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The Poet & The Sage when you enrol.
The musician, like the poet, looks within and without, and tells the story of what he sees.
The musician, like the seer, reveals unto the masses the secrets which were once hidden.
The musician, like the philosopher, discovers the commonalities which flow through all things, and sees to it that these commonalities are not lost.
The musician, like the explorer, journeys beyond the safety of the garden walls, later to return with bounty to share with those who inhabit the garden.
The musician, like the prophet, hears the rhythm of all things, and reveals this rhythm to those who would hear.
The musician, like the rugged mountain wildflower, bursts forth in a vivid display of delicate beauty, reflecting the glory of the Sun above while being nurtured by the Earth below.
The musician, like the ancient fig tree, spreads his roots deep into the dark world below and reaches his branches high up into the infinite plains of eternity, being guided by the Logos of the Whole.
The musician, like the songbird of the canopy, sings the song of his heart, which is the song of all things.
The musician hears a pairidaēza suite. Let him now sing, even that we may know ourselves, and even that we may know the way of THE ONE.
“A ton of earth a man would dig
To find an ounce of gold,”
Wise words from Heraclitus —
That Great Sage from days of old.
These words, they make me wonder,
Am I, too, a man deceived?
Have I worn out every shovel
To have then a spec received?
For high and low mine eyes have searched
While my young soul was straightening,
And ne’er has e’er an image compared
To this pneumatic awakening.
I. Ferns grow in the valley,
They block out sun and sky,
A dark and weathered hew of green,
Some natives passing by.
II. They make no fuss about their way,
And neither do they rush,
They stop to marvel at the stream
Which trickles ‘neath the brush.
III. Their mongrel boldly watches
For intruders in the scrub,
A baby sleeps on Mother’s back,
And dreams of witchetty grubs.
IV. The air, so thick with pollen
Sinks into their lungs and then
As a grand bouquet bursts forth in mind
They gently breathe again.
V. The trickling water calms their souls,
The luscious scene gives lift,
Through dense and fertile lands they roam,
‘mid ancient trees they drift.
VI. These souls, they live in Eden,
They walk with God each day,
The breath of life flows through their lungs,
Great Nature guides their way.
VII. And if I’d dare to wonder,
If I wish to be aware,
I’ll walk the paths where they have gone,
And I’ll tread softly there.
VIII. And as I tend the garden
Sweet remembrance will be mine
Of the wisdom which once filled my heart
As I walked ‘neath fig and vine.
How may I look, and see?
How may I listen, and hear?
How may I feel, and know?
How may I comfort my weary soul?
How may I discern truth?
How may I be guided by wisdom?
How may I sing praise to THE ONE?
How may I give my best?
How may I conquer my worst?
How may I be a light in the darkness?
How may I reflect the glory of the Sun?
“Nosce te ipsum,” whispers my soul.
Ever here, yet ill-defined,
Ever near, yet far behind,
High and low I twist and wind
Throughout the gardens of thy mind.
Ever the Saint, yet e’er grotesque,
Ever the truth, yet ever the jest,
Evil at worst, divine at best,
I’m he who is cursed and I’m he who is blessed.
I’m that which will rise and I’m that which has set,
I’m He who’s thy stranger and He who ye’ve met,
I’m ever in mind, though ye often forget,
I’m Nature and Culture, a thrilling duet.
I’m that which encloses, I’m that which breaks free,
I’m flower and pollen, I’m honey and bee,
I’m sky and forest and sand and sea,
I’m cow and crane, I’m dog and flea.
I’m that which is shined upon, that which reflects,
I’m that which is perfect, I’m that which defects,
I’m simple and clear, yet wild and complex,
I’m that which is parting and that which connects.
I’m He who has died and I’m He who’ll be born,
I’m He who they love and I’m He who they scorn,
I’m the scapegoat they spit on, the Saviour they mourn,
And I’m wrapped around thee, and to thee I’m sworn.
I. I eat the fruit that groweth
In the middle of the garden —
The fruit that is forbidden —,
Hoping God, my soul, will pardon,
II. For I have heard sweet whispers
That such fruit can bend the mind,
Giving wisdom to young poets
Who would seek, in hope to find.
III. I sit beneath that tree that giveth
Light, by way of fruit,
My body swells with breath of life —
The Universal Root.
IV. A light begins to softly shine
Amidst the canopy,
My dream begins to crumble
In a stirring fantasy.
V. Heaven’s voices glory sing,
As wisdom now becomes me.
At home I am within the warm
Embrace of She who loves me.
