‘in my car I pass…’



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          in my car I pass
          vehicles and lamps
          under adjoining grey skies

          after neon billboards
          hook my gaze like
          passing velcro

          I lower the blind
          to the afternoon sun
          (although it stays just left),

          no matter, there was
          a single rising twist
          of industry which

          would never conjoin
          with the steely sunset
          as Turner might have it

driving up through Birmingham on the M6 to see my daughter…


afternoon & travelling wormhole: meanwhile
cars wormhole: riders of the night
grey & smoke wormhole: ‘‘she shook the sweets…’
motorway wormhole: prelude: // travel
passing & sky & sun wormhole: under the blue and blue sky
streetlight wormhole: ‘not sure …’
sunset wormhole: http://boiled spangle with soft centre
thinking wormhole: a far grander / Sangha
time wormhole: Journey






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                        the evening before when at length he’d departed,
                Vaiśālī no longer glowed
        like some future city –

                        recent stones of monument
                seemed already unaligned,
        boroughs swallowed by evening hills;

                        we walked wide by the trees across the Gangetic plain,
                robes flupped with each step,
        we lost form as we wandered

                        and we wondered ‘born but to die’,
                still wanting any intoxication
        before the execution;

                        but he looked, always bittersweet,
                to the next horizon – this
        vast and empty stage;

                        in the morning he’d said
                ‘always bite and heat your gold’ and ‘never
        hold the sword by the blade’;

                        ‘I shall lay between those two trees’
                he said in the evening – forks
        around which the whole of time tuned;

                        I prepared grasses about
– I never usually made particular preparations for the night, he would end the day sitting by some copse or stone, away from where we slept glowing like embers,
        as we turned through the night –

                        but he pillowed his head on his hand
                that night, the grasses
        preened green and blue

                        the birds stopped
                as if there were eclipse, the trees ignored
        the breeze,

                        and with shaking headdresses
                dignitaries came to visit from the town
        supplicating –

                        but he spoke with a voice like a cloud, both proximate
and spanning valleys, yearning and teaching to lay down this dried and splintered weight, ‘salvation does not come from the mere sight of me’,
        ‘control the mind’ –

                        and the flames of the fires were low
                as they returned to Kuśinagara
        as if against the stream


Postface Overduction: end of life of the Buddha; narrated by Ananda, close attendant; itinerant life teaching from town to town, area of a few hundred kilometers around central Ganges; left Vaiśālī last, stopped just outside Kuśinagara, town dignitaries came to honour him, had known him before; ‘two trees’ are ‘sal trees‘ tall trunk, no branches until the canopy, northern India, 6th-5th centuries BCE (although there is dispute about this);



birds wormhole: threshold to behold
blue & city & horizon & morning & time wormhole: under the blue and blue sky
breeze & clouds & valley wormhole: here today and …
Buddha wormhole: eyes like petals
death & speech wormhole: travel // when I die
evening wormhole: nowhere / that can be seen
grass & life & trees wormhole: sweet chestnut
green wormhole: ‘she shook the sweets …’
hills & sleep wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
looking wormhole: looking hard enough
night & sound & stone & walking wormhole: meanwhile
teaching wormhole: c’mon – keep up
voices wormhole: travelling / back




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                                               there – a cluster of them
                                        hung together in adventitious web
                                           creating dull light, or feeling cold

                           there – past the skeins and drape
                    of procedure and history, look, through
                       there, another, brighter;

       that one just went out; no –
don’t touch, the thread is too sticky,
   you’ll rip it apart, besides

                                     it’s become damp, candied, too brittle, no;
                              back out a little, careful, bend low –
                                 lower – don’t get all stood up, there’s

                 a doorway back here
          we can stand upright then,
             see the joists all about –clustered mutterance;

       let’s climb the hill – long steps
and steady, see the shanty towns, see the continents,
   the light beyond core, spread

                                     spread high and low and wide, ready:
                              catch them all
                                 as they think




