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"The Returning" 

Inside us all 
a strange forest

where light and dark 
are fed to us by 
curious creatures,
their unexpected gods 

in thoughts and deeds
joy and fear 
hate and love 
belief and disbelief

inwards
our dreams 
turn to
The Returning 

a place we think
we’ve never been 

we drift inwards
facing ghosts 
the demons 
in our learning,

for nourishing 
or easily burning
incinerating visions
that seem too real

our thoughts rule 
over heart, 
the logical and 
illogical upstarts

when eyes 
are open 
to “It” all,
in the waking 

moments of our 
Life,
we become 
philosophical 

some,
say outright
with incredulous
indignation,

“get on with it”
"face facts”,  
avoiding the persistent 
message in their dreams

Myopia turns 
its tight-lipped cheek 
"my good woman",
or "my good man", it decrees

“you’re living in ...
another world”, 
this much is true,
I think...

the flying monkeys
in their high chairs
further screech, 
“dreams are not real - 

they are 
just stupid dreams”

yet, 

if heart and mind 
were to consort 
as one, 
as they must,

in that 
ephemeral 
realm 
of contrivance -

one 
and the same 
they remain 
cohorts merged

never 
the two apart
joyfully lacking
competitive territorial licence

the devil's in those details
perhaps through dreams
we eventually 
remember

The Returning 
is from 
the start

One 
and the same 
never apart 

we would see 
and understand
there prevails such 
an odd place

where strange beings 
only exist in its core
in light and love
a perpetual state of grace

there is 
no rich, no poor
no hate, no crime
no restricting law 

for there,
you see,
outside the dark,
Light is seen for what it is,

Lux Vitae
Love is the Law

we commune 
in strange ways 
the verses that we 
sing and speak 

perhaps we are 
envelopes of madness
perhaps, 
we think too much -

in
relentless 
risky
poetry -

and fly to walls 
to perch like 
Southern Boobooks
that have lost their call 

in flight, escapes
a silent voice,
echoing 
mangled memories

considered 
small in mind
unable and inadequate
to sing

upon awaking 
from our 
addled dreams
our thoughts 

alone,
return 
to The Returning

for in our thoughts
it is closer 
than we care 
to dream

there are answers 
that our questions need, 
so we lie down again 
to sleep to dream

to unwrap 
through our imagining 
without blood and water
skin and bone 

what is 
the hidden creed
to be found elusive
in our dreams?

do we search for home
every dream we bleed,
or are we to convert
sensibly 

the point of it all
the place 
that always disappears 
before it's reached?

shrouded, sitting in
the central seat, 
commanding 
all our dreams

the one 
we wake, 
before we meet

we are the dreamers
we sleep deep 
in the dream 
to dream 

to meet
what is meant 
to be met 

in the presence
of those other beings
one among many
more real, than is real

that strange dimension
some consider fantasy
perhaps it's in this world 
outside what isn't real

we live 
in our dreams
our life is but a dream,
nightmares and dreams surreal

The Returning 
calls us 
ever forward
inward and perplexed 

between 
heart and thought
to what sits centre stage
priceless, unable to be bought

It 
is real
extraordinary 
outside all 

what we've been 
taught

the heart 
provides
more than food for 
thought

(LadyLabyrinth/2022)
lux vitae



“Memory Gospel” / Moby
https://youtu.be/uyjnkn-HkJc






"And, like the baseless fabric of this vision,
The cloud-capp’d towers, the gorgeous palaces,
The solemn temples, the great globe itself,
Ye all which it inherit, shall dissolve
And, like this insubstantial pageant faded,
Leave not a rack behind. We are such stuff
As dreams are made on, and our little life
Is rounded with a sleep..."








Southern Boobook.
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