The Third Eye
The third eye grants a knowledge divine
says a Sanskrit Manuscript, with the light
of a million lustrous suns, today scientists
suppose the pineal gland to be the third eye
White and grey tissue, pea-sized, cone-shaped,
buried at the back of the skull on the brain’s mid-
line; primitive, light-sensitive, producing hormone
melatonin - melanin pigment for skin/hair colouring
Manufactured from serotonin, a chemical in the pineal
enabling rational thought, when blocked by LSD, man
suffers schizophrenia and hallucinations – the pineal
gland affects body processes and the emotions
Lobsang Rampa said when the third eye opening was
made in his head, the pineal gland enabled him to see
the aura – the angry red flames spurting from violent
people - I am glad I cannot see that
Though I would have loved to see the pure golden aura
around the heads of the holy – and the purplish blue
around the truly spiritual…
‘The Reader’s Digest Book of Strange Stories,
Amazing Facts’, Reprinted July 1977
“The Eye of Enlightenment” - Mystery inheritance
from our remote ancestors - pp 44 & 45
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Related quotes
Memo To A Friend...
To Thad:
'Wrote a poem yesterday 'Bye Bye Blackbirds'...started to post it, then changed my mind. Poems of Light & Love or nothing Bro.
Its time to go within, find the LIGHT and move it into this dark world of fear and angst. Even truthers are obsolete now Dude. Yes, its time to bring out the big guns of fully operational brains, unlock sleeping DNA, shine light from the pineal gland and see clearly with our third eye.
CHRIST CONSCIOUSNESS is UPON US! '
ROTMS
poem by Ray Lucero
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Descartes' Despair
How can we affirm our own existence?
Cogito ergo sum, Descartes said,
I think therefore I am.
But wait!
Who is doing the thinking?
The body?
Am I my body?
Well, Descartes explained, we are talking about
Two incompatible substances:
The unextended and indivisible mind
In contrast with the extended and divisible matter,
Res cogitans versus res extensa.
Yes, but am I my body?
How is the contact created
Between the mental
And the physical worlds?
Princess Elizabeth of the Palatinate asked.
Well, somewhere at the base of the brain,
In the pineal gland, replied the philosopher.
Oh, I have a problem with that,
The princess remarked.
For, if the brain exists in space,
How can the non-spatial mind dwell in it?
And Descartes threw up his hands
In despair.
poem by Paul Hartal
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War Zone
Kitchen turned into a war zone, books from
library making up for lack of colours removed
at your request, two wooden boards to lift
my books high for easy reading
‘Mind, Magic & Mysteries’, ‘Strange Stories and
Amazing Facts’, ‘True Stories of a Private Eye’
by Tillman and Hunter; Cecil Murphey’s ‘Aging
is Attitude’ – such fun finding these
I shall read them one by one, already doing fine;
discovering ‘in retrospect we turn trauma into the
best of times, our worst experiences are decisive
moments for change of direction’
Already - in my life - this is the best of times…
1. ‘The encyclopedia of Mind, Magic & Mysteries’
by Francis X. King
2. ‘The Reader’s Digest Book of Strange Stories and
Amazing Facts’, Reprinted July 1977
3. ‘The Man with the Turquoise Eye - True Stories of
a Private Eye’ – Norma Mott Tillman with David Hunter
Rutledge Hill Press; 1995
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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At The Edge Of The Body
At the edge of the body
there is said to be
a flaming halo-
yellow, red, blue
or pure white,
taking its color
from the state
of the soul.
Cynics scoff.
Scientists make graphs
to refute it.
Editorial writers,
journalists, & even
certain poets,
claim it is only mirage,
trumped-up finery,
illusory feathers,
spiritual shenanigans,
humbug.
But in dreams
we see it,
& sometimes even waking.
If the spirit is a bride
about to be married to God,
this is her veil.
Do I believe it?
Do I squint
& regard the perimeter
of my lover's body,
searching for some sign
that his soul
is about to ignite
the sky?
Without squinting,
I almost see it.
An angry red aura
changing to white,
the color of peace.
I gaze at the place where he turns into air
& the flames of his skin
combine
with the flames of the sky,
proving
the existence
of both.
poem by Erica Jong
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Alive, Aware And Free
A lie-detector expert, Clive Baxter, attached
polygraph machines to philodendron leaves,
tracings showed typical responses obtained
when subject to brief emotional stimulation,
he decided to burn a leaf and the tracing went
wild showing fright, the plant read the threat
he only formulated in his head!
