The Book of Things Unfolding

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Image: photo credit: Deseronto Archives Nealon cover via photopin (license)

My character Seraph has appeared in other posts with Amunet the Alchemist and this is another glimpse into his mysterious life. He serves, much like Amunet, to voice questions about the nature of humanity. Seraph is an angelic being who has willingly taken on human form in order to understand the material world. He and the Alchemist have descended into matter to further their investigations, you could say they’re echoes of the original fall from spirit into manifestation. The notion of separation from a Universal Consciousness has been explored by many throughout the ages. I’m attempting to carry on this noble past-time. This story wasn’t meant to be about Seraph initially but as I typed the last word his name tumbled into my mind. Almost like a notebook falling off a shelf into our hands, urging us to turn its pages.

The notebook contains scraps of his life, blurred images, and moments caught in time. Its covers match the weather-beaten essence of his spirit, resilient and enduring. The leather feels rough beneath his fingers, it speaks of histories lived in turbulence and times serene. Dare he open this storehouse of images? They murmur softly, urging him on, eager to glimpse his face once more. They and he are entwined in intimate embrace, dancing to a hidden tune, living as Clotho spins, as Laches dispenses and Atropos severs. The Three Fates ordain and he enacts. His nature is eternal and his flesh ephemeral.

What is he? Who is he? These are the questions legions ask. He answers but they serve only to perplex.

“I am you, in all your perceived failings, sorrows and triumphs. My tears fall like raindrops thundering from the heavens, serving as both watery grave and fount of purification. Constantly searching for meaning in a Universe whose answers only lead to more questions.”

So he speaks and then fall into silence. Always silence, for it gives consolation and houses the temple within which the One waits. He enters this vast landscape and peers at the immensity of existence. The One surveys the Two, unfolds yet another piece of the puzzle. The Light illuminates the Two’s darkness and cobweb shrouded essence. Riddles, always riddles. The notebook invites further exploration. His fingers hold one page delicately as if it is a tiny bird, the breath issues like the song of angels. Like his song, sung so long ago when life barely existed. The page is turned and images of shade and light gaze up at him. Memories of things mundane, of people known and not known. Of myths that were once realities, their meaning now forgotten save by the few.

Once again he speaks:

“They are memories of raw pain, loss and regret. Of persecution and salvation. Of trusting in vain and of having trust fulfilled. Of hope and joy. Of illumination and wisdom. Of poverty and loneliness. They flare like dying stars and then withdraw into the darkness of the Primal Womb. I refused to let go of them, held on like a child to its parent, my actions serving no one. Is this what it means to be human? How contrary and poignant are such lives. My dual nature is at odds, one divine and immortal, the other moulded from flesh, blood, and bone, its life all too brief.”

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Image: photo credit: Marco Ascrizzi P1040437 via photopin (license)

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Image: photo credit: Giuseppe Milo (www.pixael.com) The pianist – Isernia, Italy – Black and white photography via photopin (license)

He closes his eyes for a moment. A light breeze caresses his face, loving and gentle in its touch. A multitude of voices fall from the pages of the book, his Book of Life. They cajole and encourage, the journey is to continue. His blazing eyes gaze out over the multitude of stars, finally alighting on the immensity of the Sun. It ebbs and flows, the breath creating as well as destroying. They gaze at each other across the expanse, understanding without language. The hidden hand writes and the revealed mind surrenders.

He speaks again:

“This is my life as Seraph, my autobiography if you must. One day I shall surrender it to your flames, waiting on transformation, of disrobing my humanity and bathing the Universe in Light eternal. I shall return to my beginnings, you know what I speak of.”

The regent of the Cosmos understands all too well the implications of this ending and the emergence of a new beginning. For now Seraph must journey further to meet the Oracle of Blood, Bone and Spirit.

 

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Image: Priestess of Delphi, John Collier, 1891, Wikiart

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Titan’s Dream

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Image: kellepics, Pixabay

Frozen in thought and breath, his dreams drift bereft.
They who worshipped at altar of incense and fire withheld their sacrifices long ago.
Vanquished by armies of nightmares, soaked in blood and shrouds of hatred.
Homes lie forlorn, abandoned, and starved of life. Ruined in all respects.
Ghosts patrol the mountains, their mournful voices search endlessly,
Grasp at scraps of memories, cry at divinity’s loss.
The Titan’s heart still lives, still bears the pain of loss.
Where are his children?
Still he sits, frozen in thought and breath, his dreams drift bereft.
Ages pass, shape the land, and breed new life.
Still he waits, watches with unseeing eyes.

