Tag: Stories

A Collection of Poems by Mason Cult Part 2

Mason Cult Gazes at the Cod Liver Oil

Counting cod liver oil capsules, the bottle is so large my heart will never see it through. I often wonder if this is the plot, keep it going till we find  a solution of which way to go. Oh the golden ovoids of these capsules oiling my daily internals, if I become fed up there is always my bike chain to consider.

Gravity

If gravity brings me down then I am doomed and ecological opportunists will have their way with me. In time I will decay and spread from beneath the trees that grow, from my rotting benefice. For they will stretch their limbs crack and grow in own time, I respond in seasons we still count the falling winter leaves. We will dance rise and fall in vortex round and around all trees. It is music made for tender ears of young emergence, for I only have words and wait for what sound nature transmutes in me, as one we shall be the tree and the dry leaves amongst new nature.

Comet

Comet, oh ye force of resistance, through the universe you go, with orders kicked back from a sun that didn’t tell you where to go. With eternal tail power so great and in wonder, power would be a small word energised by an absolute power you are fired to another world. With bursting plasma for a remote beach, upon a virgin planet unknown to earth. Or so I’m told in my ear. With that we have hope for new life and reemergence to re materialise on other world’s and my prayer has ended now.

I Am Old

I am old to the young and young to the old, I am that. Not much more than that, I breath I am conscious, well aware of the clock. But the hands are sticking they wearily move forward and can just about talk in these days of rusty language. I am bold for what have I to lose but another day, in an ever anxious and faithless people. In orbit some of us will fall off, spun to who knows where by degrees. Three hundred and sixty of them and do you know that the world never stopped, to let me off and there was no one to ask why, as the world which I’d left rotated in the non speaking universe.

Glory Consumption

From seed to glory consumption and death the seed, returns blowing and landing random. If it can the seed and freedom go together, perfect unit of production given by the grace of our creator. Its journey and locations prolific if not always ideal, but it shows that in abundance it can beat man and his symmetry of controls, upon a benevolent earth. An earth that continually forgives, that provides new green shoots beyond the darkest times beyond all wars that ravage the spirits and souls of the good lonely warriors of the mother earth.

When Daylight Comes

You are not allowed to have your eyes shut when daylight comes, denial of life it seems or depression has disallowed life. Not a curtain is twitched, life’s camera shutters are down, disowned, in a dampened day. Today we have a problem a common expression of populations. As violent dictators weight your lives with horrors that defy the description of human.  But it is they that should be in fear, fear of the mighty sun exposing their deeds. So blinds can be lifted and righteous acts enacted for those with their eyes still closed on a sun kissed day.

Rustling Bushes

Rustling bushes upon the track, in the Forrest at last, on my own. Everything past or passing, no-one else there, thoughts; My mind open to receive, I am fortunate to see all this for another day. Mist evocations in early morn, a woodpecker taps the tree. Echoes emanating from movement. Travelling in etheric form. I am caught in this feed consuming of mind, a break, a gap in mixed green fauna. I determine a face there within. I travel across to see there is a face, familiar in vibration, a shadow on the cheeks, a sun and shadows bring me dimension and form. I turn away, for I know you in sadness. I will say no more. I shall gently walk away and continue upon this journey till I hear the cuckoo’s call.

My Fear

My fear for the smile and where it has gone. For it is now elusive but for the breathed of a whisper of a hair, blown away by chance, as random, as indiscriminate, rain on a half covered wreck of a roof. The faces now of concern but only for itself. It exists to survive in the millions of earth’s unhappy inhabitants, if the head had pounds painted upon them, then everyone would smile well at least once.

Mason Cult Religious Rant

There are times when I think religion has stayed around to promote war and wouldn’t dare to question the word of God, the one they could never see but could only hint at what indeed was or is the opium of mind that sets the scene for the carnage of death and destruction how infinitely pathetic is man.  So many years ago women were burnt at the stake accused for what was termed the practice of witchcraft, when the persecuted person was probably disabled and poor. I am always fascinated and horrified at how power corrupts, people are manipulated by leaders, many of whom are bullies and ultimate cowards. I think the horrific death of dictators is true Karma,  have we the weak and meek found a way to counter this harmful arena.

