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path work ride

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  • Papa The Poet
    Pathwork Ride Awake...Dreams...Truth...Rides... Three sleds roll, Three do search, American Made Steel Steeds flying down asphalt trials Pilgrimaging down the
    Message 1 of 1 , Oct 25, 2002
      Pathwork Ride

      Awake...Dreams...Truth...Rides...
      Three sleds roll,

      Three do search,

      American Made Steel Steeds flying down asphalt trials

      Pilgrimaging down the Path...


      We are companions of the same heart, fellows of the same bed...
      Breezes blow, the scent of salt is the air we breath, this Texas Night...
      Moon full, skies clear. Enough about the weather said...
      Apollo upon his chariot, His bike, drawn by Horse power four...True flight...
      Diana upon her three wheeled phaeton, Her Trike, drawn by lunar dreams of the masses...
      Greek Gods riding with an American son of Irish Blood... Me....A searcher, a
      seeker, a poet wanna-be.... A biker dressed in black...A man who rides with
      Gods... I am...


      My Mandela tattooed upon my skin.. Tinta, ink no more...
      Me, upon a sled of black and orange, A sled named Keats, A Pagan with a strong back,
      a cross of the Celtic type upon my tank, six gears for speed, gunslinger seat
      to ride just me... My Saddlebags filled with books of Power, poems, and Yellow Ferns.
      Learned and practiced...Heart filled with the Magick...Is it enough? Yes!


      On the Ride, this trek, to Pathwork, to learn, to become, Just to ride.
      To ride a little, a small little while, and we will fear nothing...so said
      the old Irish poem, paraphrased. My tale of half rhymes and Ideas learned from books...Rides on...
      Headlights burn, high beams on, yet rode in darkness... Emptiness so bright...
      For as the great Patriot said...I have but one lamp by which my feet are guided,
      and that is the lamp of experience. So this night I ride, to find my inner Light...


      Speed increasing, Wheels whirl, rubber rolls hot, Vibrations knock the dust from my soul,
      Eyes closed, breathing comes rhythmically and deeply, Mind quiet, spirit
      centered, Relaxed. Skyclad now. All see us pass, but none care...
      Strand coming up fast, pier almost ending, water rushing closer...Galveston Bay here...
      FLYING, Dropping, splashing, surrounded by Thehra's love, the Gods liquid touch,
      Sleds still draw, caves coming nearer, Cave openings, Mother Earth's Mouth,


      As wheels catch, clutch is released...Freedom...A new road to ride...

      A dark and open place within the world of different
      breathing...Wet...Worms...Moles...Roots and dead fish...
      Stench of damp decay fills my being... Narrowing space, now riding single
      file, Apollo in the Led of course, sings Poetry, Playing his Golden Harp, while shifting gears...





      Seven miles down... A Shaman Hole...A Dream...Down...

      A lesson...Down...Down...
      Walls all around, spinning, falling, closing in...

      as we ride,

      Never alone,
      no fear...



      For Brigid, with hair so red, I beg...Bless me, O Goddess on this Trek...
      Wind screams by, like the yelp from a scared girl's first orgasm...
      Don Juan waves at us, as Castaneda trys to heal...
      Harner beats the drummmm.... Virgil weeps alone...Voltaire is near... Milton,
      I seek in the Dark, now I as blind as he...But will I see?
      Turns and bends...Caves dark and halls dim...Stalactites and Stalagmites
      threaten those of weaker backs... Gnomes with gold in their sacks, stare.
      Doors, Seven Gates, Openings with the Great Seal...
      Yellow brick road, not here...Dreams of youth? Summerland now close...
      Avalon beyond the Mountains of self-doubt... Cunningham is here,

      as are the Poets of old...So I am told...


      Scott, we must now seek...Questions to ask. Him, I must meet.
      Irish blood beats, pumps, seeps through my skin and bones...My American Soul
      hollers, while my ancestors scream...Fight now for this waking Dream...Where
      the warriors of old? Elfs to the left of me...Hobbits to the right...

      And, These Gods stuck with me,
      here in the middle of earth. Dragons flying above me. Dark hills in the West.
      Muses swim in the stream along this field, beckoning me; tempting me. No sex today...


      A Seanachais sings of Cuchulain, Queen Maeve, and Old Merlin...
      My eyes.... oh the fear that is here...Eyes behind me? Vision all around...All
      seen, but understood? Sight beyond sight...But can I see? All is well. I now
      understand, we do live in the two worlds; the world of Form and the
      other world of Force, for a true
      existence involves the truth both...I am truly home.


      Home where...All the Seagulls are named Jonathan...
      Home where...Donald Shimoda flies Bi-planes yet...
      Home where...Honour and Dragons live...
      Home where...All are judged on their works, not their pocketbooks...
      Home where...Even I can find love...


      Riding here so fine...Like summer wine. A path of clay, to a Rainbow bridge,
      access to the Castle bright and yet dark...Now I leave you, for Time here is
      wrong and so right...To you again, I will find... In a year and a day...
      Trust in me... Trust in Them... As we, trust in you...
      Peace.





      Papa G © 1999


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