From the South they came, from lands of verdant life and golden light.
Seeking ancestry in shards of ice and crumbling stone.
Their hearts quicken, soar at sight of grandeur, marvel at god rediscovered.
He senses things familiar, echoes of incense filled halls, and sacred utterances.
They approach in humility, laden with prayers, and awe-filled eyes.
Still he sits, frozen in thought and breath, his dreams drift bereft.
Is faith enough to waken forgotten gods? Their doubts shackle them.
He urges them on, sends thoughts of love, and vanquishes doubt.
“I’ve never left you” He whispers. Will they listen?

From behind the gates of Limbo something stirs, shakes off shroud of dust.
They feel his presence, gathering strength. He comes, glory unveiling.
Shadows recede from eyes of eternity, blindness melting like ice before fire.
Once more sacrifices of incense and fire grace his altars, nourish his essence.
He calls to their blood, of ancestry shared, gathers within divine embrace.
His children truly live! The dreamer has awakened.

 

Lament for Ishtar – Luna #writephoto

Image: Sue Vincent

Sue’s challenge for the Thursday Photoprompt Luna – #writephoto

presented us with a haunting image of a crescent Moon. My thoughts immediately turned to Ishtar, the Evening Star and daughter of the Moon God Sin. She was a goddess of Love and War.

The world she knew has long gone, now only a memory in artefacts and academic papers. Or so we think. She still lives in the DNA and spirits of those who once worshipped Her. Her temples are  in ruins, vanished into dust, and the prayers and adoration of her priesthood linger in windswept plains. You may think such thoughts are fancies, wistful imaginings. Yet, the past urges us to remember our beginnings, of standing under ancient skies, and even older moons.

We are urged to recall the voices of adoration and lamentation. Her priests and priestesses gaze at us across the divide of time. Their lips move but we cannot hear. Where is the key to unlock the door? Mighty Ishtar gazes in silence, hand held out, fingers curled over a secret. Our eyes hold the tears of a thousand longings, of regrets and hopes. Of whispered petitions for success in love and victory in battle.

How have we forgotten one so radiant and clothed in silvered light? How have we forgotten the old magic, primeval and potent? Its power still surges beneath our skin and flows like fire through our veins. Luna, Luna, beloved Evening Star! Hear our lament, our songs and prayers for what was lost and can be regained once more.

There is only silence now, but it is steeped in expectation. She hears us and ascends once more, clothed in stars and silvered light.

Transcendent 

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Image: Frantisek Kupka, Wikiart

All proceeds from the divine Lotus,

Light issued from the First Womb.

Enfolded within is Child transcendent,

divine blueprint, whisper of dreams

unfolding. Risen Sun.

Night falls, Sun is setting. Light

descends into Darkness, Wisdom

withdraws into Silence.

What If: Not a Poem

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Image: Barmouth, North Wales, Jan Malique

What if I could bring back all that you’d forgotten? Will you smile then, run in fields of glory, be the child bathed in laughter?

Piece by piece assemble the memories of past joys and sorrows. Unveil faded images, lost and now found. Bring back Summers of familial bliss.

Offer a brief glimpse of smiles thrown beguilingly, of tears shed in anger, of sighs whispered in solitude under star laden skies.

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Image: Barmouth, North Wales, Jan Malique

You look at me with hope, a witness to the magician’s art, anticipation growing. What next you ponder, what next to emerge from thin air and dreams?

Such are the things memories are made of. The passage of time wears heavy on the tracks of our lives.

All is not lost, what if I could bring back all that you’d forgotten? Will you smile then, run in fields of glory, be the child bathed in laughter?

A Fleeting Glance

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Image: Pixabay

The spectre of a creature inhabiting the dark places of our subconscious emerges into consciousness once more. It’s been a while since I visited this landscape, the last time was in Ancient Bloodline – Moonlit # writephoto. Love, although a dysfunctional and destructive one, was the basis of that story. How could it be otherwise when it involves the Lady of the Bright Red Linen (one epithet of the goddess Sekhmet) and demons such as vampires. The ending was not a happy one. Why should it be?

