Wednesday, 20 May 2009


Words are like bricks, embedded in mental mortar,
Loosely piled together, they barely hold water;
Yet my grail of Grace is full and overflowing.
I’ve ploughed the ground, tilled, sewn and reaped;
Now God’s blessings on my restless mind are heaped;
Soul has earned her birth of Great Self-Knowing.

Poetry and verse are more refined than prose,
Yet Truth and Grace from the Sage, always flows,
Like light glows from the Sun, fragrance from a rose.
So to speak of the unspeakable in prosaic words
Sounds like the babble of squeaking parrot birds.
Better to savour God’s almighty power, He knows!
He knows!
He surely knows!

Mankind nurtures many dark desires that oft unfold,
Lust for wealth, fame, goods, power and sex untold.
Yet the most vital yearning is for final release
From primal ignorance, bondage, suffering and grief.
The tormented perverted mind is a treacherous thief,
We fervently pray this preying parasite will cease.

The cure for that dire affliction is meditation,
A clear mind, free from craving, with concentration;
Like a serenely calm , crystal mountain lake,
Free from the waves and gales of tempestuous thought.
This is the supreme state, devoted pilgrim’s sought,
For freedom, liberation and Self Realisation’s sake!

A pen can’t be claimed or blamed as the person who writes,
Nor can spectacles be the one who owns eye sight;
Such arrogance takes True Self’s Name in vain.
We’re like glove puppets moved by God’s wise power,
From womb to tomb, every second, every hour,
All’s foreshadowed for our good; such Truth is plain.

If neither petty mind nor body is the actor,
What’s essential Knowledge, the missing factor?
We’re but dream figures, related to our dreams,
Debating how to wake up from hypnotic sleep,
Wandering foolishly like a flock of wayward sheep;
We believe the world is Real, and as it seems.

So the missing factor is Real Knowledge of the Truth,
A Sage teaching, exact, compassionate and ruth.
We need to cleanse the mind from thought’s obnoxious air.
Fearless, faithful, courageous, and with effort bold,
We search for ignorant ego’s source, then seize hold
Of Real Self, Pure Consciousness, that’s always there!

Verses are lustrous pearls encrusted in a shell,
When strung together, they hold real meaning well.
Now my grail of Grace is filled and overflowing.
I’ve tilled the field, ploughed the ground, harvested and reaped.
Now God’s blessings on my errant mind are heaped.
Soul has reached her time of Great Self Knowing!

Tuesday, 19 May 2009


Wielding his spear of sharpest concentration,
The God-love soldier plunges its silver blade,
With mighty force of lucid sheer attention,

Deep into the dragon’s heart. Unafraid,
Delivering the coup de grace, vile ego’s laid!
Well honed with dispassionate discrimination,

Whetted with ardent zeal, no wavering shade
Of cowardice, his steel, with keen anticipation,
Slays his wayward mind of Self alienation.

Sunday, 17 May 2009



Our Mother Divine lifts her sacred cup,
She pours pellucid, precious, potent balm,
Curing, healing, lifting pilgrim’s spirit up.

With power of Love, perfect, peaceful, calm,
She holds poor palsied pilgrim in her palm,
And plies him with pure nectar, honey sweet,

So pouring from her silver grail a potion warm,
To soothe all cares and salve his blistered feet,
With Love’s ointment: oh, perfect Paraclete!


Feeling his fiery steed between his knees,
He watches restless spirit’s breathing flow;
The stallion settles and he reins with ease.

Now tamed, he canters where he wants to go,
To Himalayan summits crowned with snow,
A pure white splendour glowing bright in light,

Above dark turmoil of dormant worlds below.
He arrives at awesome Selfhood, blazing bright,
Sun burst of splendour, ends soul’s dark night.

Now, White Knight hoists on high his pointed lance,
To joust with Death, a fierce Titanic tilt.
As he mounts his steed in martial prance

He strikes hard at dragon, up to the hilt,
To end all dark sorrow, fear and guilt.
Free from sense of doership, an act replete

With holy knowledge, a temple truly built
To worship God, he kneels to kiss the feet
Of Death’s slayer; such a sacred blessed feat.


