to be blinded by the Love that is present EveryNow

Sing, my heart, the ways of the green

Sing, my heart, the ways of the green
My body is full of the greenways I have trodden.
Step-step on my own, my own green years.
All in the bright airs of earth.
So, sing my heart, sing me green,
Sorrows melt by the hedgerow,
When I make gentle ask.
Rise liquid heart, swell me green.
Oh, choose me a path, a green path for me.
Bring me a swish of grasses at my feet.
Float me out immense panoramas of comforting green.
My heart knows the ways of the green.
And my heart knows the way is green

~ and Love is present EveryNow

Loss of the Drumbeat of life is but a delusion

“Loss of the Drumbeat of life” is but a delusion, a bewilderment caused by looking only at a drum beater and hearing no sound.
Humankind all too easily forgets to close the eyes and listen.
Listen to the Clock of Blood that transports life to our furthest smallest cells.
Our very cells call us to life!
Our heart hears the call.
Our breath answers the call.
We beat out the dance.

We are the dance.

Pick up the Drum and begin.
Over and over