Archive for November, 2015

Healing with hands – Natural or Not?

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on November 30, 2015 by thecockneybard

I don’t talk much about my healing abilities, but this week made me think I must do more. A man I know knocked at my door & said he wants me to help a friend of his. I gave this man healing last week for 2 minutes & his arm which he couldn’t raise above chest height can now raise above his head. He said “i was an amazing man”. No, the ability is amazing. I have helped many people over the years & animals including horses, even a biting reptile. How does it work? Do I know? No. No one truly knows. Does it work on everyone? No. What are the effects? From subtle to amazing. I have seen some miracles performed. Have you got certificates? No. This is an ability innate within all mankind. Some will be much better at it than others, but we can all heal. Could it be placebo? Of course, but not in many cases I have worked on & certainly never in animals. Two letters below: One of someone who had a stroke. I worked on the left hand side of his brain after he had lost all the dexterity in his arms & legs in front of me. After ten minutes he recovered. He went to the Doctors that day who gave him the all clear. The next day he drove me home on a 70 mile round trip. In his letter he thanked me for the miracle. Indeed it was. The second letter was a lady in France. She never spoke a word of English. Her hand which had not moved for over 40 years began to move after a 10 – 15 minute session. It was so incredible to see. I have the video evidence somewhere. She had no placebo. She was more concerned with her benefits being stopped. That made me laugh!

I am not religious, not a spiritualist, have no faith or belief system. I am not into the paranormal, reiki, new age or an advocate of love & light. What I am is a normal guy with abilities unfathomable to scientific understanding. Many call them gifts! I believe the sixth sense & healing hands are innate within the whole of mankind. They simply know not & understand even less. My greatest gift is the ability to use them (the gifts/abilities) wisely & comprehend them, if not fully then to some great degree.

 

ron lettermimi2

Examples of Channelled work

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , on November 24, 2015 by thecockneybard

A Selection Of Channelled Works

A few pieces of work that were channelled through me. Originally they were written at speed, no more than a couple of minutes for many of them, no title,with no pause, punctuation or grammar. They had no titles. The ability I have is NOT automatic writing. I hear the words in mind as they were put to paper. The source of the material is the remarkable thing. What always amazed me is/was how the piece, so beautifully constructed, had no mistakes from start to finish, as if it was being read from a book then dictated to me & which I wrote them down as I heard them. They are all original pieces, different styles, subjects with a personality that differs from myself the East End Cockney. For a more comprehensive selection of material varying styles, quality including philosophy see my website http://www.thecockneybardphilosophia.com. Throughout the last twenty years since first getting the ability I have written thousands of inspired pieces inc poetry, philosophy, a religious style book of prophecy & conversational text giving me insight into the future, which has been proven to be correct. It is difficult to appreciate the fact I had a very basic education. I have no faith or belief system. I need not write for the insight. Through this ability I have achieved an incredible education. My aim is to show others that the human being is capable of extraordinary things. Science truly needs to explore the bard but will they? I don’t think they will, simply because on realisation of what it is, it changes everything! Some have said why don’t you claim you wrote all the work yourself, it would make life easier? Simple, its not truth as I didn’t. There must be some of it from the many works that may have been influenced by my own mind, in some way?  I would think that may be true. But the big question is this : It is the work that isn’t from my own mind, of which I am certain is the vast majority, that raises the question of whose mind/s is it?

For more on the subject seehttp://www.thecockneybard.com/#/conversing-spirits/4583491873 on my website http://www.thecockneybard.com which has had well over 33,600 visitors.

Beauty

Beauty never fades, nor does the sun extinguish its fire. For what is beauty? If you say I know, you’d be a liar. Beauty to one is not to another. To a mirror it is all things and nothing. Beauty is a perfection, unblemished and undefined. It is a pleasure unrestrained to the eye.To one beauty can be a rose in full bloom and to another the seed in the palm of his hand. In the darkness beauty is but a moment in the mind, and in the light, it is a perception of one’s own judgement. Beauty you are an illusion, a deception, a fool’s gold. All things to all men. In revealing her I too am condemned to the fickle folly of describing beauty!