‘The Secret Life of Plants’ by Christopher Bird
and Peter Tomkins proved that plants respond
to thought, speech and prayer – but scientists
questioned their experiments which could not
be replicated indefinitely, only sensitives elicit
a response from plants which means they found
character determines results
This has been confirmed by quantum physics:
observation influences the object observed as
well as observer, particles follow expectations
appearing as wave or fixed point reacting to pre-
conceived assumptions; these pioneers have
been vindicated by the quantum’s probability
curve replacing pre-determination
Intensifying my fascination with all things wild and
wonderful – the clockwork universe requirement
for inevitable predictability destroyed by random
probability; every particle is alive, aware and free
to choose existence to non-being by means of
chemical communication*
‘The Reader’s Digest Book of Strange Stories,
Amazing Facts’, Reprinted July 1977
“Do Plants Have Emotions? Sensitive creatures
in the plant world” - p 91
* Studies in the Kruger National Park has shown when
a tree’s leaves are eaten, nearby trees change their
chemical composition forcing herbivores to move
several trees away to find fresh, sweet leaves;
thus nature prevents overgrazing, if animals
are forced to eat nearby leaves, they die of
bloated stomachs
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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2010/07/08 Opalescent
I like covering my notebooks with interesting paper
now I know why – because I want it to resemble my
idea of a positive aura, my clothes have the same
function, this is why I cried when Linah destroyed
my purple top
Today I found the perfect paper to create my aura, I
am not pure enough for a clear golden light, but purple
with pink and silver and yellow and white, with patterns
of butterflies, is just the right combination to entice me
to a special aura
If I could sew I would have created these covers from
shimmering fabrics to make them long-lasting, I would
have made bohemian dresses in purple, dark blue and
white with silver sparkles - I went to the craft shop to
stare at shiny ribbons
To decide on the perfect aura, I am in a purple-and-pink-
shining highlights phase, always finished with silver sparkles
to create the effect of iridescent reflection, I love clarity and
golden sunbeams, snowdrops with an opalescent sheen - I
wish I could dress according to my
Auric dreams – but wings would do just fine, I am sure the
halo around heads is the nimbus represented in
old-fashioned portraits of saints…
poem by Margaret Alice
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Astonishing And Astounding
My aura is violet tapering off into a soft,
rosy pink - the best explanation for what
is happening, I think; without planning I
browsed and found paper lined in violet,
pink, purple and green
And purple things: a mousepad, glitzy tiles,
a fairy dress - also discovered the softest
pink fleece - the same shade as the rose-
coloured satin throw I had bought for my
mother's bed
Also dug out my purple bag with pink diary
and my pink paper roses - yes, this must
be the colours of my aura, how else explain
everything perfectly fitting together with-
out my planning anything?
Borrowed 7 books from the library, Reader's
Digest ‘Did you Know? - New Insights Into a
World of Astonishing Facts and Astounding
Stories', ‘Space - The Hands-On Approach
to Science'
‘Visual Dictionary of the Universe', ‘Amazing
Facts', ‘Myths and Legends', ‘Symbols, Signs
& Visual Codes'; - best to begin with ‘How to
Improve Your Mind' by Andrew Wright to
prepare for the others
My son complains the book is for juveniles -
well, I'm old enough to be reckoned senile,
so this book is perfect for me - voilà!
Saturday 18 August 2012
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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How to Meditate
-lights out-
fall, hands a-clasped, into instantaneous
ecstasy like a shot of heroin or morphine,
the gland inside of my brain discharging
the good glad fluid (Holy Fluid) as
i hap-down and hold all my body parts
down to a deadstop trance-Healing
all my sicknesses-erasing all-not
even the shred of a 'I-hope-you' or a
Loony Balloon left in it, but the mind
blank, serene, thoughtless. When a thought
comes a-springing from afar with its held-
forth figure of image, you spoof it out,
you spuff it off, you fake it, and
it fades, and thought never comes-and
with joy you realize for the first time
'thinking's just like not thinking-
So I don't have to think
any
more'
poem by Jack Kerouac
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Lizard Pie!
We’d set the date, and I’d bought the ring,
The dress was ready, and so was I,
But Liz went down with a fearful chill,
Her forehead burned and her mouth was dry.
They did some tests and they called me in,
The doctor muttered, and shook his head,
‘She’s diabetic, as sure as sin,
She’s lucky to be alive, ’ he said.
