Listen!
To the whispered wisdom
Of a wayward wind;
The chuckling humour
Of a mountain stream;
The languorous call
Of a gull in flight,
And know
That it is about you,
Within you,
Of you.

I listen to the pulse of worlds-
the music of the spheres
is ever-present in my ears.
The life-beat of planets and of stars
runs in my body-
never still,
while in my mind
the silence reigns-
the silence of a universe.
I am a child of the sun,
a brother to the moon and stars.
A fragment of them all,
and all in one:
I am a universe sublime:
I am a Sleeper at the Gates of Time.

Moon shines upon a darkened earth:
an eye in heaven ne’er saw more than she,
as from her far throne
she casts her beams down:
a silver trail in a pitch-blend sea.

In the dimness, in the darkness
of the woodlands, see them play
where the shadows, ever gath’ring,
weave the magic not of day.
You shall see them softly glimmer,
though your eyes shall seem to say
you’ve seen nought but shimm’ring silence
of vestigiality.

The feral cat has struck again-
Brought fear into the hearts of men.
Not satisfied with fowl or fish,
He’s settled on another dish.

**** knows that he is on a winner
When he gobbles TV dinner.
Chow mein? He likes it to a turn,
And his coffee from the urn.

“Waiter! My soup!” and off I trot
to serve my master on the spot.
“And don’t forget the bread and butter!”
“Up yours, chum!” I’m heard to mutter.

Our cat finds wildlife galore
And leaves it on the lounge room floor.
“Look what I’ve found,” he seems to say.
“Can I go out in the bush to play?”

He stalks, he leaps and claws them down-
All I can do is stand and frown.
The cat’s a cat- what can I do
When he brings me a currawong or two?

He’s at the door. What has he done?
He’s brought the possum population down by one.
A tiny corpse lies very still.
This one’s for me. The cat has had his fill.

“You wicked cat! Your hunting sense
is growing in its virulence.”
He turns his back to find me something new.
Perhaps he’ll hunt a great red kangaroo.

I walk in giant rings of stone-
myself, yet not myself alone.
I stand, bereft of body,
while my mind
wanders in Time’s corridors.

I see the ancient wonders wrought-
the stones are raised with power sought
from Nature, old beyond my dreams.
The priestly chanting in my ears,
I watch as monolithic beams
rise merely to the touch of hands-
floating freely in the midnight air,
they come, mind-bidden,
to their resting place.

Returning day my mind recalls:
the stones, now tumbled, lifeless lie.
Unbidden powers silently await
those who would bend them to their will.
Yet vain shall they wait,
for now is lost
the power of that bygone host.

When,
in moonbeams’ thrall,
you’re bidden dance,
remove the veil from your eyes;
walk the dim halls of mystery
with feet
bare of all encumbrance;
enter the sacred grove
stripped of all pretension;
join the dance,
naked,
knowing
that life is light-
everlasting.

There is a valley where the green grass grows;
where trees know not the winter snows;
where songs of thrush and woodbine meld
in summer sunshine’s golden glow
and happy people come and go.

In blue of sky; in cool of shade;
in Autumn splendour’s golden glade
the insects sing to those who wish to hear,
while the water in the bubbling stream
fosters many an immortal dream.

Here, where the will its pleasure moulds-
where time has neither been nor gone-
a lonely traveller wends his way:
a pack and staff his only company.

The trail is his and his alone-
his mind knows wither it shall lead:
o’er hill, by brook, by leaping waterfall.
He seeks the pleasure of that oft-remembered hall.

The quiet glen is silver bound:
stars, shining in a cloudless sky,
are keeping guard as Darkness passes by.
The inn stands where it always stood:
a fire wherein massive logs of wood
lay burning,
calls the traveller from his yearning:
bids him rest amid a happy throng,
who sing and tell their stories all night long.

Infectious merriment abounds-
the quietest of quiet sounds
is never lost amid the revelry.
The traveller enjoys the fare
and spends the night among old friends.

Through purple shadows of a starlit night
I wander-
the empty reaches of the universe
to ponder.
I stand, a stranger, on a darkened shore:
a life behind me and a life before.
Where shall the phantom hand that guides me
lead?
With eyes turned to the distant stars
I gaze in stunned bewilderment.
Along the shore, across the sandy beach-
my soul goes out to seek in haste
a kindred spirit in the starry waste.
Companions in a bygone age,
we meet again as time stands still
and love as only lovers will.

I walked the vale of disbelief,
mind-blank and blinded,
time-worn and timid,
lost to the everlasting light
when darkness called.

It stole upon me like a cloud-
mist-melting shadow,
soul-shrouding numbness
gathering my very life
unto itself.

Dispel the fear;
deride the dread.
Release the ever-present thought
of terminal finality.
Live as you would-
know that you will
forever change
and ne’er be still.

If feral cats had thumbs, I'm sure
they'd raise them to their noses-
and smile at those of us who think
cats' lives are beds of roses.

They're up from dusk to dawn each day
to hunt their daily dinner.
No processed food for these smug boys-
organic is a winner.

Organic mice, organic owls,
organic this and that.
Oh what joy it is to be
a prowling feral cat.

They get their meals on the run,
combining work and play.
A friend one minute's food the next-
there's never a dull day.

The stars in their uncounted millions shine;
suns in their brilliance light the Cosmos;
winds of change blow, unrelenting;
and a small, blue planet dies-
suffocated.
Cry, Humanity!
Cry for your unborn children;
cry for the lost glories of a world;
cry for those lives you have ignored-
for those lives misunderstood.
Cry for those god-born creatures
destroyed by greed.
Deplore your love of the material-
heal your spirit and heal the world.