IF YOU EVER HAD SEX WITH ME

       

         He was an old guy now, with a pot belly, huge shoulders, a drinking habit and horrendous breath. He sat talking to the young woman across the room from him.
        He said: " If we ever had sex ( and you could avoid looking at me for a while) I'd have you hooting and howling and scratching the walls with your manicured fingernails; I'd have you panting and screaming and begging for mercy - as I teased you right to the edge - about this time you'd be trying to bite me, but as I have right now... one hand over your crotch and the other over your mouth, the neighbours would not hear your mad, shuddering supplications...but the sensitive ones would sense the steam emanating from your silenced mind... deep into the tropical night."

She crossed her legs up high under her tight skirt, and she said:  "I suspected as much. And that's one reason I'm never going to get in bed with you."
            "It'll never happen," she said.
            "So you believe," said he.






(C)2020 by W.G. Milne

saxophone

there is a space
that comes
hearing old jazz
on a distant radio

station comes in
and out and when the station
goes
there is the wind

licking the gaps 
in the wainscotting
holes that are
flutes
for the gods

wind licks the lake
in the silence
of its wisdom

a blustery day
and me on this roadway
sheltered by the pine
wind blasts down from
the granite ridge
whispers "winter
my son"

I decide not
to go
to town

but sit here 
on this sand bank
and listen
to the forest voice
of fall's last
glimmering.





(C)1970 by W.G. Milne

SOLITARY CONFINEMENT --- DOWN IN THE HOLE

In the inescapable darkness of solitary confinement, I learned the beginnings of meditation.

Remember the feeling of confinement in deep stone.

Nothing to come, no place to go.

Like the rock of the Laurentian Shield,

"I put my hand upon the stone and heard
   ancient memories."

CLIFFTOP WRITINGS... THE POET'S TESTAMENT Edited

CLIFFTOP WRITINGS... THE POET'S TESTAMENT Edited

       
       This is a continuation of my efforts
to share a manuscript of mystical writings
I call the Clifftop Writings.
       At the time of writing these passages
I was convinced I was writing the
New Testament of the Lord of Hosts.
        I ask you to reserve judgment
on what these writings might be. Even
though I have moved on in my life,
I have not moved that far along... I
know these writings are too fine
to be destroyed.
______________________________




THE POET'S TESTAMENT


  (C) 1974 to 2015 by W.G.Milne and
         by the Author.
   The paragraph and word order is maintained
    on the typed page as it was in the manuscript,
    written mostly in pencil. Ballpoint pens
     often don't work in freezing or windy
     conditions.
             Most of the clifftop writings were
      written outside. I wrote in a variety of
       notebooks, keeping several pencils
       in the breast pocket in my tweed
       coat and vests. I wrote with a pencil
       in one hand and "The Nag Hammadi
       Library", edited by James. M. Robinson,
       in my other hand. I always started
        meditating on a passage on one of the
        fifty-two holy books contained in that
        library.
             When words became the Word,
       I didn't have time to go back inside
       the hut to get supplies. So I sharpened
       the pencils again and again on the granite
       rock of the Laurentian Shield. 
    


Clifftop Writings:
______________


"The poet knew that he had
            tasted the Mind of God
He had been taught and schooled
             by the Lord on cliff tops,
promontories into deep lakes
and wild seas. In many such
places the Lord of Hosts revealed
the eternal presence of His seeing
in His holy light.
           The poet had been astounded
repeatedly and anointed as a prophet
of the Lord, through none of his own
doing, but by Grace only.
            That all things are of God:
matter and soul and spirit originate
in Him, and all returns to Him.


All is in the crystal shower
of the incandescent throne,
The holy fountain that erupts
and subsides again: the awareness
which is the eye of the seashell
And of the hurricane and the tornado:
The burning blaze at the heart
Of the atom; the restless charge
That leaps throughout the adhesion
Of molecules; the pure eye of the
Baby child newly in her cradle:
The leap of a bright butterfly off a
          summer branch,
The yellow eye of the sun
The eye for which all all time
                            is present
The past and the future exist
                            simultaneous
To the Mind of God:


"I see Moses in his day and
Adam and the birth of my son
In whom I am well pleased;
I am Alpha, Omega, and I am
the unity of the Universe."


"I am  the living and fiery essence
         that burns in the light of the stars;
  I am the white light of holy dreams
         and realities,
The chastity of the bride
The white wedding of the Mind;
I am the poet's poetry
The prophecy of the sage
I am the potter,
You are my clay:
I give to you, even this
New heaven and earth
Born again in this page;
Verily I say
And listen carefully to
          this phrase:


'I do not send my Son
          again
To be crucified among men:
Rather now, in this new age
Behold him in whom I am well
          pleased
Even here, the fructification
          of my seed,
The Seed of David in this new age now
          men shall be
Crucified upon the Christ
In this age, and through these
          pages
The second coming has come,'
The father says.
So it is written
So shall it be."


The poet lay down his head
          and gave thanks to the Lord
For His holiness, His chapel of light
The sight of a star across worlds
          from a holy promontory
To another, sun beckons to intergalactic sun
           to son;
The poet thanks God, Lord of hosts
That he should live to see
            this day.