‘You’ll have to be married another day,
We’ll get those sugars controlled, ’ he said,
‘I’ll give her a course of insulin,
But you make sure that she stays in bed! ’
It took a while for the sugar count
To drop, and Liz had a throbbing brain,
The Gila Monster’s saliva gland*
Would feed her nausea, over again!
With every needle at morn and night
She’d fade and sicken, and turn away,
I felt the chill of a lizard’s breath
Turn Liz to Lizard, more every day.
The weeks went by and I watched her fret,
She lost some weight and her skin was dry,
It flaked and roughened, she moved in jerks,
And stared unblinking, up at the sky.
The laughing girl that I’d known and loved
Became morose, and as cold as ice,
I’d try to jolly, and kiss her lips,
But hate shone out of her cold, dead eyes!
A fly got into the room one day
And buzzed her steady, unblinking eye,
Her tongue shot out in a sticky mass,
Went snap, rolled up, and - No more fly!
I hate to tell you the end of it,
The doctor called with his Gila gland,
I heard a scream and he rushed away,
A festering sore where she’d taken his hand!
‘But why did you bite the doctor, Liz,
How did you do that trick with the fly? ’
She slithered along on her belly in there,
Belched and burped, said – ‘Lizard Pie! ’
26 December 2011
• (One of the insulins used in controlling
diabetic sugars is manufactured from the saliva
of Gila Monsters) .
poem by David Lewis Paget
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A novel is like a gland pill - it nips off the cream of my hysterics and gets them running on track in a book where they belong instead of rioting all over my person.
quote by Dawn Powell
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Aura Of Being
LIKE A RADIATING AURA,
MY WHOLE BEING GLOWS OUTWARDLY,
WITH THE BURNING PASSION FOR TRUTH,
LIKE THE FIRE OF MY BEING,
MY AURA GLOWS,
YES, I WILL EXHALE WITH RELIEF,
WHEN THIS FEELING BEGETS ANOTHER,
THE AURA OF MY BEING IS ME,
I AM ME, YES I AM ME,
A SOVEREIGN BEING THAT LOVES TO LOVE AND HATES TO HATE,
THE AURA OF MY BEING IS ME,
MY PASSION FOR TRUTH,
MY LOVE FOR INTEGRITY,
YES IN THE AURA OF MY BEING, I BASK,
I WILL SING MY SONGS WITH JOY,
I WILL CRY MY TEARS ALONE,
I WILL FEEL MY PAINS ALONE,
I WILL BEAR MY SORROWS ALONE,
WHY? MY BEING IS MY AURA,
MY AURA IS MY BEING,
I AM A BEING RADIATING WITH THE AURA OF REGALITY.
MY AURA IS MY INTEGRITY.
THE AURA OF THE TIGER, PROTECTS THE TIGER.
poem by Overlord Don Manuel Ihcakeyno
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If you were to open up a baby's head - and I am not for a moment suggesting that you should - you would find nothing but an enormous drool gland.
quote by Dave Barry
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Seeking The Shadows Of What You Are
Seeking the shadows of what you are
you miss who's standing in the light.
Eternity with its tail in its mouth
can't taste much else in life but itself.
Where did these words come from
just a moment ago out of nowhere,
and if it were to rain, would that be
shallow or deep? And maybe a labyrinth
is just a snake that's swallowed its own head
and is wandering aimlessly in despair
through its own digestive track
like a salmon leaping upstream
through a waterclock with self-similarity
on its mind, oviparous replication,
the material immortality of genetic time.
Nothing's irrelevant or inelegant
if there's nothing to choose from
so everything shines in every mystic detail
as if it had never come unglued in its solitude
and bifurcated its unity into the subject
and the object of its awareness just to have
someone to talk to, an intimate familiar
it could rave at or serenade in a manic love affair
it was having with its own creation
like an artist talking to his masterpiece
with the caress of every sable-haired brush stroke.
Insignificant for the long haul, or famous
for fifteen minutes, either way,
you wouldn't know it by looking
at the fossils we didn't bring back from the moon
or sifting the grain from the chaff
from the ashes of the wheat
the wind scorched like a dragon
on its way to bring rain. Why
drive a nail through your third eye
and delude yourself into believing
you've been crucified, the king
of the waxing year sacrificing
your body parts to ensure a good harvest?
You want the virtues of your noble enemy?
Slay yourself and eat your own heart.
