My name I saw
Carved in stone,
With two dates,
A cross,
And words of woe;
Words of wishes
For peaceful rest
For the vacated temple
Down below.

A gathering of those peoples
My heart had touched
Took place,
At which them all,
The Loved Ones,
Acknowledged that
They were my friends
From the moment
They had met me,
Until my very end.

Heads bowed low,
And some with tears,
Pondered on those past years
In which they’d come
To know and love me;
Some wondered why,
In God’s good name,
My life had left
This living plane,
And joined the souls
That to them are free.

Then, in a gesture
Of memory,
Two flowers were planted
There for me:
One red one
For the passion
Which I had left behind;
One white one
For the purity of
My heart, my soul,
My mind.

One red;
One white;
In good remembrance:
Those I touched
Would remember me hence
In such terms as these.

Soon after those who gathered
Had returned to
Whence they came,
To carry on life’s
Livid leadings once again,
The red flow’r
And the white one
Married are by bees,
Whose humble humming
And ceaseless tasks
Are unaffected by
This one life passed.
These flowers are for bees
The sustenance of life,
As purity and passion
Sustain me all the while.

Now married,
As these flowers are,
A new seed of life
Springs forth:
The Seed of my new Life;
Of my Renewed Birth.

Mingled red and white
In this next generation grow:
Pink flower of
Pure passionate Love
For the Light
With which I glow.

In time though,
When the roots
Have fed upon my dust,
And blossoms closed,
And petals fell,
And stems grew on
And bloomed again –
Thus have seasons passed:
Nay more! no-one
My stone would visit.

Still, sinking sun shines on;
Rises, sinks, and yet again,
And feeds my flowers thus;
And for every ray
That strikes something
A shadow there is cast.

In the shadow
Of my dates and name,
The shadow of my stone,
Still stand the red flow’r
And the white –
Memories shadowed
From the Light;
Memories marred
By what little’s known
Of my freedom,
Or of where I am;
Of the Love,
Or of their plight,
Or of what is the I
That is now gone
From the temple-dust
Beneath the stone;
Memories scarce remembered now –
Of but red and white.

None have viewed
My pink flow’r yet:
On winds the flower’s
Seed was blown
Unto another piece of Earth.
On Cosmic winds
My Seed of Life
Did travel on
Through this Rebirth.

This though,
To those who gathered near –
A source of curiosity
And fear,
For none can know
By familiar sense,
The feeling
Of the crossing
Of the fearful
Fence of Death.
Darkness, shunned
Aside by them –
They wished me peaceful rest.

Not by red or white or stone
Would I be remembered hence,
But by my Pink Flower
– Seed of Life and Light unseen –
That all Spirits may advance,
If I could only have that chance.

Mother moon
(But a reflection of true light)
Your style –
Waxing, waning,
Whining, woeful plight.
O disregard the haze
Through which you peek –
Your feeling’s felt
No matter how meek
Those persons – Spirits –
Would seem to be.

An imperfect reflection
Off unstill waters
Of an imperfect light!
Oh!

Reflect upon myself
In the pallor of your light.
(Life reflecting upon the living)
To find:

Within and above
Does weakness lie:
I see clouds can mask your light.
My own mask, though, lies
Hidden from me
As I peer through from inside.

Your dark side though,
Not dark at all when you are new.
Then your light does fall
Upon unseeing eyes
(But knowing minds!)
To whom is seen my light,
And darker side, also.

My life revolves around this
Earth, as does yours:
But your woeful face
Reflects your eternal plight.
Whereas I have the chance
To leave, and change this life
For another
(Which I am yet
To re-discover).

I don’t remember from before.
Do you, Mother?

No difference is there
In states of matter,
No matter what is felt:
It isn’t matter –
Only feeling – though,
That doesn’t matter.

Air,
A gas you say?
Meets water,
Liquid?

And the chalice
Which does hold them?

What can discern
All that is solid,
But that which is solid
Itself?

But what can discern?
Aha!