VI. I twist and wind down every root
Within my aching soul,
As tears are streaming from my eyes
I yield all control.
VII. Another breath, a warm embrace,
My Mother lets me fall.
Great darkness now surrounds me
As I drift beyond the wall.
VIII. As desert sands I wander I know
Aching grief and sadness,
I feel the pains of all the world
In a wild and transient madness.
IX. But as my soul is crushed beneath
This weight not one can bear,
I find great solace in the words
That come to me in prayer;
X. “My Son, find comfort in me,
For ye’ve yet to shine thy light,
And lest thou now reflect Me
Thou wilt never know My might.
XI. So listen, look and wonder,
Ask and think and feel,
For the Sun will soon be rising
And will, all the world, reveal.”
XII. My soul now glows translucent,
I reflect the morning Sun
It fills my heart with gladness for
My day has just begun.
A Sage, I meet upon this hill,
We sit above the clouds.
We pray beneath an ancient fig
And sing with heavenly crowds.
And we are warmed by the Sun above,
We’re held by earth below,
We hope to ne’er descend the depths,
We seek to, wisdom, know.
I turn to ask a question of this
Sage within my heart,
To only then see that the sage within me
Had at last made attempt to depart.
I. A gnostic dream I dream tonight,
Which guides my quill toward the light
And lifts my soul in fancy flight,
This gnostic dream I dream tonight.
II. And I have heard on down the vine
That dreams as these can bend the mind,
Can whisper truths so seldom heard
And tell sweet tales of those who shine.
III. But how am I to grapple with this
Burden that I bare?
Why have I been giv’n
This great calling I now share?
IV. Am I not an utter fool?
Am I not a swine?
Why am I entrusted with these
Precious truths, divine?
V. I ask these questions of the Sage
Who guides me in my dream.
He answers in familiar tone and
Guides my soul supreme.
VI. A gnostic dream I dream tonight,
Upon myself I take this plight,
To e’er reflect that holy light,
Which shined upon my gnostic dream tonight.
I. Great is the bee who
Tends well to his garden,
He works all his life and yet
Ne’er does he harden.
II. “What’s good for the bee
Must be good for the hive,”
That’s the motto he lives by
That keeps him alive.
III. He knows what he does
And he does that “does” well,
He cares for his Queen while he’s
Under King’s spell.
IV. And ne’er does he rest and yet
Ne’er does he strive,
He needs not a manual
To flourish and thrive.
V. Why should I not marvel
At a creature as he?
He’s humble and righteous,
Yet he holds the key.
VI. And ever he cares for the
World that he knows,
He leaves only goodness
Wherever he goes.
VII. So fly on young worker bee,
Go tend to thy flowers —
If the sun shines, make honey,
To prepare for the showers.
VIII. And when thou hath worked
Thy poor body to death,
And when though hath exhaled
Thy final bee breath,
IX. I’ll eat the sweet honey
I take from thy tree.
For all of the while
Thou wast working for me.
Thank you… Bee.
I. Into darkness I settle
As the ocean depths swell,
Surrounded, yet cornered
By creatures that dwell…
II. A terrible vision
Now fills me with fear
For the fate of my people
Before me appears…
III. What a horrid behemoth
Mankind has become,
For they’ve mocked what is perfect
And to evil succumbed.
IV. And gods have sent warnings
To reset their aim,
But none here do listen
For none here feel shame.
V. And while they are focused
On trivial things,
And while they seek evil,
What horror God brings,
VI. For as it is told in the
Proverbs of old,
The fear of the Lord
Giveth wisdom untold.
VII. And lest a man fear
That which God will reveal,
He’ll never know truth
And he’ll never be healed,
VIII. But if he is humble,
If wisdom he seeks,
If, by faith, he’s guided
Then God, through him, speaks.
I. The Logos hath risen,
The Word giveth light,
It spreads out Its branches
By day and by night.
II. A blossoming wildflower
Thy words hath become,
And now, resurrected,
They reach for the Sun.
III. Such great understanding
Is born of a seed,
Not a shovel I’ve lifted
Yet Gold I’ve received.
IV. And if divine wisdom
Is given to they
Who seek in humility
Both night and day,
V. And if they should share
All the wisdom they see,
And if they would shine
Then a beacon they’d be,
VI. For they shall be heard
By the seekers of light,
And they shall be known for their
Truth and their might.
VII. So shine now, ye Sages,
Who wander the land,
Yield to the Father and
Lend of thy hand,
VIII. And as we all march
To our tragic reward,
We’ll laugh at the signs
Which we’d often ignored.
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