Wielding his spear of sharpest concentration,
The God-love soldier plunges its silver blade,
With mighty force of lucid sheer attention,

Deep into the dragon’s heart. Unafraid,
Delivering the coup de grace, vile ego’s laid!
Well honed with dispassionate discrimination,

Whetted with ardent zeal, no wavering shade
Of cowardice, his steel, with keen anticipation,
Slays his wayward mind of Self alienation.


He twangs the bow of Self-Enquiry, to enter
A sharp arrow of clearly aimed insight,
Zinging to the bull’s eye of Truth at centre.

Dispelling all doubts in error free flight,
He finds Love, a beckoning beacon light,
Glowing within his inner cave of heart.

Such marksmanship is God-Warriors right,
To win this vision, the true martial art,
Holy war, waged ‘til soul and body part.


Water bearer draws deep from Rachel’s well,
A jar of truth for pilgrim’s thirst to slake.
Raising the cup he hears the temple bell

Which calls him home to pray and penance make
To God, whom he adores for His own dear sake
Alone, and free from lust for selfish boon.

His love showers rain of grace, and fills the lake
Where sails the white swan of devotion, soon
To glow beneath the golden harvest Moon.


Primordial Sage, in silence, takes his seat,
Emitting waves of God-like love to those
Who sit surrendered at his lotus feet.

His mystic vision’s sure, and truly knows
The sure destruction of all disciples’ woes,
That halt the climb to Self’s most blissful place.

His merciful love abundantly flows,
Ever granting pilgrim power to trace
His own Self ablaze, in a sea of grace.


So bold pilgrim ascends the mountain path,
His friends are unconditional faith and trust.
Gentle compassion rains, a healing bath

Of grace, cleansing his feet of mundane dust,
Freeing him from greed, ego, anger, lust.
Fearless he walks, awakened, to his goal,

Unattached, discriminating, and so just,
‘Til attaining consummation with the Whole,
He finds, hidden deep at heart, Eternal Soul!

Sunday, 10 May 2009

'Song of an Initiate' 

climbed the blue staircase up to the sky 
climbed where the roses were opening 
where roses were speaking 

heard nothing nothing to hear 
heard silence 

I climbed the roses were singing 
where the gods were waiting 
blue staircase up in the sky 

but heard nothing nothing to hear 
heard silence silence 
Native American Wisdom

Saturday, 9 May 2009

The "Bhagavad Gita" is a sacred scripture of epic dimensions and is the key sacred text of Hinduism. It means the "Song of God" and is often called the "Song Celestial". Alan Jacobs uses contemporary free verse based on innovative metaphors to provide a clear meaning for today's readers. It is mandala poetry - each verse being a mandala for meditation.

See Amazon for more details.

Friday, 8 May 2009


Poor modern Adam, so sadly forlorn,
The tread-mill of life has worn down his soul;
Sometimes he wished he’d never been born,
He yearns for a way to make himself whole.
Like a traveller lost in a bleak desert place,
Blinded by sense-storms with savourless food,
He begs for water, crying for grace,
He prays to discover the source of the Good.
Entrapped like a wasp on a jammed window pane,
He drones up and down, in search of the light,
Until falling exhausted, worn out by the strain,
He lies flat on his back, with no help in sight.
Through self surrender and intensive yearning
Answer comes from God’s bright flame, ever burning.

In Adam’s slumbering mind arose a dream,
A warm compelling voice, a father’s call,
Saying “don’t weep!”, and then a brighter gleam
Of light, unveils a scene which does enthral.
It was an orient land. On reddish earth,
The Sage sits smiling with firm and tender gaze,
Saying “I’ll help you, dear child, find rebirth!”
His look is steady, his eyes are ablaze.
It was as if some summer rains did fall
On his arid, parched and hard baked clay,
When Adam stirred from sleep, he did recall
This dream, the radiant dawn of life’s new day.
His prayer’s been answered, way down deep,
Refreshed his soul awakes from torpid sleep.