I think not. In the current times of our existence the reality is grim pure social stratification of the masses A, B, C and on, but one aspect missing is kindness within humanity, the brain washing by government and media is profound, telling us how one should be. This causes harmful shock waves among the young and vulnerable.

Continuous false bench marks to reach out to the body, the vehicle of the mind has lost it’s quest for the insecurity of  glamorised apparent perfection which is vivacious and fleeting.  The hope factor in this, at this time, is zero. As so much is controlled by the few mostly unseen. Maybe benevolent earth needs a rest from man the overdeveloped animal, maybe it’s time for the gentle green bubble people to be shielded from uncountable horror that has rocked and shocked what started out as innocence at birth. On a blank canvas not yet written.

A Collection of Poems From Mason Cult Part 1

The News

Do not ignore the news, it may catch up on you. Ten thousand miles could close in on you we are all related in mind emanations, all related by degrees of affliction, one day a god, the next a criminal in misfortune, non understanding in the chain of random chance. Intercommunication feeds a three sixty degree cycle what goes around comes around do not forget.

Short To Sleep

Short to sleep, fast to dream of reality. I’m not sure if I need the panic room, the need to wake, to regain control. To feel, to pinch your skin, to check your real. For another day done. This evaluation of mortality and our outer edge. So much doesn’t make sense, but with the panic comes inner love. There is no value on loved ones checking  on them to make sure they are there.

Sea Pulse

Sea pulse with no beat timed in conscious, universe within. Without a teacher, it rushes in like a broad tongue of lashing mass, against a shores walls of useless defence. In time this will reach you and drag you back to the muffled sounds of creation deep of discordant cacophony drowning the drums of evil.

1984 Is Upon Us.

For all who cannot save the world today, maybe their kindness will do, if a property is the only thing that makes your mark, maybe that will not do. As the brick division continues to identify and divide, what you perceive as civilised so called society. Stop your fantasy I say, for if you cannot stand aside and away from your possessions and be human, then your life has been so very shallow, you may just be missing the best friends you never had, because of this. Put down your browser, let’s face it, Facebook is causing problems by the minute, at the end of the day this government does not want anyone to talk openly. They wish to study your behaviour and mould any future accordingly, people, you are being set up and George Orwell was the second coming 1984 us upon us.

The Great Void

The great void I’ve found is nigh, but where’s my bridge? I hear a calling for which I try to answer. The lights won’t go on in the room; it is dark. I shout, “Where are you?” but no-one replies. It is all room-by-room, semi grey. I keep calling out, but there is something wrong with the room. A door is open there is a bed, sheets rolled back crumpled and distressed. All is in grey. Where am I ? Where is anyone? I don’t know this is past. I have yet to move on. I am within a holding station of sorts. I am with others who appear as shadows of their former selves, but no-one I identify with, for this was life. Where do I go now and what of others living, who by now know that I have gone? That desperate void is here with light as assumed not quite within and a window to be opened.

The Struggle To Be Born

The discolouration of innocence, from the struggle to be born. To the first breath taken you are aware, or otherwise you made it through the life stream.  Who you become others will discover. In the meantime you have to cope with your emerging surroundings much stands before me.

For many earth years conversation is babble, that of the adult. They are supposed to be my guardians for my struggling emergence into what evolves, into a bear pit of woes and foes, sponsored by ignorance of the parents, determined to surpass one another in political institutions of hierarchy.

This whilst the truth of the wind passes change through all. I emerge discovering god gilt edged promises of everyone under the sun.  My son is or will be equal.  The innocence of this journey is broken up in terms of minds and flesh perish as potentials of innocence, either flower fresh in the morning, but withered by the sun’s power at the end of the day. .

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