WordPress have told me I have recently tripped 50,000 views; I haven’t posted since last summer, I haven’t been posting regularly for some three years; maybe I don’t write much anymore, maybe I should; but I’m touched nevertheless; so maybe I should offer some more, with open hand and mumbled smile



compassion & light wormhole: taking birth
death & identity wormhole: “…and may the great elements…”
doors wormhole: Four Noble Truths
history wormhole: the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes
looking & voices wormhole: Journey
love wormhole: the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
society wormhole: mirror
speech wormhole: time


“…and may the great elements…”


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                                        “…and may the great elements…”

                              they lay on me
                    the twigs that grew so wilfully
          asserting a different direction

                              the plethora of leaves
                    endless bickering of state-meant
          and chatter

                              and here and there
                    a fallen tree
          carcass of some vainglorious empire

                              of some untold career to behold
                    (look away, look away);
          they all create new space

                              now their demand and strife
                    are finished
          awaiting the final crunch

                              come, come to me my darlings
                    there is so much more that you could be now that
          you have matured


the title is a clip from the prayer of BCA III, 17-22: “And just as the great elements – earth, water and so forth – support the life of sentient beings, so may I too become the foundation of sustenance for all…”



career wormhole: c’mon – keep up
death & trees wormhole: Journey
identity wormhole: paisley // implicitly
leaves wormhole: ‘and is there homage …’
life & space wormhole: the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes
others wormhole: the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament


paisley // implicitly


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            the self-drive of Hinayāna the Strait Way
the laser-way to just

            snuff out this wholly illusory self
these wholly illusory selves (which is all ‘me’ I tells ya a-Ha-ha-ha-haa)

            “must-defeat-kleśas …”
(meeting each one with tumbleweed silence)

            “must-combat-self …”
(the root of proliferation of all other ‘not-me’s)

            the extremest of all possible
imbalances – phfff

            is maintained
it is, after all, the Buddha’s teaching, socially-taught, scripturally-crafted

            but immersed in unending waves
over the longest fetch and the deepest fathom way below apparent

            of the Buddha’s / the Buddhas’ oceans of conducts – exponential
squared and then squared exponentially again

            to an existential incision
which finds neither root nor core

            fulfilling the Buddha’s / the Buddhas’ (those come, immanent,
imminent and me) prayers

            that “I” (amid all possible beings,
along with all the possible beings I have become in time and perpetuity, with whom I am related and have ever-performed the most awkward of dances, magnetic forces perpetually reversed) become Enlightened

            is perpetually renewed
is perpetually redressed

            is both perpetual and effulgent
the centre to the circumference where the centre starts apart

            but widens the circle as it forms its own empty whorl
of the Extensive Way

            it is, after all, the Buddhas’ teaching
to be relied on





being & Buddha wormhole: this pocketed being
identity wormhole: taking birth
practice wormhole: ‘the practice …’
silence wormhole: time
time wormhole: the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes


this pocketed being


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                                          there was only one of him
                            yet he proliferates –

                atoms to the power of atoms –
                constant huddle of teaching,

                the sublime to the ridiculous,
                all of them held:

                this relationship regular as cog-work,
                this being mountain-deep, ocean-high

                this inponential relationship
this pocketed being


inhaled from the verses of the Arya Bhadracarya Pranidhana Raja, the ‘Sublime’ ‘Way of Acting’ ‘Vow-Entering’ ‘King’ … in retrospect, now, I feel a theme coming on here, so I shall call this one: episode 0 – the ground of all pocketed being … just come along for the ride, I promise to get you back before the streetlights come on



being wormhole: taking birth
Buddha & teaching wormhole: Journey


the inevitable tock // when we close our eyes


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                                                the inevitable tock

                        this queasy land
                        life out of time, this dreamscape
                        with waist-high mist

and then a uni-prop dhrined straight across the sky one endless summer gardenoon

                        made a whorl
                        brown and bloody fields
                        and jar-sweet marmalade