The memory of that tale and an old project prompts me to weave another story involving yearning and love. My interest lies in exploring the depths of this creature’s psyche and also ours. Whether I succeed remains to be seen. Alas my protagonist doesn’t fare well much like the one in “Ancient Bloodline”. Crimson kisses and exquisitely painful emotions lead only to oblivion. My general of armies of darkness and blood has followed his ancient Egyptian priestess through centuries of search. Often glimpsing her but not quite able to touch, until now. Such an obsession is his undoing. Continue reading

Smokescreen

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photo credit: BellaGaia BARE HONESTY via photopin (license)

Roshanak is her name, meaning in Persian one who is a luminous beauty, a shining star or light. Fitting in all ways, do not be deceived by her outer garb, that would be foolish and ultimately defeating. Serene and bearing knowledge of things found only off the beaten path. She assesses and keeps her counsel, for we are not privy to such secrets. Master of the hidden aspects of this life, Master of the keys to fulfilment and oblivion. The choice is yours. Harsh as that may sound it is all that is open to us, or so she likes to tell. Silence is her domain but only if you desire it so. She waits for you to ask, seek, and search. She is a smokescreen the unseen throws in your path. Fear her not, she is not what she appears to be.

 The space around the enigma is, seemingly empty, yet pregnant with meaning. We seek such guides and teachers, hoping for clarity, yearning for self – knowledge. Roshanak emerges at the moment of transformation, offering choices not easy to accept. Continue reading

Orpheus Ascended: Spirit of Memory

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Image: Pixabay

Deep in thought is the green eyed god, brow furrowed and eyes distant. Tormented by past, present and future. Orpheus knows not what path to follow, what choices to make. A decision must be made, his duty, not mine. He called us but denial stares back at us. How we delude ourselves when fate does not comply with our deepest most treasured desire. The same pattern, again and again. His heart still bleeds, still hurts, but wallowing in the swamp of misery and grief serves none. Eurydice is beyond our reach, descended into regions distant and unknowable. She has gained gnosis of a kind that the living cannot, should not be privy to until ready. My sisters and I are Physical Being, Soul and Spirit. The Trinity are we of your Soul oh humanity. The hidden Essence of your very existence. Continue reading

Whispers of Ancestral Voices

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Image: Pixabay

Fellow bloggers and old friends who attended the recent Silent Eye workshop, The Feathered Seer, have written far more eloquently than I of their experiences.  This is my attempt at making sense of the weekend’s events, my guide Anubis will walk beside me as I recall all and perhaps nothing. I ask my Muse and Guide, The Opener and Walker between the Worlds what he makes of this tapestry woven from our histories. He gives me an inscrutable look (haven’t seen that one before) and whispers:

We carry in our DNA the sum of all existence and memory, from before time existed and beyond the ending of worlds. Linking with others to form gigantic DNA chains in the body of something beyond comprehension. Purposefully flying towards evolution and completion. Harmonious and beauteous in all ways. All return to the point of origin, from whence they came. Then there is no-one and no-thing, we just ARE but our conscious minds are unable to understand this concept except only in dreams and moments of true insight. Continue reading

Hail Thrice Great Tahuti!

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Image: Pixabay

An ambitious title I think to myself dear reader, but a note to the ‘Lord of Holy Words’ (as inventor of writing and the arts) is rather appropriate at this time. Being endowed with complete knowledge and wisdom he is kept rather busy with all manner of business. Here’s hoping he answers. Tahuti (ancient Egyptian) has gone under the guise of many names throughout the ages, the most familiar being Thoth and Hermes. Totally different pantheons and cultures admittedly. I have great affection for both entities whose energies have been present in my life for a long time. The pursuit of knowledge has been a driving force since childhood and much that’s been gathered over the years has been filed away in (mental) drawers. Now and again I get a nudge reminding me to check in said drawers. Such a time has approached and I’m feeling a little nervous, who knows what’s lurking in there! The mind feels much like a library that’s been neglected for years, its contents shrouded by dust and in need of renovation. A terrible state of affairs because I love books and libraries, my first job in fact was working in a large public library in London. Continue reading