glittering prize

glittering prize

when god was
the glittering prize
and the day rose
like a mountain
and we had
nothing to lose
only everything
to burn to gain
the peak where
god was in the
hand and gentle
as thunder in a
far-off sky
a far-off sky
you look toward
in wonder thinking
of the bitter hail
and the wind out
there in those fields
where the cattle
sleep the sheep
with wind-parted
backs of wool
like the red-sea
and the canticles of
falling leaves that
never land
the glittering prize
we drank toward
talked toward
listened toward
smoked toward
a god with a
smile of stone
we could not
move to curse
to hail us to
laud us
as we did
each other
god was that
prize that would
stoke the fire
to a roar
the house sweating
in the furthest shadows
our eyes turned
to bone in staring
up into the chimmney
sparks flittering like
incendiary ants
across the bricks behind
the flames god was
in the evening bird
atop the fruit and
vine of its song
the cloud sunk
through with sun
god too was
god of night
rising and we
upon the
the razors
of our
sought to cut
out and lift

may 2015

Who walks with you

Who lies with you still

as the sun warms the slit

between the curtains;

walks with you, soft

along the hall, down

the stairs among the six

and sevens of dawn?


Under the rose-fingered

sky of twilight you stopped

upon the bridge (for what?)

and your head over

the parapet turned back

to stare, a face in water.


Who stands near as you think

of this; connect with it

some loose fact; begin,

resume. What is there

more to do, and who walks

with you? soft in midnight

blue, up the stairs.




thanks for your comments. unable to reply or make comments, or private messaging. have tried many times and failed. no good at this sort of thing ūüôĀ ¬†will keep trying tho ūüôā Please bear with me


Pathways 001

Tread softly

For the Spirits rise to Paradise

where the branches

cease to tangle and the Light

a strip of brilliance

slanting across waving grass


‚ÄėHere, the Place is reached‚Äô


Tread softly

For the Spirits rise to Paradise

where the Winds of Time

cannot disrupt the Glade

between the  place where

a print may be formed in the grass

and the place where no imprint

marks the progress of  Soul

Tread softly because

You may walk on the Dream

Before it has ceased to be….


June 2012

Art: Acrylic and Aquarelle pencil study on Canson paper. June 2012



Music… is the liberation
from a lonely prison of Matter
the elevator of the depression
of the tyranny of the human body
with its demands, desires and hunger
It is the Voice of God
singing through the strands of Time
reminding us that we
are not these bodies…
that we are not prisoners in
bone and sinew…
but Spirit in action
dancing through eons, galaxies
singing through Humanity



november skies 007

A high west wind
shreds and feathers
the white gauze of cirrus clouds
in rarified mesosphere echoes
from space.

An invisible hand pulls
like so much spun sugar
of celestial confectionary
against a sky
of melted forget-me-nots
in high summer sun
which shimmers on the blades
and heads of
cabbage tree leaves.


Date Scones


Dates ….

those inexpensive Kiwi standbys

those thousands of sticky dried fruit

worked into thousands of masses of dough

like this indigestible slab.

It is giving me a serious dose of heartburn as I wonder…

who picked these fruit….

who are their names….

what pay to harvest these dates

what heartache…

for my

Date Scone

slowly disappearing under a

thin layer of butter from one of those

silly little containers …

you know the ones – they tear

and you hook the butter out with your knife…

I idly

think of the Date Pickers

the Tea Pickers

they who grind the cinnamon quills

into powder ….

which go into the

Date Scone


Amid the café buzz of unintelligible conversations

think of the Fresh Dates which cost

more than these sticky dried fruit…

The Date Scone

is almost a memory

save for the indigestion….

The Noble Kiwi afternoon tea


One or two of those dates

picked by the Date Pickers

are left beside a buttery knife

still encased in dough….

no the Dates not the knife….!

Think of the Date Pickers…….

Copyright 30.9.2010


The Grapefruit Tree

Spring Storms 027


It must be enormous now …

that Morrison Seedless beloved of the Kiwi gardener

a gift from my grandpa

for the house – and my birthday.

My man used

our supply of demolition bricks to make a path

to the leafy infant

its protection, a low brick surround

as if for a nursery

its botanical companions

some lavender cuttings from the hedge

I knew since childhood.


I hope the owners of that house

we once owned

have not cut through its gnarled trunk

nor felled the giver of those golden

juice-filled fruits

… fruit which makes marmalade

for breakfast toast

eaten in that cobbled suntrap

by the French doors.





The Diamond Map

Phil Tayler – December 2015
The Diamond Map

To understand the outer world, we tend to gaze upon it;
many options present themselves, to elucidate perception.
One image of the world; mere colours upon an atlas
two dimensional spacial, paper mapping information.
Three dimensional fractal, holographic light in form
Four dimensional reality, with limitations merely time. .

To understand the inner realms, we need reflection deeply;
for truth is like a diamond, the most precious of the gems.
Cut with many polished faces, each facet like a mirror
reflecting back to all of us, beliefs we cherish dear.
It takes a very open mind, to see opposing facets
never mind the deeper truth, the disregarded faces.

