Nov 172011
 

Ten minutes later the Master re-emerged, devoid of magazine and whiskey glass but clutching to heart an exceedingly large, old and important-looking volume.

The much-lamented loss of Pros Theon had abruptly ended a few short minutes after its owner entered the bathroom, where it was discovered at the bottom of a towering stack of bathroom-reading material and joyfully rescued by its ecstatic owner.

Tremendously relieved, twelve years of life added back on, the Master placed Pros Theon  on the desk in the study with a great sense of ceremony, lit an ancient lamp and turned to the penultimate section:

Transformatio Dies (The Days of Transformation)

Translating and interpreting the elaborate text was a mission that took every effort of will and imagination; the fruits of this fabled tome being rare and exotic indeed.

After 23 meticulously strung-together minutes, the Master – who had a surprisingly short attention span for one inclined to meditation – looked up from the text and out of the window for inspiration, directly onto the swaying treetops. Perchance, there was sitting a bird of extraordinary magnitude and power and in that same instant a piercing set of eyes imparted the truth – a reminder – with almost unfathomable simplicity:

‘Forwards backwards; time is taking
Certain steps through every section.
Herein find the secret waiting:
Future from the past; reflection.

Soaring Eagle spread his massive wings and flew towards the window, sight locked like magnetic iron onto the fixated Master, who felt a heavenly upsurge of pure, unadulterated joy and ran in the eagle’s direction, having reverted back to childhood in a twinkling of the eye.  In complete innocence the Master was able to grasp one of the bird’s great tail feathers and later attach it to the sun-tinted dream catcher. More memories of Halcyon Days would be captured by this than by all of the other feathers combined.

Twilight fell like whispers of an echo bade by Eros. Venus – like the bloom –transpired, with stars like smelted teardrops.

Feb 112011
 

From the grail, begotten vessel –

Duly called the cup of life –

Outwards grew a blossom. Special

Was the bloom, a trine of light.

It was more: In centrifugal

Ways it grew, spiraling into

Realms of matter, jewelled, extending,

Source of incense never ending.

Sweet ambrosia filled the ether

In tumultuous swathes, divine.

All around the glittering Seraphs

Showed the selves the leaves of time.

Turned were ages into twinkling

Swaying, starry-studded trees,

While the watching, held in thrall,

Turned their gaze, beheld, believed.

Summoned from the rest by angels,

Once named souls were then uprisen.

Those perceived the open door and

Streamed in dew-lit robes to Heaven.

Jan 242011
 

Ah, my Beloved, fill the cup that clears

To-day of past regrets and future fears:

To-morrow! – Why, to-morrow I may be

Myself – with yesterday’s sev’n thousand years.

For some we loved, the loveliest and the best

That from his vintage rolling time hath prest,

Have drunk their cup a round or two before,

And one by one crept silently to rest.

And we, that now make merry in the room

They left, and summer dresses in new bloom

Ourselves must we beneath the couch of Earth

Descend – ourselves to make a couch – for whom?

Ah, make the most of what we yet may spend,

Before we too into the dust descend;

Dust into dust, and under dust to lie

Sans wine, sans song, sans singer, and – sans End!


Rubaiyat of Omar Khayyam