"Twenty years before current time, the Spear Sect, known for only taking one student had its Sect Head accused of practicing Demonic Martial Arts by the leaders of the Murim Orthodox Union and was given the judgment of death."

I.

"A team of horses will struggle to chase down a spoken word. From the Analects of Confucius"

And when they died, their life ebbed away.
The maws of dogma forcing their daggers
To blot out the truth with the blood of the lost.
The orthodox sect's swords painting an old wall
With thin veneer of paint, haphazardly done.

In an unmarked grave lies the spear sect.
Where two died, another lived on.

II.

"An old warhorse in the stable still longs to gallop a thousand li. From the Analects of Confucius."

And they pierced his ribs,
his flesh threshed by deceit and
The facade of the pharisees
forcing him down. In the dark caves
he was placed with the heavy stone.

The shroud is a white sheet
Covering his scarred body.

His life lived on with the sinful:
the tax collectors and the courtesans;
the uncouth and uneducated,
the murderers and drunkards,
the gentiles of the other sects.

Though he lived not as others did.

From one spear he died,
with another he lived,
Leading them with the sacred fire.
Fishing for followers
among the many hungry.

December 2021

Conspiring behind
those confinements
of morality,
justice and sincerity.

A suppressed philosophy,
born from the social elite;
Political correctness at it’s peak.

We seek truth in absolution.
As they round the troops.

In Confucius dreams,
the wisdom is hidden
within the aphorism.
The definition defined.

"Do
not do
to others
what you
do not
want don’t
to
yourself”

From provincial son,
to exile in the sun,
policies,
followed by
astrologies
patterns,
and swallowed by the black holes,
of unexplained notions,
the nature of the soul
and all it’s inhabitants.

Oh sweet Mandarin,
where do we begin?
It’s torture to breath,
and it’s gorgeous to sin.

Palcion and Ratisbon stood amidst eachother forever-
the father of being and the bringer of non-being stood
And as they stood, time and her efforts in vain, they she could not weather
Palcion and Retisbon looked upon the first to move between them
named the consequence of being and unbeing- Abro, meaning passage
Abro could topple walls and reduce mountains, all while light as a feather

Abro was not the mother of peace, nor the maiden of chaos-
The former was Ritacene- daughter of Palcion, whom he named after his brother
The latter was Phalgacene, daughter of Retisbon, who named her after the other
Abro was the steed of Phalgacene, who pulled her chariots and made her spears fly
Abro was also the bull of Ritacene, who plowed her fields and grew her wheat
And when the sisters argued, Abro would sit between them and wait, and stare at the sky

Abro would count the faces of the sky, and found the sky to be beautiful
‘I am Chazan- servant of Palcion and Retisbon,'’ the sky said. ‘I carry the weight of them both”
‘I am Abro- the eldest of the goddesses Ritacene and Phalgacene’ she told him
‘You are such a strong and fair woman,’ Chazan said. ‘To keep your youngers from conflict’
‘I do no such thing’ said Abro. ‘They are twins, and as above, they are as two as they are one’
‘They, like their fathers, are two faces of one disk-’ she went on ‘and so conflict they do not risk’

‘And you Chazan?’ Abro asked him. ‘What of you, and why above all made but below makers?’
‘I am the throne of the creator of creators and destroyer of destroyers’ he said to Abro.
‘I conceal the made from their maker and the maker from what they’ve made’ he went on
‘I hide the destruction from their destroyer- I herald the light of being and death’s shade.’
‘I find you beautiful-’ said Abro. ‘What say you to be my groom? What say you I be your bride?’
And in that, the swords of Phalgacene glowed bright, and Ritacene’s crops began to die

Chazan’s hair began to grow short and loose, and the face of the sky burst into flames
The air began to heat and the sky’s blue began to lighten- Chazan’s skin became like glass
Abro saw Chazan- his skin pink, orange, green, and cerulean- his two eyes, the sun and moon
‘You lie to me, Abro-’ he said aloud. ‘How can you say I'm beautiful when this is what I am?’
‘Everchanging, ever new- I will shed a thousand skins, but you will still be you’ he told Abro.
‘How can you have a husband, whose faces change, and whose memory of you with it fades?’