So light reflecting from within, illuminates the seeker;
shining on the gem of mind, the clarity of mappings.
Yet one can never disregard, the physicality of existence
bound together seamlessly, with bone and blood – the mind.
Yet imagination travels far, our thoughts yet further still
colliding with our sleeping form, intuition in our dreams.

So mind it seems, is paramount; surmounting all its boundaries;
our electro physical senses, mere appendages for its usage.
Emotions come and sensations go, yet only memory remains
of gems of truth and maps of light, experience won at cost.
As years go by we learn at last, we accumulate our actions
loves we’ve known, compassion shown, embedded in our being.



Hovering like pink and white stars

a haze of flowers

floating above a green, rank grassy bank

gently buffeted by a breeze

skimming a sullen harbour

in an Auckland spring evening…

Weaving up the rank grassy bank

are, trembling in a gust,

blooms which will cease to be

as summer approaches

all that will remain are green blades

leaves leaning into the sloping lawn.

The setting sun

wrapped in violet clouds

slides light through hazy perforations

catching the Sparaxis blooms

on a rain-sodden, rank grassy bank

a glowing hovering haze

shimmering still, as the day is


and the evening breeze whips a sullen harbour.


Hauraki, 2010

The Gathering


Here under a strange sun

A dying star

Draws in its carriers

Within the loops and whirls

Of genetic material…DNA

preserved, as inward collapses into immortality

The worn-out, discarded, the frayed

full of holes …of an ancient carpet

without footprints

Thin patches worn to the boards

Threads unravelling…

the ravages of substances

Abuse of mind, war, destruction

Tearing at the threads of Matter

Cradles of Humanity now its cemetery

Join with the Spirits

on the Day of Reckoning

which will be

a Day of the great ‘Ah ha’…

a Day of the great Realisation…

on those winged thoughts

which lead ever

towards the  Light

for which all ache…

glimpsed …now realised…

shining on the gems of our Earth lives

the dross slipping and sliding

into another infinity of recycling that Clay

from which God, (Who has many names)

formed all

in Eden (which has many names)

each according to their own…

as it is in Heaven … Nirvana…Paradise…


Shells of Memories



Shells of Memories are…

fragments of Mind…I think…

gnawed at by time

eroded by unseen elements

buffeted by centuries

scoured by forces of the mind


With them I

roll into chasms

at the depths of trenches

pitted by canyons of currents

a chipped end

a crumpled bulge of shell wall…


I listen for

echoes in those casings of the soul

which speak strange words

… holding the patterns…

but, crumpling and collapsing

the messages dissolve



I cannot differentiate between

the memories of the shells

the shells of memories

slowly becoming one with the shingle and the sand

forces beyond … pushing, rolling, revolving



I feel that they spin…from where all emanates

released they spiral through the unseen tide

for  their span of life… then

all manner of matter succumbs to the lure of the abyssal vortex

a black hole…to which all is destined to return


If I look carefully within I see

beyond the black hole

a strange re-formation

where Light itself takes the fragments


from the detritus and the rubble


The Eternal Creator remakes

forever eternal God formed Adam from the clay…

slices of light reborn anew

but within the reassembled fragments remains a memory

which Time Itself cannot delete…erase…forever eternal

we cannot erase but only watch…


I want to…

look upon the shells of memories

they which have become the bones within

for those which were the bones without

now wear bodies on the outside

…people talk of Evolution…



I roll ideas as the ocean rolls the shell fragments

of the Evolution of Thoughts

growing within their casing of brain and bone

and do they…


returning surely to the Source?


In one of those  information boxes on the lip of the cliff

I read that where we stood was once beneath those waves….

and as I scanned the words

beneath my feet I felt

a shifting motion an uprising of an ocean bed

beneath my feet… an outpouring of fossils…


It would be futile to take a spade

and dig down…shells of memories will ooze

upward between the grains of clay like

a fragment of a memory held

in the palm of my hand as the tiny piece of ancestry is

lost among the shards and grains



I want to say…

that all that we think


settles on the bottom of this vast ocean of experience

where all our minds are destined

to meet…in a strange eventuality



does the flotsam of human doings

float, jostling like seaweed

or does it slide beneath the waves of  living past

subducting our living presence

and if so…

are our thoughts our own or shells of memories?



The Birds

'They sing among the Branches'

The birds seem

to be watchful for the End of Days

of a distant destination yet to come

floating in the Sea of the Infinite

islands of consciousness

visible through the tangle of branches

of confused minds

like veins and synapses

bearing witness to¬†scattered ideologies…

witness to the fruits of our actions


about to split asunder

in the deluge…

for I dreamt about a monstrous tide

of blood-red waters

and overhead circled the birds

by now white-winged

in a great gathering resembling

a¬†multitude¬†of angels…

‘Then I saw an angel standing in the

sun; and he cried with a loud voice,

saying to all the birds that fly in the

midst of Heaven, “Come and gather

¬†together for the supper of the great God…’*

and then the words were lost

in a profound silence

a lapping of the waters

the blood-red waters…


And I awoke to the dawn chorus

of a tree bare

of leaves and fruit

save for tiny new

green shoots…

and through the tangle of branches

an angel standing in the rising¬†sun…


Susannah MacDonald 2010


*Revelation 19 Verse 17

The Holy Bible The New King James Version