                        wherein history appeared
                        as proliferated objects
                        space now only a measure

                        the face appears
                        in the eye of the storm
                        tarnished blue and palsy

                        measuring gossamer gold
                        between always-contestable markers
                        from an impossible sapphire cap

                        only retrospectively glimpsed now
                        as screaming banshees
                        back in the maelstrom

when we close our eyes

time by Carol Redford; used with permission – thank you


20th century wormhole: the reach turned to love
afternoon & Carol & garden & sky & time wormhole: time
blue & gold & life wormhole: Journey
brown & capitalism wormhole: travel // when I die
childhood wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – An Old Piano
dream wormhole: Candaka
eyes wormhole: Four Noble Truths
faces wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – valley
fields wormhole: ‘and is there homage …’
history wormhole: the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
mist wormhole: taking birth
orange wormhole: nowhere / that can be seen
sound wormhole: long / road
space wormhole: under the blue and blue sky
storm wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Sky
summer wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain



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                                                an array of peaceful jet-scores
                                                across the sky never colliding
                                                welcome to Emmett’s Gardens


                        various pine shadow of afternoon
                        away from height of morning sun
                        beyond the rose garden wall

                        held from chaos by the chorus
                        of chivourrts, ch-hwhtts and echoed pigeons
                        from the facing proscenium …

                        … ah, we’ve missed the tulips
                        just stalks top-heavy no we haven’t
                        said Carol watching them twaddle

they doppler even as we watch
between breezes some coming low
to land behind the pines



afternoon wormhole: ‘in my car I pass…’
breeze & morning & speech wormhole: Journey
Carol & silence wormhole: ‘‘she shook the sweets …’
echo wormhole: travel // when I die
garden wormhole: The Boats of Vallisneria by Michael J. Redford – Rain
pigeons wormhole: municipal garden
pine wormhole: out
shadow & sky & sun wormhole: taking birth
time wormhole: the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament
tulip wormhole: Tulips by Sylvia Plath – How Far To Step Before You Raise The Other Foot
walls wormhole: silence


the simple prayer // the tattered poem // the bitter lament


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the simple prayer

may quiet springs of
value-in-other always disperse
the black and grimy history
of power-over-other
like soap

—~~~\\\ ” sp ” ///~~~—

                                                                      the tattered poem

                                                  may …

                                        over millennia
                                        between peppered millions
                                        at surprise times and sad

                                        across rolling lands
                                        and conserved desert
                                        and steppèd plateau

                                        quiet springs

                                        hand-cupped chin, lipless
                                        smile, no-halt act, surge
                                        `tween heart and throat

                                        unnoticed invisible
                                        daughter stranger slave;
                                        the black and grime of

                                        history of power over other
                                        storeyed and high-
                                        windowed, cacophonous

                                        and market-squared
                                        rhetorically interrogative
                                        aside truth:

                    … may they disperse
                    this impossible tension
                    like soap

—~~~\\\ ” tp ” ///~~~—

the bitter lament

may” is a petition – to a god, to God or to ‘let it be’, it doesn’t matter as long as it is beyond ‘self’ – a directing of hearts (the only armaments that don’t cost a nation), a massing of resource (as-yet untapped and unexploited), a manoeuvring of cause and effect (the only true use of science), a discernment of love like the sharpest of flaming swords; “other” is anything or anyone which is not “myself” and, like a tragic farce played out on the widest of stages, cast of a thousand-thousand “myself”-s (hurry – for one aeon only; apply for auditions here), proliferates inponentially to the power of blind-folded distinction; “history” – I don’t want to know the history that led up to the invasion of Ukraine by Russia, it is a soap-opera that I have seen “ten times or more”, not sure if “I’ve wrote it ten times or more”, “it’s about to be writ again” and I’ve long since abandoned any hope that an original line is to be found anywhere in the entire web of the universe; “power” is male, but male woefully out of balance, to act, to control, to make, to command on the basis of a wobble-board, the king of the castle chanting empty rhymes, unbalanced with respect to “other” and with respect to what-is without blindfolds, a spoilt child who smirks what he wants, a Johnson who dares what he deceives, a Trump who deceives what he wants, a Putin deceived by empty rhymes, so involuted that even before they think to open their mouths have been lying for generations within centuries; “prayer, poem, lament” is “female”, which is never mentioned, it is “wisdom” (which is never used), it is the balance to male (which is never considered – ‘too impractical’), it is the reference to “other” and the reference to “what-is” (whether “what-is” is blind-folded or not), it is not the replacement of male (that would make it … male), it is the heart-surge of care empty of all self-reference which, unfortunately, has been left in a cave, somewhere, some say in chains, and entertained with flickering lights on the back-wall, for millennia …





