Flush with boiling waters the empty pot.
In vapor, which past perfidy will evaporate?
What heated whisper shall slowly dissipate?
Sizzle and escape of steam in the crock.
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WAY OF THE SEVEN STARS
Response To That Final Question:
Ignorance is the Bane of Man.
At a distance removed,
Dimly remembered, and
Still not seen distinct,
But yet somehow felt;
What we do sense
Is not reality; is not the Real Thing.
This World is hologram.
Then; for lucid sleep;
For it's just a dream
Within another dream
And we are not awake.
Seven Stars' Song of Revelation
Is possible but through knowledge.
Don't fear nor spurn. Dare to learn:
Assent to and accept this world as it is
Before attempting ascent to any world
Aspired to or wished for. Life's glorious!
That That Is can be known but by few.
Not space, not time, not gravity exists;
But as Extension from Field of Thought.
Be subject to neither church nor crown.
Dread naught. Disdain none: Not One!
Absent That That Is, there's Nothing.
That That Is, IS. That That's Not, IS, too.
That That's Not makes That That Is: IS.
Be subject to neither church nor crown.
Dread naught. Disdain none: Not One!
Absent That That Is, there's Nothing.
That That Is, IS. That That's Not, IS, too.
That That's Not makes That That Is: IS.
That That Is makes That That's Not BE.
By rowing to That That Is, I become "I."
Wind + Water = Wave. As THOUGHT is
Wind + Water = Wave. As THOUGHT is
The Heart and The Nave of The Wheel.
Worlds are created from Thought alone.
That which we will do is because of that
What we are. We'll become who we are.
Charity, courtesy, civility, compassion,
Are cardinal spokes making civilization;
Chivalry forms center, hub's circle core.
IS is! Be not the slave of some other's I.
This, Creed of our Seven Stars Society;
This, The Teaching of the Seven Stars:
No man can be happy if he should choose
To be exile from his own nature and soul.
ALL IS THOUGHT ILLUMINATING BEING
Precognitive Prescient Prophetic Poetry by WILLIAM O'CONNOR
Wednesday, April 27, 2011
Monday, April 25, 2011
Rains of Fire
In cursive sickles of falling flames,
Rains of fire welcome the napalm
Mornings; starts of long, whiskey
Days, waiting upon night-dreads
Of dimmers of lights; those dark
Bringers of delusion and illusion,
Who dye black the stage of life.
Rains of fire welcome the napalm
Mornings; starts of long, whiskey
Days, waiting upon night-dreads
Of dimmers of lights; those dark
Bringers of delusion and illusion,
Who dye black the stage of life.
Friday, April 22, 2011
Rope
Strung twirled, gives to rope a sisal strength,
Binding it into a winding solidarity of strands.
The floor of heaven, so swirled in stars inlaid,
Winks dark-ling lights above the turning Earth.
Into that mystic reverie of stars and strands,
Stuns suspended some strange connections;
Dark, light, earth and heaven, seem entwined;
For these are days that spark such memories:
Recollection of places and of faces juxtaposed
Against a background theme of twisting times.
Binding it into a winding solidarity of strands.
The floor of heaven, so swirled in stars inlaid,
Winks dark-ling lights above the turning Earth.
Into that mystic reverie of stars and strands,
Stuns suspended some strange connections;
Dark, light, earth and heaven, seem entwined;
For these are days that spark such memories:
Recollection of places and of faces juxtaposed
Against a background theme of twisting times.
Sunday, April 17, 2011
Blue Sun
Sown unseen by some wintry wind off the sea,
Making a mean, moaning, wandering melody;
In brown blowing fields, the wild barley moves.
Occasional ripples, long and slow, pass smooth
Over ground, ghosts of torn, tortured breezes;
Each passing cloud making an edge of darkness.
An inscription of monotony sits under a blue sun.
Making a mean, moaning, wandering melody;
In brown blowing fields, the wild barley moves.
Occasional ripples, long and slow, pass smooth
Over ground, ghosts of torn, tortured breezes;
Each passing cloud making an edge of darkness.
An inscription of monotony sits under a blue sun.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Marathon
In this so short a life of trouble,
By a mumble of time distorted,
By a distance blurred by years;
To sing another's melody,
To cover another's song,
Seems a waste of effort,
Seems a waste of tears.
We're long-limbed shining ones,
Who've refused caterpillar lives;
To stagger moment to moment.
We're built for the long run; for
Marathon.
By a mumble of time distorted,
By a distance blurred by years;
To sing another's melody,
To cover another's song,
Seems a waste of effort,
Seems a waste of tears.
We're long-limbed shining ones,
Who've refused caterpillar lives;
To stagger moment to moment.
We're built for the long run; for
Marathon.
Tuesday, April 12, 2011
Changes
Shirring sounds from oaks of scarlet
And from chestnuts green, precede;
Coming into view are changes new.
Fierce imagining, threnody of groan;
Waking from a long extinguishment
Of desire, Spring has sprung again.
Season of buds, butterflies and bees.
And from chestnuts green, precede;
Coming into view are changes new.
Fierce imagining, threnody of groan;
Waking from a long extinguishment
Of desire, Spring has sprung again.
Season of buds, butterflies and bees.
Saturday, April 9, 2011
Congress
Chinks and edges show through
Lumber of the nation, a disjoint
Of fitting, and from these holes
A bothering rasp of mosquitoes
Is heard; hiss of madding voices.
Congress
Sits a boil upon the backside of
Commerce.
Lumber of the nation, a disjoint
Of fitting, and from these holes
A bothering rasp of mosquitoes
Is heard; hiss of madding voices.
Congress
Sits a boil upon the backside of
Commerce.
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