'The Valley' Part Three by Tim Carrette

Here's the final part of Tim's wonderful poem.  Enjoy!

Love is a beast
of which we all want a piece
It cannot be stolen
It cannot be grasped

For it can slip away so very fast

A stranded ship without a mast
Upon whose waters we all set sail

Love boats are so very frail

Only the ocean stands the test
For it knows the rhythms beyond
worst and best

It knows that ebb and flow
still dance
both sides of this sacred romance

Love lost and found
is just a veil
upon which oceans we set sail

No wonder we live
No wonder we die
No wonder there is you
No wonder for I
No wonder
No wonder
no wonder.


The universe is far stronger
than idle wishes

She weaves
Serenity fabrics
soul to soul

She weaves
heart connections
that take us home

Why then do we persist with idle chatter?

Why then act as if
your tiny particle life view
even matters?


Because each tiny particle is but a stitch
that holds wholeness together
and through which love rides

Forever cascading
through the immortal halls
of innocent wishes


If as they say
it is through pain we grow

Why then so little do we know?

Why are we not masters of bliss?

Who touch equanimity
when blessed with a young child’s kiss


Because then the ceaseless game of hide and seek
would be over
and the Divine masters
would roar with laughter
forever and ever


'The Valley' Part Two by Tim Carrette

The second part of Tim's epic poem below.  Enjoy!

Is it you who dances so freely in the moonlight?
Is it your hands that caress my naked truth?
Is it our hearts that split amidst simple reason?
Is it our child we hold above the emotional precipice of calamity?

And who will catch us in our fall?
Who will hold us tight to earthen breast?
Whilst we cry the tears of the madness clowns
The ones who laugh at love
and who destroy the safety balms
whilst the hell fires roar
and we gaze upon
the needlessly slaughtered lamb
of our petrified innocence.
This is the stream
that carries the water of life
and these are the winds that blow soft love
through fearful hearts

And this is the earth
upon which I lay

As we stoked the fires
of creation play

As yours is the womb
of our unborn child
When tomorrow reveals its chaotic rhymes

And so where is the path that takes us home?
Where is the valley
where pure truth stands alone?

And how will we know it when we arrive?
And which journey is to become my sacred bride?

Upon whose breath shall I pour my wine?

When the unknown lives
beyond all time


Beautiful Poem by Tim Carrette

Tim will be posting here from time to time and I really look forward to his work.  Tim is a dear and longstanding friend and an authentic and original thinker.  'The Valley' is a lovely poem and will be published in four parts over the next few days.  Enjoy.

About Tim:

Vj.Tim Carrette:

 is a  Psychotherapist, Poet, Musician
 and Writer.
Also trained in Shamanism and Tantra.
He is a currently writing and researching in
Non Duality and Psychotherapy.
He lives in Nottingham , England
with his three children.

THE VALLEY  Part 1       By Tim Carrette

So let the winds blow through me
may such subtle instruments of Divinity
play my tune

I know no such place as the still calm waters of my soul
For all that I am is a breath of God
Heralded by mixed illusion

Seen clearly by the hills,
the sheep,
and the rich majesty of natures perfection

Perfect only in its absolution of all things

Deaths dance carries mission highways
soul descendants of lost times

Creative impulses
stolen from memories
of a destiny yet untold

Hallowed be the name of the Gods
Be they grass or stone
seen or held

Tis the light I follow
tis the dreams that guide
tis this blessed journey
and its milestones of truth realisation

That is why Iam here
to carefully turn each page
To sing softly into each open heart
To touch all beings
with the immensity of Love
To love all beings thoroughly Divine.



AND IT IS BEAUTIFUL! A prose poem.


Hewn from granite, I was inlaid with copper and silver and gold. Lapis Lazuli my eyes, and burnished well, till shining in the morning sun, I glowed and hummed. A mystery wind blowing through a conch shell. A sound like gathering or redemption. A sound more like ‘blown’ than ‘moan.’ Something running through. Something bidding life. Like the bloods headlong rush or the river folding itself to a conclusion after much slow, flowing thought. I’ve seen the Eden do this with my own eyes! The blowing heightened once or twice, as when I held my sons, naked and smeared with their mother’s blood shivering in the immensity of their new life. For a moment it seemed eternity pulled up her skirts and said:

‘Man, in this second you are alive for once! Feel the power of NOW! See through/ over/ into. See the truth of the child. Feel the miracle in your fingernails. Feel it brush against your skin!’ And then you...You took me to the deepest well and I cast a bucket for a crock of gold, and you said:

‘Look! Look how deep the heart goes! It is limitless really!’

