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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

Ignorance is a jail where no escape
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.
That That Is makes That That's Not BE.

By rowing to That That Is, I become "I."
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, June 1, 2011

Boxes of Glass

Transparent things that live in boxes of glass.
Boxes of Glass. They live in big boxes of glass.


In dreams they'll remember twilight worlds,
Spaces of moving shadow glimpsed on cliffs;
Of still silences and of glances cold and bold.


Boxes of glass. They live in big boxes of glass.
Transparent things that live in boxes of glass.


Calm monitors of skies serve as only company,
Laser hues of brightest blue bath softest faces;
No lines of experience are carved in character.


Transparent things that live in boxes of glass.
Boxes of glass. They live in big boxes of glass.


No cares save clouds of memory follow them,
Dent impressions of dampness and of storm;
Ghosts plagued by the forgotten glory of Art.


Boxes of glass. They live in big boxes of glass.
Transparent things that live in boxes of glass.


Spotless minds are shores of every sweet desire,
Sunlit landscapes of delight and meadows of joy;
Of running tinkles of streams in green horizons.


Far from boxes of glass. From big boxes of glass.

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WILLIAM O'CONNOR

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