For it had been foretold by the
            Lord
It had been spoken by the Father
That the prophet should not
             live to see
The flowering of this prophecy;
Yet the world would come to see
The blossoming of his poetry.




                                               Easter














Note:


The fact of the matter - it doesn't matter what I am
- this talk about prophet or poet, it misses the
point. It's not about me.
I was concerned about the weight of the manuscript on my own shoulders,
that I had to finish it and share it before I died.
      I prayed to the Holy One and asked
what I was to do to protect the Grace
contained in this book.
        The answer that came, without a word
being spoken was this... the answer to my
prayer was:




"Grace is not contained in any book.
Grace is mine alone," sayeth the Lord.
" I am the Lord of Abraham,  I AM,
I AM THAT I AM.  I alone am the source of
Grace. I alone may bestow it."




        So I needen't have worried about my own
status. The best way to convey my status
is to remember the words also of the Lord God:


"YOU ARE AN EMPTY VESSEL."


        This is what I am. And this also is what
I am not.






I know longer know what all of this
means - likely, I never did know.
For a wind blew through me,
And blew the cherries from the trees.








                              (C)1990-2015 by W.G.Milne

IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR AN ANSWER

The search for a lover, the search for Christ, the search for Home and the quest for spiritual completion - all these things are closely related. This song: '"IF YOU'RE LOOKING FOR AN ANSWER", It's about these closely knit needs.

The search for a lover, the search for Christ, the search for Home and the quest for spiritual completion - all these things are closely related. This song: ...

POSEIDON'S DOOR'S WIDE OPEN

POSEIDON’S DOOR’S WIDE OPEN

“What you search for you have found,”
        the prophet said to me,
“You don’t know it yet but you will see;
That elusive place called home
        you so deeply need
Will appear when you attain 
        tranquillity.”

Across the brazen sands
Beyond the forests of the deep,
The Gates of Hercules reopen 
        once again;
Sailing to the Hesperides
Where prized apple trees
        stand
And a tossing golden bough
 Throws shades upon the 
          strand.

It is just before the full of the moon,
These are the nights I cannot ever
        sleep.
Heavy gusts of wind
Blow westward off the lake,
Memories of loved ones parade
        past me in my sleep:

Poseidon’s door’s wide open 
        and I see
The stuff of dreams and distant
         fabled seas,
A palace in the riverlands,
         pyramid to the sky
Across the Nile and through
         vast distant sands.    




(C)2016 by W.G. Milne  

A STORMY NIGHT IN A PLACE CALLED HOME" and "TAKE YOUR JAM OFF THE TABLE" 964,444 views•1 Mar 2020

A STORMY NIGHT IN A PLACE CALLED HOME" and "TAKE YOUR JAM OFF THE TABLE"
964,444 views•1 Mar 2020

William Milne
753 subscribers
I'm going through a stack of tapes, and I pulled these two songs off one of them. This would have been the first time I sang the songs... just finishing writing them at the time. I betray a little intoxication the way I say "Belladonna" in A STORMY NIGHT IN A PLACE CALLED HOME. (a little?)
These songs are raw, right off the press years ago. In the song TAKE YOUR JAM OFF THE TABLE/ And your foreign marmalade;/Take it all if you are able/ And lay it in a lonesome grave... There's some good writing in it. The tempo changes in "Stormy Night" are a piss-off. But we do what we can when we can. These songs are not throw-aways. So I'm preserving them here.................In fact, these 2 songs might be among the best I've ever written. Don't
let the fact that they were recorded in a closet fool you.

(C)1987-2017 by W.G. Milne and JOHN ROCK Corporation

Category

Take your jam off the table
And your foreign marmalade
Take it all if you are able
And lay it in a lonesome grave

Lay there those pictures of your boyfriend
The ones you used to save

The pictures of your boyfriend
And the faces that he made
(alt. You don't need 'em anymore)

Take your eyes off the sunset
That screams into the night
Take your mind off those cigarettes
You smoke with all your might

I left my door wide open
One night into the rain
I thought I could close it long ago
But I've never been the same

Your eyes are young and lovely
Your rivers are shining blue  (through)
Lately I've heard the stories
They've been telling on you
None of them are true
None of them are true
They're not stories of you

What the priests in the churches
        didn't tell you
And the headlines in the smoke
Among rumours of gossip and war
From minds that have lost their hope

There's a place that's for you
On that further shore
You can end your lonesome journey
       to the truth
Right by your kitchen door

Take your jam off the table
Keep it set for two
Set a light in your window
I'll wait there for you.

Category see the William Milne Channel on You Tube

'm going through a stack of tapes, and I pulled these two songs off one of them. This would have been the first time I sang the songs... just finishing writi...

YOUTUBE.COM

"A STORMY NIGHT IN A PLACE CALLED HOME" and "TAKE YOUR JAM OFF THE TABLE"

'm going through a stack of tapes, and I pulled these two songs off one of

THIEF

so you stole
from me
my finest Persian
carpet

I had it 
covering the
oak walls

but now I see
the oak wood
in the logs
is more beautiful
than any
carpet

thank-you
for what you
have taken
away.






(C)1983 by W.G. Milne