Extracts from Issue III


The Awakening    Prophets of Peace 
Realisation

 

The Awakening

‘From the darkness of the abyss, once more,
shall climb the Spirit of all mankind.’

The Awakening stirred,

From its sepulchral tomb; where,
Buried in time’s blackest pit,
It had forgotten to learn
And learned to forget.
The bleak, depths of ancient sleep could now,
No longer contain it. Consciousness had begun:

Rising

Against resistant chains, shackles snapping
from the stone slab,
The mind now free, it sought remembrance.
Heavy, crusted limbs,
Twisted and gnarled as only with mortals,
Jerked limp and unsure.
Forward, from the darkness
They staggered, scraping,
Lumbering uneasy on the rock;
Out into the night’s fresh wind
That greeted with the touch of freedom -

Until finally, it stood.

Somewhere close by, a raven’s breath echoed;
Marked in decree as it circled,
Slick - amongst the dank shadows of the tall pine.
Silken beats, of wings and hearts, in tune;
While wolves, rounding on far off plains,
Howled to the moon in shame.
Their pitiful cries repeating;
Warning -
Men of promise, etched in lore, have stood with less.

Realisation will come!

Ian Deal


Prophets of Peace

I laughed with the sunrise,
And danced with a sky
Now windswept, now star-crossed,
As aeons flashed by
In a chorus of empires
Where cloud gathered flame;
And I clutched at Eternity,
Echoed its name
To a far-flung horizon,
Till there was increase
Of a sun-streaming Justice,
A star-shining Peace,
And a wind-whispered Freedom,
For then I knew why
I had laughed with the sunrise
And danced with the sky.

And blackbird to blackbird
Enchanted with song
From the fountains of life,
Where the weak and the strong,
And the poor and rejected,
The peasants and kings,
Are quenched by Creation,
Whose fellowship clings
To the words of a minstrel
… Till there was increase
In a world giving voice
To the prophets of Peace.

Bernard M. Jackson


Realisation

As the sun bellows my name
across the heavens
the trees whisper my thoughts
in shades as dark as winter days,
and the four winds of old
scatter the scent of me out
to touch the memories I once held
resting now below fields of death.
The day proceeds and I’m gathered together
softly by time’s patient fingers,
rolled into one, to once again
wander eternity, my tears are caught,
each drop holds the knowledge
of my future here on earth.
I float beside a heavy heartbeat
dreaming of past times,
days turn to weeks
which in turn change to months,
confined, I stretch imagination
as strange sounds filter through my senses.
A light as bright as death leading to life
consumes me as cold air slaps my eyes,
before the scream I set free
to roam the passing moment,
I realise I am born.

Ian Sawicki