And so, Abro stood, and faced the sky. Her legs began to grow tired, and so she went away.
Chazan, seeing this, fell into misery. The sky darkened and the the winds blew strong
The fields of Ritacene were reduced to lakes of mud, while rust grew on Phalgacen’s wheels
Chazan was in tears. His hair grew long and wispy and from them- water crashed into the earth
Then Abro returned, with the beast Malzaphaiatan- whom she borrowed from her sisters
Malzaphaiatan was a beast that plowed fields and pulled chariots and on it, Abro sat and waited

Abro’s sisters made more of these beasts, and soon their numbers would become the land
They’re backs fertile and their stampedes would causes quakes, but upon them Abro sat
Abro sat and waited for Chazan to calm down- and upon Malzaphaiatan she would wait
Chazan, upon seeing Abro, lightened and was delighted. “You have returned! I am elated!‘
He ran through the sky and to the ground at such speed, which created lighting and thunder
He ran to hold Abor and lay with her on Malzaphaiatan- and in their bliss was born Spring.

Chazan would soon change face again- and the air began to heat and the sky would lighten
The glow of Phalgacene’s metal and the drooping of Ritacene’s plants all heralded one thing-
“Abro’s lover was angry.” in his rage, he remembered Abro not, and so Abro stood and went.
She borrowed Zapharagaz from her sisters- a steed of of great speed- delicate and deadly
Zapharagaz carried Phalgacene’s navy, and fed the fields and water wheels of Ritacene
Abro drove Zapharagaz across the herds of Malzaphaiatan so that Chazan may drink

Across the backs of the herds, she carved waterways, canals, and cisterns with Zapharagaz
The tracks of Zapharagaz made rivers and from the places it rested, were oceans and lakes
Abro made a chalice from clouds and gave it to her lover Chazan to drink- and he was calmed
This face of Chazan knew Abro not- but found her beautiful. ‘Be my bride, oh Lady of Time!’
‘Be my bride and this entire kingdom of fire and light shall be as yours as it is mine!’
‘I shall be your bride, and you shall be my groom!’ and so they lay together and bore Summer

Chazan would not change face again, and his memory of Abro would persist, yet he was sad.
‘Abro, my love- Queen of the Sky as I am its King; does it not hurt when I forget you at times?’
‘Chazan, my love- King of the sky who made me its queen; I love you and all your faces.’
‘How could you? What if I forget you in those faces? What would become of us and of life?’
‘I will still love you’ she said. ‘And each of your faces, what face may come, will call me its wife’
And so in a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, Chazan used the sun and breeze on the land

He took the Clouds away, but stunted the heat of the sun. He dried the leaves of Ritacene-
He put the soldiers of Phalgacene to rest and told them to return to their wives and families
He blew across the sea and into land to create the first wind and waves, and so he began
And so with a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, the harvest began and produce came
Upon the backs of the herd- Chazan painted a golden portrait of Abro, and it was beautiful
And so in a gentle breeze and lingering warmth, the two lay once more and bore Autumn

As Abro awoke, she found her husband away from her embrace. Chazan was not away though.
Chazan could simply not be seen. Droplets of hard, cold water fell on Abro’s hands. They spelt:
‘Who are you? I am Chazan, king of the sky. Who are you, why are you here?’ said the snow.
‘I am Abro, Lady of Time, first daughter of the twin Kings of Creation and Destruction’ she said.
‘I am the eldest child of Palcion and Retisbon. I am the eldest to Ritacene- goddess of order’
‘And of Phalgacene- goddess of chaos.’ she boasted. ‘You are in the presence of the gods’

‘You were drunk, and in your stupor, took me to your bed.’ Abro wanted to know what he’d say.
‘Forgive me! I am king of the sky, but humble servant first to the Twin Kings- how do I repent? ’
‘You shall have to wed me! For we shall both be punished if the Twins find out!’ Abro told him.
Abro, despite her love for Chazan, wanted to be wed. And so, the king of the sky wed her.
Chazan froze the waters for them to walk on and donned the land white in snow- as did Abro
Ordained as husband and wife by the twin gods, Chazan and Abro were wed- and bore Winter.

The children of Chazan and Abro would be the essence of the seasons who played together-
Spring, the fastest and most beautiful of the siblings, ran ahead of her brothers and sisters-
Summer, the strongest but largest, ran behind Spring, but could not catch up to her however
Autumn came next and often called for Winter, and came to soothe Summer of his blisters
Winter- however, walked and did not run. He carried with him coal, which he marked with.
Soon, he would not run at all. He would sit and wait like Abro, and forget to run like Chazan

This is why the Spring is so well loved, yet feels as if it passes too fast and too quickly at times
And why Summer is so hot, yet most of the work must be done under its heat and weather
And why Autumn brings peace, and in its golden banquet bring good food, harvests, and wine
And why Winter and all its snow, darkness, coldness and blight seems to drag on forever
And yet in Winter, the only well that does not freeze over is the well that draws forth black ink
And so the myth of seasons finds its Author in the hands of the cold. Behold- the Song of Winter

The Master said, “ He who rules by moral force is like the pole star, which remains in its place while all the lesser stars do homage to it.”