This is your nagual, your tulpa, your mirage,
your nightmare, your doppelganger,
your reflective familiar, your shadow
holographically projected in 3D by the pineal gland
of your third eye tattooed on the skin of a black hole
that is neither an ignominious exit through the grave
or the celebrated entrance into a secret garden,
and it can't be any more empowered than you are,
and there are no walls to walk through
if it wasn't you that built them to keep the poor
from vaulting them to steal your apricots
like the hungry ghosts that haunt
the orchards of your abandoned thoughts.
Savage homeopathy, perhaps, a holy war
of starmaps torn out like pages of sacred text
against the leaves who think they're responsible
for keeping the whole tree they both spring from intact.
The autumn burns like an heretical apostate
that's fallen away like faith in itself.
What nonsense, when they'll both end up
doing a ghost dance on each other's graves
where neither the dead nor the living
can be reunited in peace at the same seance
because the flame of life is duelling with its own candle
like the branch of a spear with the flint-knapped blossom
of the point it's trying to drive home through its own heart.
A lethal waste of energies for echoes
to seek the destruction of their original voice.
When the waves of the light, the sea, the mind
bare their necks and swan
for the double-bladed axe of the moon
that separates things like conceptual consciousness
as if it were cleaving water, and heads come off
like the leading rose-buds of multi-cephalic hydras
that bloom the more they're pruned like zinnias,
even death considers the slaughter an abuse of time.
If you want to live in the house of life as a martyr,
a bodhisattva, a spiritual mujahedin who
blows himself up in the temple of the money-lenders
and discount dove merchants, or even a poet
who enlisted in the ghettos of the Chilean art brigades
like Victor Jara, or Archibald Lampman's
warrior minstrel of the forlorn hope
dying of a heart attack in Ottawa at thirty-six,
or Emily Dickinson listening to a fly buzz when she expired,
the only blood on the blade you fall upon
you should ever taste is your own if you
want to speak to a big-hearted bell of enlightenment
without the forked tongue of a perjured witching wand
or the self-defeating absurdity
of seeking clean water with dirty hands
or trying to reach out to touch the stars
when they're pouring through your fingers
like the sands of an hourglass remembering
all its past lives gathered around the village wells
like telescopes looking through the wrong end of themselves.
poem by Patrick White
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New York, the nation's thyroid gland.
quote by Christopher Morley
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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All Different, But Still The Same
Some people have short hair, some have long.
Some people have thick hair; some people’s hair is all gone.
Some people have black hair, some have gray.
Some people have brown hair, some blonde, some red.
Some people’s hair a color unsaid.
Some people are short, some people are tall.
Some people will love you; some won’t like you at all.
Some people like hot weather, some like cold.
Some people are timid, some people are bold.
Some people have dark skin, some people have light.
Some people have black skin, some people have white.
Some people eat meat; some won’t touch it at all.
Some people have a good memory, some can’t recall.
Some people accept Christ, some never will.
Some people are stingy, some people give.
Some people like school, some people don’t.
Some people will excel, some people won’t.
Some people smoke cigarettes, some never will.
Some people are honest, some people steal.
Some people have book knowledge;
But don’t know the Holy Book.
Some people burn food, some people can cook.
Some people are old, some people are young.
Some people do smart things, some people do dumb.
Some people just have a diploma
Some people have degrees.
Some people do things slow, some with a breeze.
Some people are complainers, some easy to please.
Some people hate shopping, some stay in the mall.
Some people hate God, but God loves us all.
We are all different, but still the same.
When I get cut, I bleed red;
You get cut, red blood you’ll shed.
Some people are plump, some people are thin.
But we are all the same, we’re all human being.
Copyright © 2010-Phyllis Strong
poem by Phyllis Strong
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An Old Workman
Warped… gland-dry…
With spine askew
And body shrunken into half its space…
Well-used as some cracked paving-stone…
Bearing on his grimed and pitted front
A stamp… as of innumerable feet.
poem by Lola Ridge
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The Auric School
Oh dear, it is as I feared, I scanned Aura Energy, feeling no synergy
with the well-meaning author as he orated on the magnificence of the
aura's appearance, colours connected to numerology, there he lost
me totally, writing of tentacles and auric vampirism
He explained how to fix the aura in order to cleanse an emotional system, but I shook my head, if emotional states cause the aura to
fracture, dis-colour and become nebulous or change from iridescent
to dark grey, I would prefer to work on the mental aspect instead
of approaching trees
And using the moon and stars' influence to release their magic on
the broken aura, crystal-waving like pendulums seems to be too
bohemian, if I could have invested these procedures with hope and
belief, they would probably work for me too - but starting by
trying to visualise the aura is too much
Using physical sensors meant to perceive the material world to
focus on an immaterial entity like the aura simply makes no
sense to me, I'm glad Joe Slate and his acolytes are successful
in repairing auras no-one but they can see - and thus heal
people from suffering
But I'm doomed to invest my belief in systems I have visualised
as a child and proved successful after concentration on the
imagery - anything would do and if I had been brought up in
the auric school, I probably would have had success in using
this to change reality, now too late to change my fate…
poem by Margaret Alice Second
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Mystic Journey: Water
a gray metal tanker berths on grey metal sea
like a new-born cocooned on mother's bosom.
