My love of ancient Old,
fashion me in solitude
of warm Druidic Twilight,
for a sometimes worldly voice tonight.
Let the telling fly on wings to hold,
In bold, Knowing life
of leaves aloft, well-met.
No dogma, no mirth, no petty strife,
passion strength
yet feather soft.
I-made-We are Spirits of Earth,
summer's staff of windswept eve.

It's subtle in the Grove,
when feeling streams
in psychic rain make growth,
flow to deepest rivers? silence gain.
There, with ease, perception roves.
Few will know to find me there,
spirit kneeling, ever-aware.
Owlsong notes, moss-lined branches cast,
embrace a moon aglow.
We whisper together upon the breeze,
of things that grow, which secrets know,
and glories Ages past.
Marvel at forgetful Man,
rootless, who glories not,
without real plan and to the last,
society without sobriety.
Unlike us He gazes not,
in mirror-pools where ferns are massed,
along old and winding velvet creeks,
of souls' reflection...
beyond fashion-furor and money-rot.

Young lives broken,
a heap...
They pitch themselves like wood ablaze,
fashion crazed
upon the rocks of false ideals,
like mindless wheels, in maze of ego gears.
Let us leap amazed, for,
"opportunity knocks"...
with pills to feel, to sleep, smiles are token.

Does old age miss the amorous chances,
in the love of life, traded thus,
for fashionable power?
Or is it cut short, like the square bushes
they keep?
How do they fare, or do they dare, half
knowing,
of unnamed loss do secretly weep...
leaving unread wisdom written,
on each wing and flower?
True love in simple life,
frayed, forsaken, God-forgotten,
from troubled mind of Man re-made.
What of shine on leaves, green cathedrals,
brought fog-swept
for a thousand, thousand moons?

Deep as ancient roots, old stone, living runes, joy prances, while nature rules.
There Truth dances, and love
weaves wondrous, never alone,
hidden from the eyes of fools.

The dog is taught to heel
but not to roam the land.
Two thousand acres a day, for concrete,
blacktop and steel.
"Progress" is a back-room money deal,
success a steal, at bargain de-basement rates.

Paid professionals do not feel.
University, curiously, doth digress
they say, "earn a degree", nature betray, gain expertise
turning green to grey.
For moneys' sake, make sure each day,
the natural, the true, the stone and tree,
do not get out of hand
before the neighbors see.
Our captains of industry, blind,
not that they mind, you see,
like Doctors of Philosophy,
of Theology, Economy and Hypocrasy.
Nature dies for the sake of pay,
this remorse, this strife, honesty strays,
where furrowed faces it shows.

The telling of standard and pretty lies,
while living the opposite way.
Politically correct they be, not
understanding,
what even the sparrow knows,
of love, of truth, of remaining free.

"Life is rough" they say, over porcelin tea,
taking all, discussing fluff.
ever moaning, obvlivious.
Hearts grow cold in gossip and trivia.
False atonement, daily grind is cruel.
Buy and bye, corporate jesters!
Be the Master's fool,
it is not yours to question why.
"It's never enough!" good citizens cry,
perform oblations to commericals sly.
Consumers? Calling...part of the coming
fall.

This they defend, sanity fleeing,
the same lie...
profit is the rule.
Work harder for no particular end.
Making you, Brother Sun, Sister Moon,
their tool.

"Seeing is believing",
seeing only what they want to see,
simply agreeing
for the sake of looking cool.

Yet why the pointless show...how can this be?
Amazing though it seems,
comedy of errors, this hilarity,
for the love of money they trip, they crawl,
they swoon,
missing the ancient and inner Call,
to beauty, love and clarity.

Never mind the REAL progress
of human beings.
In this modern mess, truth a rarity.
To know this dance of God in action,
life in measure fullest
ALL
instead of a tiny fraction,
as your ally, my Dear!

The Teachers? most trying task
is decidedly not,
in leading Man to natural water.
For even though it be terribly hot,
over every hill and mountain,
not plastic and cement fountains, mind you,
but to every leaugue of every sea,
past and presently.

The greatest sum, I think,
of this Heros? labor,
ultimately comes,
in getting him to drink.
Divest of fictions, drink of truth he Must,
with care,
in the forests, upon the glade, under the
oceans,
though He distrusts them there,
"Too quiet" are they,
they show too much, are too reflective.

Calmly flowing mirror pools.
Yet in the end, only these will do,
cooling feverous ego duels,
foolish industry,
and right perspective mend.

Natural Plans are corrective then,
in remembering
who is created equal.
For neither presidents, popes or average men,
does the truth bend, or slope.
Denounce today your duly elected,
jury-rigged speeches slogan infected,
the ones whose god is money-dope,
worshipping all that is defective.

Natural silence clears the mind.
Natural abode, your love is sweet.

Yet though the waters satisfy,
few will try, defeated,
your limpid pools of reality,
timeless echoes, rippling mirrors Ages fly,
banishing,
the deepest thirst of human kind.
That spiritual urge do men defy,
fearing facts therein they meet,
and the face to be reflected.