THE COCKNEY BARD'S BLOG

Don't mistake the magical number 33 as a sign I am a Freemason (as some have thought), or that I belong to some secret society or that anyone having an interest in the 'occult' means they are into some kind of hidden satanic worship. The true understanding from my perspective is solely about enlightenment. My only master is nature itself. My interest is in the beauty of truth. The sun is to my understanding a representation of the all seeing eye. The enlightenment comes from

I was taught, I gave others my teaching, I questioned not. They questioned not. They believed, I believed, that my teaching was just and true. Suddenly the world was full of people who questioned not. In a world of those that questioned not, the teaching became a truth and from that truth spawned the many of misunderstood. The misunderstood were those who never questioned if, what and why?

The idea of the pineal gland as the literal "seat of the soul" concept largely stems from the seventeenth-century philosopher René Descartes, who suggested it because the pineal gland is a single, unpaired structure in the brain (whereas most brain regions come in left and right halves). From the perspective of modern neuroscience and anatomy, we now know the pineal gland is simply an endocrine gland responsible for producing melatonin to help regulate our sleep-wake cycles (

Science tells us the mind is part of the brain and it is an accepted view. In my humble opinion 20 years of writing from an extraneous source has taught me this is impossible, and here is why: On death the brain dies and with it mind, well that is also an accepted view, but what about my writings and communication from the extraneous source? This clearly shows various minds at work, using me as a vessel for their thoughts, poetry, philosophy, future predictions, communication

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold. Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene Till I heard Chapman speak out loud and bold: Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes

In 1908, Fredrick Bligh Bond was appointed director of excavations at Glastonbury Abbey by the Church of England. He aimed to locate the foundations of the Edgar Chapel and the Loretto Chapel, whose precise locations had been lost for centuries following Henry VIII's Dissolution of the Monasteries. Bond, alongside his friend John Alleyne (a pseudonym for Captain John Bartlett), turned to automatic writing—a process where a person enters a relaxed state and writes down messag

To be, or not to be; ay, there's the point. To die, to sleep—is that all? Ay, all. No, to sleep, to dream—ay, marry, there it goes, For in that dream of death, when we awake, And borne before an everlasting judge, From whence no passenger ever returned, The undiscovered country, at whose sight The happy smile and the accursed damned, But for this, the joyful hope of this, Who'd bear the scorns and flattery of the world, Scorned by the right rich, the rich cursed of the poor,

On Blake 'he treasured the fact that the compositions of many of his paintings and poems were given to him by Spirit visitors in dreams'. William Blake

Lay your sweet head down dear mother of mine. Wipe your tears for the children you have left behind. Cuddle me in my dreams of night, hold me like a babe in arms. Love, what else is there when life’s sweet breath alas is no more. The goodbyes have ceased, and the memory of time passing by like a clock whose hands are still. I long to tell you now how beautiful you are. I scream so loud but to a silence where I can hear the roses cry. When life ends we succumb to pain of which

I wander along the riverbank, the wind it blows but gentle. I seek to find the answers of my very existence. Oh for the flowers that grow. The petals fall upon the ground like patterns of silk in its flow. I see such beautiful things of which they make me glow, such beauty to have to see along the river bank. Trusted friends the birds feeding on the worms that are earthbound. Joyous sun, it does pound down upon my sweating brow. The grass it has such depth, it moves gently in

The skies so clear and blue, the brook it winds along the dale. The subtle breeze blows gently and passion fills my heart, but I am given my first lesson of sweet and tender love. How the skies seem far away as I lay and gaze aghast. My fair lady I dream like you of the days to come for us. Frightened rabbits scurry as movement comes from afar, but peace and calm do return as I hold you in my arms. Leave me never my fair maiden, for I do love you so. I am to lay my head right

I have burnt my fingers in the writing of truth. I have worn my mind to borders of madness in its quest. But I would rather burn the soles of my feet with the fires of hell than let a liar bring me down. Indeed I would.

You cannot be a master of the sixth sense, which is what the ability of foresight is! Intuition is something I greatly understand but only in the confines of a human understanding. And from my knowledge, from that perspective, the sixth sense could never be mastered!

On Marilyn Monroe - 'You can never make beauty look stupid but many tried with her. It was her amazing ability to last the test of time, which proved that stupid was something that never did!'

Opinion angers some, but if you can't have an opinion you are not free, and if you are not free, you are in all essence a prisoner to another’s thoughts, actions and ideologies. It is what makes you the person you are. The voice of identity. An identity which says that you, I and everyone else are entitled to voice an opinion. Opinion is merely an opinion. How do you avoid an opinion that neither hurts or offends someone, somewhere, in some way? But I am reassured that it ha

Praying for this day to end as death surrounds me. As scared as any man, yet I no more than a child. Suffering each friend’s demise as in horror I reel. Sacrificing my sanity and all I once knew, little as that was. Cold bodies, charred bodies, faceless bodies abound. Hearing the screams of fallen mates and those I know not. Every sound I hear magnified in hell’s tortured mind. Nearing death oneself as shells descend. Good God! Dreams, optimism, youth’s filled hope, banished

Did ever more beauty speak words, than eyes touched by heavenly spheres, where beauties eyes did gaze their most important deeds. Were ever more beauty to descend from creative imagery, where pictures of mind do cast a visionary sight, enfolding dreams of night. Stars and moon, sun and air do share your beauty and if perchance thy vision end, thy mind forever its beauty send.

The world is full of mind numbing depravity to acts of great love. Mankind reaches from the beautiful to the most abhorrent. In the making of a human being from a child of innocence to an adult of love or hate we are to define humanity as neither a substance of love nor hate, but a voluminous mixture of both.