ON SPIRITUAL WATCH

'Getting An I In'  by  Trish

I settled myself on the hard chair. I waited and watched.
It was a discussion, come, sort of forum, for those interested in gaining, a deeper understanding of spiritual life.
People took their seats with  hushed movements,
and the hall was soon full.

The spiritual master was introduced, with great reverence,
by a very thin, very pale, nervous young man.
The young man kept talking and twitching his frail shoulders,
as he searched frantically through his pockets,
until he found what he was after. His notes.

As this was my first real encounter with the deeper realms,
every word was important.When it came time, for the master to speak, he went into vivid detail,  about the path of destruction,
we were all travelling. People nodded, smiled knowingly at each other, eagerly applauded the path of destruction, at every deadly turn.

After some time, the master explained that, the young man who'd introduced him,
was an apprentice? as best I can recall, an apprentice spiritualist.
The apprentice was being trained, to take over the leadership,
in the event of his masters death.
The master now begged, the audience to feel free, to ask questions,
and, said that tonight, the apprentice spiritualist, would have the honour of responding.

Enter,another wise one, I'll call him  Teddy.
He was sitting directly behind me, and put forward needling little scoffs and snorts
It was a  while before I could get a look at,
what turned out to be, a font full of wisdom. Finally,
in an agony of inquisitiveness, I turned and blatantly stared.
The mischievous look in the eyes of the presentable man, behind me,
was not a surprise, the look told me, my suspicion was correct, he was intent,
on making a right git, out of the, in training, future master and of any one else,
he could get his very white teeth into while at it.. He started to back the disciple,
into a corner with questions like,
'where did the money come from to hire this hall tonight?. Do you get a wage?
I had to pay to get in here tonight, who gave you the right to sell god?;
Before the disciple could gather his wits, or his, again misplaced notes,
Teddy threw him a taunting 'do you eat meat?'
'No, no I don't eat meat, nor fish, nor fowl'.
The pale young man mopped his brow with a big white handkerchief,
his body visibly limp with relief that he seemed,
to have found some common ground with his antagonist.
But relief was short lived.

'Do you eat vegetables?' asked Teddy, 'Yes, yes, only vegetables.'
Quick as a cat pouncing on a mouse, Teddy sprang forth with,
'well what about the insects you kill when you dig up the soil!'
The master moved quickly to the side of his spiritual disciple,
and made a brief speech about, the need to finish early tonight,
and to meet  here at the same time next week. Then, in a thirty second burst of passion,
he implored his audience, to, in the mean time, look within and ignore the without.

The disciple seemed frozen to the spot. The only sign of life, on him,
was the blood red that crept from his neck, up and over his chalk white face.
Suddenly, like a puppet pulled sharply by a string from above, he bent forward,
and screamed at Teddy 'if the insects are eating the vegetables, well jump on,
the little buggers!!' The audience cheered wildly, and at the same time stared daggers at Teddy.
I twisted this way and that to keep up with the war like debate.
In my opinion, Teddy won hands down.

I didn't come across Teddy again, but I did hear, in passing,
that some Harri Krishna heavies had tried to turf him out of their restaurant.
He'd, again, in his deep spiritual search, been lighting,
emotional bonfires as he went on his way.
Ah well, I'm sure he meant no harm.

Tushie  (1989)










                                   

REFLECTING ON IT ALL

Now then, what am I going to do today?

'A Knowing Old Bird'  by  Trish

The problem is, there's no point in doing anything.

If I do get up, it means I have to do something,

that's only logical. And then, if I do something,

it only has to be done again. - maybe not right away,

of coarse, but eventually around it comes again,

beggin to be done.

Aaah well,  first I'll stretch meself . Cripes those sheets are

cold on me bleedin feet. That's better.

 Now a big yawn, hm, that feels good. 

I'll open me eyes soon, but not just yet. 

It's funny the way some people

view rest and activity, funny in a lot of ways. 

My mother reckons my father had no peace in him,

reckons he was forever figgitin.

