The Children Of The Light

Behold this day the Children of the Light!
The eyes that see the haloes well discern:
Upon the Mount, in colours lily-white,
Such meeting held that Time dared not adjourn!

From ages past, the echoes of the Seers -
The "Keepers" come, to turn the thing around:
The neophytes are now the pioneers,
Their faithful feet upon this hallowed ground!

Take in the pies that they would make of mud,
And hear the words their "babbling" would bestow:
There's wisdom now that comes at us a flood,
And it's from babes, as pure as driven snow!

Behold this day the Children of the Star,
The Hands of Fate inside the cookie jar!


While upon the water glancing
(with such intent the glance to meet)
a cloud I spied, sure was dancing,
with such allure it moved my feet.

So there I stood a rushing fool
and moved with it in smashing dance
(the likes would make an artiste drool)
in moments rare the Master grants.

But oh so brief the magic spell
(the mirror gives, the mirror takes):
the cloud took leave I'm forced to tell
with the rippling the water makes.

Yet in that rare though blinding flash
I danced so well you'd think it odd
(who've seen me move in fitful dash)
unless you knew I'd danced with God.


As the pupil is fulfilled
only with the emergence
of the teacher,
so, too, is the teacher
fulfilled but with the reality
of the pupil,
the two incomplete
in separation,
the two rendered whole
in merging.

Inasmuch as one must lead,
the other follow,
theirs is not
the folly of follies:
moved by the music
of life,
theirs is the dance
of life, one step forward,
one step back,
a pirouette,
a pause,
a bow.

Tripping Over Epiphanies

Let us long to be in fields that are rife
with flowers, whereas each petal
is as a bead on a rosary, and each
sector is as a litany of prayers.

Let us long to walk whereas nature
itself is surely awe-struck, a breeze
gently blowing, the senses stirred
into the deeper awakening.

Let us long to touch upon the Essence
in the way that birds and bees do,
with butterflies ablaze leading us all
into silent supplication.

Let us long to be humbled once more
whereas every single footstep
proposes a cautionary measure
lest we should trip over epiphanies.


When all that’s hidden is revealed
And secrets all expire,
The wine that’s been unsealed
Will level every field
Of passion and desire.

Upon that day a fickle flood
Will course through every vein,
The dashing dream a dud
Belying bardic blood,
No poet shall remain.

Richard Doiron


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