What can discern?

Is,
Or does it matter?

With you the Hedonists
And the beliefs
Are not really as it seems:
The everlasting present in
That abode of time;
Indulgence in that time:
The present pleasure.

Their universe is one
Lacking form or purpose.
Maximum entropy;
Randon disorder.
Their world tends towards
Maximum entropy;
Random disorder.

So difficult as it is
To believe in:
Maximum entropy;
Minimum enthalpy.
And they believe!
They believe in –
They believe that
Maximum entropy
Alone can explain
Their universe.

Yet the meek little
Beaurocrat,
In his most petty assignment,
Attempts to reverse the
Lack of order of
His own world
With some form of
Menial organization.
Does he suppose
The Deity less capable?

Do you believe
With the Hedonists
In maximum entropy?
Random disorder?
A world of
Maximum entropy?
Random disorder?

The mind of the PhD
Has become a mindless machine.
They see their world
Without order,
Presuming their sole purpose
To bring it about.
Not seeing a real purpose
They of needs create their own.
They do suppose God less capable.

Sweet youth,
Nought but unfair it seems.
Innocent youth,
As yet unaware.
Desire of my wildest dreams
To save youth,
From the corruption of age;
To retain youth:
Preserve the sane.

Oh youth,
And the beauty of Spirit therein.
Spriteful youth,
Of boundless energy
To grow in Spirit or sin
By will youth;
Be it as you please.
Be warned though:
Life’s no simple tease.

Soft youth,
A different kind of clean.
Untainted you
Prepare to live by
And appease what scheme
Is it youth?
While time is on your side,
Decide youth:
Now’s the time.

Proud youth!
Shun yourself aside.
Inside you
Does Spirit lie,
Being time-tested and tried
In Truth, youth,
With rewards divine.
If it suits you,
One and all can be thine.

How dare you insult the maned ones
Which from the meek kitten grew
To become the innocent beast?
Bestial nobility of the savanna;
Of higher morals than thou.
Killing only to eat or to defend;
His prey suffering
No more pain than death,
For sustenance, not revenge.
You dare insult the fanged ones too:
The macroscopic beasts
In the beauty of their silken traps.
Knowing only of their habits,
Still you defile and shudder.
They are artists untrue:
Their art is innate –
Lacking lust, greed, emotion.
Their bestial habits
For sustenance alone.
Yet you dare describe
The cruelty of man unkind
As bestial –
And defile the name of the beast!
Like art,
This cruelty contrived,
A creation of men’s minds,
For it is art:
Man is an artist.

What beast do you know
Nails hands to the cross,
As in this, the greatest work in time?
The modernist, though,
Does it with guns,
And fire, like the brush,
A steadfast favorite.
No beast would employ
Those of superior morals
In persecutions for
Disagreeance of faith:
But to Romans, the lion
Was a most popular medium.
And who can deny
The critically acclaimed
Masterpiece of suffering?
(The Inquisition, of which I speak.)
The resplendant “autos-de-fe”
“Ad majoram gloriam Dei.”
Grand Inquisitor ranking surely
With the greatest.
And the sculptors creating
Their weapons of war;
Governments pay high prices
For such works.

Connoisseurs –
We are artists no doubt.

The precocious forbearance of the child,
Whom with his chosen cells is entwined;
Erewhile what entities has he defiled?
The clandestine Aeacus within did find
(In former Sisyphean sojourns)
Himself guilty – he now returns,
The penitential laws to fulfill.

Now should he find those laws of grace,
That karmic rock he would not bear.
Freed from his hill and from this place;
Made worthy and redeemed by prayer
Of Love and forgiveness for those forays
Made on his will in former days:
The lessons truly learnt by him.

But should these lessons go unheeded,
And failing forgiveness, his lifetime penance:
His Erebus created by his will’s freedom,
To which, by his thought, he’s now sentenced;
For thoughts are deeds and deeds are real;
His eternity of these is what he now feels.
Aeacus within takes no side but fair.