In the hearth of all and none,
there stood two-
Who were as one
In the hearth of all and none
There stood two-
who too, where none

Both, like eyes, to a thought not yet thought
The two stood there and were-
And yet at the same time- were not
But one awoke, and in awaking bore thought
And from then on the thought of not,
Was there, and forevermore, all but naught

The other, angered by the thought
Stood and and found his brother awake
And from there the birth of twins
Of blindness and seeing, of knowing and sleeping
He was thought, life, existence and being
He was not, death, nonexistence, nonbeing

And the awoken named himself Palcion, meaning infinite
And from there he ran across the none and brought being
From here to there, he brought what, whos, hows, and wheres
And he named his brother Retisbon, which pertained to limit
And he followed his brother- picking up the things he made and left
All his whats, whos, hows, and wheres- stripping them of being

And then Palcion grew tired, and went to sleep on his brother’s lap,
Retisbon, still awake, guarded his brother in his slumber-
And in his slumber, he stripped all his creations of being
Upon Palcion awakening, Retisbon then grew tired, falling too on his lap
Palcion, then awake, guarded his brother in his slumber-
And in his slumber, he thought to continue to make and make

Retisbon awoke, across his brother now, who then was busy making-
In front of Palcion, all he made, which Retisbon thought of breaking-
He made, he broke- he gave being, and he stripped them of it-
And so the myth of  Palcion the Infinite, and Retisbon of the Limits-
Being made into all, and all soon stripped of being- the first of all natures

And from this came time,
And from that came worlds,
And from there all that will ever be in it.

this is the life...oh, reading
daylong and in candlelight
and perusing scrolls and poems and the Classics
and the Analects,
it tires one...but this, sitting in the veranda
and with fresh air
and the gentle breeze and one’s mind light and easy...
and contemplating a rose
or seeing the green of a leaf...
the mind cleared of ideas and vague abstractions
and the weight of words and persuasion,
O this is the life...
the mind sits still now
in itself
the being in
the quiet of an evening
the satisfaction of solitude
in an emptiness, a presence
beyond books, thoughts and patterns
this is the life, this is the moment...

pen to paper
joy in the craft
don't lose momentum

a poet should prize
more than the analects
they put to a page

mark my word:
live in colors caught
expose and labor in the flow
sagacity is the destination

On personal cultivation and development, also on duty, responsibility, altruism, service to the community/society/country, leadership and governance,  none in the world, even now, can match the wisdom of Confucius 600 BCE as expounded in his immortal classic THE ANALECTS.  



Book 4

Virtue attracts others and never stands alone


Book 7:

These things cause me concern-

if I fail

1. to probe deeper into what I have learnt

2. to reform myself when I have defects, etc

Give me a few years more so that I might still study when I am fifty

and as such free myself from my major errors.

Book 13

If a person has succeeded in making himself correct,

what difficulty would he face in governing?



There's a short chapter on this in THE GENTLE ART OF TAO LEADERSHIP-- A 21ST CENTURY PERSPECTIVE, Nov 2020, distributed by Simon & Schuster, published in Melb, to be republished in US this year.


At a Nobel Prize Writers' Conference held in Paris in 1988,

the following statement was declared:

' If mankind is to survive, it must go back 2,500 years to tap the wisdom of Confucius'

there’s never any woman
who is more unfortunate to be a woman
than the woman
who is near you

now, I’ve got no idea of beauty
but when you said “I love your femininity,”
I can coalesce what you meant

“woman,”
"woman,"
“woman”

soft, accessible, permissible
the earthly mans ego-stroking
shower-fantasy
of what it means to be
“A Proverbs 31 woman”

a beauty, meaning

something to reflect you
endlessly
a mirror with a nice rack
a way to hear yourself talk
again and again and again and again
stripped bare for you
mouthing it all back

“you’re beautiful,”

it sounds
so very, very, very ugly
when I know just what you mean

how dare you make
“woman”
sound like something like that

I’ve got no idea of beauty
still reconciling femininity
my womanhood
still reconciling me

but I’ll never fit your narrative
or engage with your empty analects
of what it means to be

because you don’t know how to

and you certainly don’t know beauty

Neither excess
    nor deficiency
    this is equilibrium
    the point of rest


*. 'Doctrine of the Mean' in the Sage's THE ANALECTS, 600 BCE