transporting tons of vital oil, it has come
from the north, and winter, east and night,
challenging currents. it was along aleutian
shores, facing furious siberian storms that
shatter human skull like eggshell that he
handed over control of autonomic functions
of his charge to the bridge. now he maps
solely by instinct (half-forgotten memories
of half-forgotten youth startle like robins
or scent of elm sap stuck to familiar palm.
endless waves of wheat starched like sunday
shirts beyond an old battered barn: perhaps
the whole world is only an endless ocean
of grain? a slow canoe ride down a slow
dreamy stream in dandelion spring- who was she
anyway? so long ago.) following the sun
along the ring of fire into the sea of japan.
there, earthquake gonged sea floor is fluid
flesh of magma, deep as himalaya, angry as hell,
hot as sin. at black hole pressure of thousands
of tons a measure, boulders big as buildings
are split open and tossed out at ocular speed,
searing eternally sunless sea to steam instantly.
creating streams within currents, currents within
streams that make even the mighty river yangtze
seem a sleepy strawberry creek*, its 20 thousand
mile cord of white lava fountains bleed, coiling
round pineal black pacific like a cobra
choking itself. the ring of fire is nucleus
where molten metallic earth meets solid air.
to there is traced the source of all life on
earth, and of all anguish in life. there,
the moody moon is unchallenged regent, ruling
all motions and emotions, every moment governing
the power of gravity, which even sublime sun
is subject to. like the black-watch bag-pipe
and drum that echo not only in ear, but light
spine and skull, the tanker's hundred miler horn
beat back many-headed monsters and much feared
dragons which once marked the end of the world
but which now pop up only when we depth sound
the subconscious womb in which we all drown.
*Little Strawberry Creek, Alberta, Canada
poem by Doug Bentley
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The Perfect Girl
Maybe I will have to wait through aeons
to find her, to find the perfect girl
whose feelings reach out to me
softer than the fluttering of any butterfly
whose voice is crystal clear with an own loveliness
and at times she dwells in my dreams
walking at times covered in a white cloak
with slim feet and pearly white toes.
I have heard her sweet laughter
falling softly as snow
but covering me in a kind of warmth
that delights, that at times are amusing
at other times brings sheer tranquillity
and if she’s human or something of the divine
I do not really know
only that she is beyond beautiful
One night suddenly she appeared
in another kind of dream
looked straight at me through her veil
her countenance had pure perfection
a kind of untouched innocence
but it was a sheer mystery
as her gaze had a kind of lust, a kind of longing
and it was clear that she know men
probably had made love to many of them
and as she lifted her veil
her eyes were the colour of the sea
but were ever changing in their hue
they were sometimes green, sometimes grey
and at times blue
Her hair was almost onyx black
and streamed down lustrous
streamed down right to her waist
glittering in a blue-black hue
and I was almost thunder struck
as she stepped out of her cloak
and I saw her sublime body
in every perfect line
the contours of her magnificent breasts,
her sleek belly
with its triangular thatch of dark hair
and she looked somewhat ethereal,
sublimely serene
and lovely beyond words
and it felt if I had waited my whole life
just to see her face
with its dimples, her narrow straight nose,
her full soft lips
and now she was displaying
her whole body in sheer nakedness.
I have known many women
have loved some
maybe beyond what love should be
and in reality
she remains to me a mystery
an ethereal being
that visits me in dream after dream
poem by Gert Strydom
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Lay Of Last Monkey
I am last in the whole world wide,
For my brothers all have gone,
One by one have the martyrs died,
That mankind might live on.
High am I set in the market square,
Widely my fame abounds,
And for me a Yankee millionaire
Bids fifty million pounds.
Keen goes the bidding; fierce the fight,
There are cries on every hand....
But I mean to take to the woods tonight;
And they'll never get my gland!
poem by Clarence Michael James Stanislaus Dennis
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