Adam heard within his heart, the Sage ask “why?”
Speaking from silence, his voice, so soft and clear,
“Ask yourself the greatest question ‘who am I?’
You aren’t just a body, insentient thing of fear,
But Divine, a holy spark of sacred fire!
Quest within, search for that hidden flame,
Dive deep inside your Heart, enquire!
Until you find that ONE without a name!”
Adam felt free, his soul had found release,
Joyful calm and ease enwrapped his heart,
He now felt One, at home in perfect peace,
Losing the past, to carve a fresh new start.
My the message of his dream, our hope renew,
Go seek your Self within! Know ‘That’ is true!

Thursday, 7 May 2009

Native American Wisdom, my latest book, contains moving quotations from leading American Native Indians, Chiefs, Medicine Men, as well as ordinary people, poems, songs, prose, speeches and stories both past and present.  The spiritual wisdom of these peoples is based on a love and reverence for Nature, a belief in a Supreme Being and a spirit world which interacts with human activity. 

The contents are in alphabetical order and are grouped around the main Native Indian Nations from Apache to Zuni, including the Sioux, Eskimo, Cherokee and many more. It also includes tributes from famous Poets such as Longfellow and George Meredith etc. 

The introduction is by a leading authority in the field, Dr. Mick Gidley, Emeritus Professor of American Literature and Culture, University of Leeds. He puts the broad scope of the anthology in historical context and explains succinctly and intelligently the wonderful diversity of cultures and languages that it celebrates. 

See Amazon for more details.

The torrid rains are over, bright Sun begins to shine;
Locust flies seem horrid, swarming in God’s light,
Hanging like a curtain, clouding out clear sight.
Squadrons manoeuvre; is this perhaps some sign
Of locust ego ‘I’s, veiling Real Self sublime?
Golden sunset falls, I enter soul’s dark night,
Some insects soon die off, or swiftly take to flight,
Clarity dawns from Real Self benign, divine.

If we wish to maintain our sanity,
And not obscure Real Self through egotism,
We need surrender to God all vanity;
For living from ‘false me’ is stigmatism.
Far better to live from the Self Supreme,
Pure Consciousness! And awaken from life’s dark dream!

'Poetry for the Spirit - An Original and Insightful Anthology of Mystical Poems'
This inspirational collection of poetry invokes the deeper resonances of the human existence, and the agonies and ecstasies of the mystical path.

See Amazon for more details.


On chequered squares of space and time,
Dark shadows dance a game of mime;
To slay the Self is their cryptic aim;
By tricks of mind to heights they climb.

There reigns a King and Black’s his name,
A strong ego is his claim to fame,
This cosmic game he’s made to play
Helped by his dark deluding Dame.

False Bishops at his feet do pray,
Marauding Knights have feet of clay,
A pride of puppet Pawns at rest,
His army’s poised in gaunt array.

The Lord of Light is truly blest,
The White Goddess, his Queen, no less;
With Castled Sages on each side,
He waits to play this celestial jest.

His Knights, stately stallions ride,
Maintaining righteous order, wide.
In silence, his rooks then meditate,
Enslaved to dreams of seek and hide.

Self wants Ego bound, checkmate;
The villain fights to thwart his fate,
And slay his foe himself, instead;
We watch their struggle, taut and great.

By laws of fate the rules are led,
The end’s perceived, foreseen ahead;
To wage this war in awesome glory,
‘Till Black or White resigns, and drops dead.

After ages, growing grey and hoary,
Both lie boxed, the game was gory;
When ‘Who’ made this game is ready,
Battle starts again; another story!

Welcome to my new blog ...

I am a retired businessman, art dealer, poet and writer who has made a lifelong study of mysticism and non-duality. I am also President of the Ramana Maharshi Foundation in London and Moderator of

I hope to use my blog to share my poetry and the words of the wise ...

DAWN Tinted like a tangerine, the dawn, Amid all God’s mights, the fairest sight; Child of that prime primeval light, The Absolute from which All is born. Jet night, dispatched by Sun’s uprising, Has yielded up her birthplace to the morn, Clothed in glory, golden robes she’s worn, To herald new day’s grace; oft surprising! [Alan Jacobs]