And in the moment of falling, of letting go, I was gathered up. And in the moment of trusting, I was loved so much. And in the moment of saying:

‘Yes! I’ll take this life. This one! Its birth, its struggle, its countless breaths. Its footsteps. Its becoming and befriending. Its shrinking from the light. Its tears and weight, of so much fear. Its heartbreak and its love.’

In that moment of NOW, a life is stretched from these small boundaried cairns. Stretched against the canopy of infinity. It is made to see it is not one thing but the many brought to one. A radiant point of NOW that sings:




'On the Road' Part Two by Lou Mansfield

…the whole truth, apple and peach, is rarely placed into your hand and is never, most days, nights.. . within reach. fate ties a blindfold, delicate, close, with it's cold and distant fingertips, for a summer, a winter, tight.. . every now and again you catch a falling thought from somebody you wish had driven past and tossed that apple, core, out of the window before you.. . Catch your breath because life knocks it out of your lungs so much, for so long, you never know, all that you feel, do.. . is, gone. replaced by a different kind of peach. below the fireplace something different kindles and you lose your eyes in the shape of the flames that unfurl and fold and billow, smoke and sail out of sight, out of being, out of reach.. . some days you're the fast moving car, windows rolled down, arms over the edge, lining the road with gems, rose petals and sparks of apples, cores.. . Other days you're the suitcase on the edge of the bed, waiting to be taken, left behind, or undone.. . the whole truth, apple, peach or pear rarely lands on your pillowcase, like some kind of fallen angel out a sky that knows, holds on, keeps it all out of reach.. . out of the blue, sky, for you to know, before the day is over. before the day is absent, before the day is gone.. .

when you spend all of your time outside of being, away from every carousel, car. you lie across the white line in the middle of the road. the line that separates, that spark.. . about direction, about motion, about travel, about the world.. . you lie across the fragments, across the fall.. and you're staring out to sea, up at the sky line, the fiery heavens above you, the shore.. . all blood-red crimson sometimes, sometimes summer's tears fall.. . And you stay there, waiting, eyes closed heart undone. You taste the shadows of the clouds as they pass by, as they swell, they fall. You make sense out of every comet trail that scores, the sky, your eyelids, your thoughts. All of your dreams are pieces of the picture, the whole, the new.. everything you dream about and remember and write about, down, comes true..

you'll never know how much you were meant to be, you'll never know how much of you to be, that you are, is true.. For you keep your skies beneath pillowcases, you keep every break in the clouds above you, in your home back pockets.. you keep every dream that you're written down secret.. you never know how much you've missed, because

you'll never know the whole, the truth. of it all. ..

Your life is a fable, in the fireplace, of fate. a myth.

do you stand on tip toes?

or do you.. . tap the tension of adventure, desire every unknown, lust for not knowing ever. or taste

having every exit


but the steely horizon betrays the blue with the silhouette of something strange, something dark. Something that binds and ties your heart into deep, lead, heavy knots. by knot. amnesia creeps into your lungs and you can't remember how to breathe, you lose all sense of time. a knife cuts deep beneath your collarbones, cheeks, it could be kitchen, bread or slaughter. and air like ice pierces you back into the room, like Elvis. dead.

All that you can remember about the first foot you set upon the road, is that your only desire in life. the only thing that you can ever think about, cold, hot. shallow, deep or adrift along a road of bones to nowhere.. . is that heavy, lead feeling of fear and dread. that knocks your heart out cold, sometimes. and leaves you feeling like Priscilla, in the wake, in the aftermath, all around the eyes. .

All that you've ever wanted is Elvis. And all that lies, at the end of the road, like a fallen down crucifix, arms open. eyes like parcels waiting to be untied, undone, open.. . There is no place in the world, this one or the next, like home. And all that you have left to live for, whereabouts unknown.. . is desk.