architecture wormhole: despite all / depiction
balance wormhole: the balance necessary between
black wormhole: nowhere / that can be seen
daughter wormhole: looking ahead
history & time & war wormhole: mirror
love wormhole: ‘she shook the sweets…’
others wormhole: ‘the practice &…’
power wormhole: eyes like petals
quiet wormhole: – creak –
resource wormhole: the Apple
smile wormhole: light of all interaction
windows wormhole: YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams

taking birth


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                taking birth

        there is
        the mind which cracks within the belly
        of darkest clouds

        throws relief to the landscape
        and populace of the
        whole of sky

        if I could but turn
        just 90˚ from my thin and lonely

        and open
        so much more to just this tempered niche
        of knowledge

        that I could both mirror and shadow
        every fluorescence even before and awhile
        it contrasted

        I’d be young
        that I have long lost and mist
        while evolving this sclerotic eye

        and then
        there’d be sun,
        all my endless malapropriations burnished

        and faceted to a tiny étincelant Indra-jewel
        glinting all direction
        within every perspective respective

responsive over reactive; effulgent over productive;
avenue’d over viewed; abundant over possessed; dispelled over horded;
homeopathic over pathologic; being over mirror; caught over fallen;
the hand that scratches the foot; not-finished-yet over finished




being & identity & mirror wormhole: mirror
clouds wormhole: Journey
compassion wormhole: ‘the practice…’
lifetimes wormhole: in deed
light & shadow wormhole: silence
lightning wormhole: ‘she shook the sweets …’
mind wormhole: travel // when I die
mist wormhole: Lapping Reflections [Deep Within Waters] – sooner; / and later
Shantideva wormhole: where it has taken birth / may it not decrease …
sky & sun wormhole: ‘in my car I pass…’



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greek mirror


                        we lift
                whole armies of chariot, arm and thigh –
        scalloped handle either side –
                        to nichèd or columned view

                and for
        thousands of years now
                we see through eyes
                        polished and weighty above our heads
the extent of all our
                inwardly estate


I was struck by a caption by a mirror from the ancient Greek section of the British Museum which explained that rich women were not able to own any land, but that they could display their wealth in their own domestic environment and self-presentation


being & identity wormhole: ‘the practice …’
Have & samsara wormhole: travel // when I die
history wormhole: ‘from the cathedral window two stories / high …’
mirror wormhole: The Atlantic City Convention: 1. THE WAITRESS by William Carlos Williams
society wormhole: Candaka
time wormhole: ‘‘in my car I pass…’
war wormhole: riders of the night
woman wormhole: YOUNG WOMAN AT A WINDOW by William Carlos Williams

long / road


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        the bright sunlight splash-splsshd
        across the street perched

        on telegraph poles
        across telephone wires as



the warp and weft of ebb from the days when some cars were painted ochre and road-traffic was already acquiring its own saturation of speed all amidst the hatching of verticals and horizontals, a heady mixture for a gazing teenager wondering not only what it was he has to do but also within which direction



cars wormhole: ‘in my car I pass…’
sound wormhole: Journey