Tappin tacks in here and screwin things into this and that.

But, I enjoyed it. In fact, it was the best part of Sunday.

I can recall it as clear, as if it was happenin now and not,

as in fact it is, a whole life time ago.

There he'd be, sittin on an old mallee root in the backyard, 

surrounded by all his old tools, and a new one now and again.

I recall my mother saying over and over, 

'your father never finishes anything he starts'.I could go on forever,

with the things she said about the poor old fellow, 

all complaints mind you, but I can hardly

think of a thing he said, about her, or anyone else for that matter.

I'll open me eyes soon, but not just yet.

Yes it's funny the way people view rest and activity,

funny in a lot of ways.

Tushie

THE SPECIAL TREE

'Remembering'  by  Trish

That tree was so beautiful, why on earth did I ask
the man to cut it down? Like a lovely ornament, all winter,
it sat there, its bows raised, like out stretched arms. In spring its leaves were like giant green paper hands, and seemed to spread out, in a jolly greeting.
When autumn came, the leaves fell and lay there,as a blanket  of green, that slowly turned the color of burning paper, then finally,  turned to a charred black. That tree was so beautiful.

Tushie   1987

THE JOURNEY OF DEPRESSION

'A Little Light'  by  Trish

The girl with the tender red wounds on her wrists,
brushes  her glossy  blue-black hair.
Paints  lipstick pink cupid bows, on her pouted pale mouth.
It's clear to me, she is beautiful. I can't help but wonder,
would a mad woman recognize beauty?

And as well, would a sane woman, see, the trees in winter,
that stud the large park, near her home, as dead stars, or as petrified people.
As scare crows, dressed in shrouds. As dancers frozen in poses of classical grace.
that never move, and now,  neither do I.
That is, until the little bell, that tinkles morning, noon and night,
its faint sound, beckons me, and the other lost lambs, to come.

To come, one and all, to the dining room.
The food arrives, and the detachment, lostness, loneliness, discontent, disillusionment with life,
manifest in stony silence, or scorn, and scoffing , at  the moch creamed fish,
at the soggy jam sponge, and  then, all file out, without thanks.
I can't help but ponder, who would one thank in an empty world?

There is a flee of a man, keeps hopping round, the girl with
the red wounds on her slender  wrists, secretly taking thirsty sips, from
her rounded, milk white body. And there is the man on the porch, seated in a cane chair,
reading a newspaper, he reads it every day, as soon as it's delivered.
He makes the place look quite normal, if one didn't know better.
I can't help but wonder, would a mad man read newspapers?
Perhaps he doesn't believe he's mad?
But then, why else would he be here? In this place, for lost lambs?

But, the strangest thing of all, is the wire, that keeps us all prisoners.
The wire is only visible to us lost lambs,
other people just walk straight through it, when they visit,
and out again.
I've decided to ask them, the next time they come,
if when they leave, they could they take hold of both my hands,
and try to pull me through, and free of,
the invisible wire, that only lost lambs can see.

Tushie  1976

THE LETTER

'The Letter'  by  Trish

I sent my love a letter, said 'are you truly, truly, mine?'
I'll never know why I sent it, it just seemed right, at the time.
I'd hurried to the letter box, sent my missile winging  away,
but as soon as I headed home wards, I recalled my  inclination to stay, my hand before, the envelope should slip from my finger tips.
recalled how I'd trembled, as if I'd felt the warmth of my lover's lips.

How can something, that seemed, so right at the time,
turn into a nightmare, and threaten to devour one's mind?
Now sleep eludes me, and all peace is torn from my grasp.
Where has this torment come from, and dear God, how long will it last?

Tushie

THE SPIDER MONEY TREE

'The Spider Money Tree'  by  Trish

See little black spider, running round the tree?
Spinning, spinning, webs, and lots of gold  for me.
See green grass and red sky  looking  so fine?
It's my tree, given to me, in a dream, when I was nine.


Tushie

HAVING FUN

The shapes are sounds of silence.
Their tremble reaches my ears,
and sets them singing