The Myth of the Word

The horned Piper at the gates of dawn, Pan,

blows forth the airy sound of creation.

The Myth of the Word.

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What can words say about the Word;

the background Silence and ground of Being,

without which nothing could be heard,

and our roots no "Rock of Ages" sustaining.

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Its Seed is planted in unconsciousness,

and sprouts the "True Vine" of the Spirit;

alchemical Prima Materia is its basis,

the green stone or apple we must digest.

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It grows the Tree of good and bad times,

the dualistic environment in which we're born;

female and male, life and death, intertwine,

'til the golden Apple or refined Stone dawns.

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Thus green consciousness floods the Earth,

with eddies of chaotic striving;

until the Sun-like Son finally emerges,

above ancient Seas of subconscious churning.

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Green into Gold, stone carved into a Stone,

creates the quantum Solid of the Soul;

transmogrification of horns into a Crown,

the glyph of the Word remembered whole.

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And how it shines on the far horizon,

of my thought-scape burned and dark;

for fire into Light is the transformation,

green Dragon forges the Pearl of the art.

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Its fiery breath turns itself into black,

then ashen white before the morn;

Heaven's Sky reddens with the wax,

as the golden Orb the night adorns.

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The green Beast of instinctual ignorance,

partly wants to regress back into sleep;

struggles with the giant Sun of brightness,

the eternal Day born from its keep.

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Life's ebb and flow of primordial motion,

waving back and forth across shifting sand;

rises from, disappears into, One Ocean,

breaking the Silence of the unwritten Word. 

*

 

A crowned Greenman representing the

pinnacle of nature's process.

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