The Artist

I am as art but a mere canvas upon which every thought is detailed and given substance. The colours excel in my desire to fulfill my dream of a painting that defines what I am as a man. The brush moves like a ballerina in graceful pursuit of the perfect dance. I can be forgiven my weariness at times, when the day’s long, long hours play mischief with my mind. A reluctance to sleep that weary head, buried in an object desire for perfection, where my soul can delight in a pleasure to all senses, but in particular the pleasure of eye and mind. As an artist I am reminded throughout my life of the pain such perfection can bring. With brush and palette I require far more than just good thoughts to enjoy my day. I require patience personified a stillness of hand, and a beautifying deliberation of my soul, to greet the dawn with the finished piece.

Such beauty

Were ever your beauty to smile, ‘tis more the sanity of mind deceived and yet were ever to please a face of such beauty. Were ever more beauty to touch and grace, so sweet a charmed face, where heaven did smile before thee in celebrated glee. Oh see with eyes whom whisper silent verse, a magical spell, never to seek or tell a beauty’s tale.Fortunes bless thy skin so fair and words the poet speak so well, voice thy beauty’s fallible hell. Never thus to shame the rose but thus he did compare. ‘Twas beauty bound upon thy lips that ever more a pleasure shared, than eyes did ever see such beauty.

Astronomy speaks

Most beauteous the stars, astronomy speaks. Heavens abide the twinkled dust. Eternities roll thy favoured tongue. Disenchanted arrows of petulance rear a cankered head, embarking a density of ignorance wherein celestial orbits rise and fall. Piteous thy mind, where visions deem thy sight an erroneous intrusion. Seek thy setting sun and fleeting thy vision where glorious beams of light do descend from heavenly spheres, embracing solitude and harmony forthwith and yet in persuasive eye do pry the substance of the soul. Wishing thy travels ascend to beyond thy  visionary sight, to fields of stars and a rolling universe beyond thy mind.

The Poppy

The Poppy, a symbol of a human’s greatest sacrifice. They that give their life for a cause worthy or not. Let it never be forgotten, that when the light goes out on life, if one has given it for that which they truly believe, the Poppy shall represent them. It is the flower which grows where no one knows. A symbol for mankind’s eternal memory. You have not the beauty of the rose or the sweet smell of the lavender, but you will always be the only flower that cannot be forgotten. For those that have fallen are in you!

No time when I do sleep

Methinks time the dial of day speak words of irrelevance, words of disdain.  Inappropriate words, ill words on this day, a day of despair. My conscience play a sombre tune of which I sigh this day, I crie a tear that fall. Sadly longing, despised each word that describes time. Methinks day must turn to night for sigh to turn to sleep, to dream forgetting time and day. No more disdain, my pleasure gained for sleep becomes my friend.  Words of ill no longer heard as I do gentle sleep. Silent night, my conscience rest and freed my plight. My cursed mind no more to rage, no time when I do sleep.

Man with a desire for man

I look upon you as an object of my desire, strong, virile man. Carved is your body like a Greek God. A beauty normally confined to the features of a woman. In my inner most sanctum are doubts about who I should be, what I should be, but I doubt not the love I have for you, man carved of stone. In a pleasurable desire to thought and mind, I think long and hard about you, but to some I am misguided and wrong. Within me love burns and my heart aches. Who is anybody to judge me? A man with a desire for man.

Beautiful sight

If thou art more beautiful than that of a thousand suns or a thousand stars, then blind am I. If thou art less beautiful than the heavens above, or the painters thought, then most my vision deemed failed sight. If beauty bear delightful muse, the scorns of jealous eye do cast, and yet do please and delight my vision. This beautiful, beautiful sight. My beauty of eye and mind.

Ashes of dreams

The trials and tribulations of a human being. The exhaustion and exuberation of pulling defeat from the flames of fire. The pain, the anguish of loss, the barren self, the drive and enthusiasm to be all that you can. The fickle hours, those endless hours to achieve a goal. Running with ecstasy, falling with optimisms flawed dream. The hope filled challenge of the Olympian to achieve first prize, becoming God like in a supreme test of will, determination and courage, challenging the body and spirit to reach unprecedented heights. The exhausted, elated, pain ridden, defeated, deflated, emotional being the athlete. Driven by their quest to succeed, in a search for perfection resurrecting the eternal flame from the ashes of dreams.

Silent whisper

Silent whisper thou voice unheard. Echoed vision of silence. Persuade me silent voice, embark on me nay choice. Oh whispered secrets doth tell, evolving my spiral down. Embittered knowledge entrusted in perpetual deviance. Stabled ferocity of hope. Forbade thy tongue that whisper silent words to torment. A lover’s harp to play thy tune. Missing embrace of lover’s twine. Ceremony of a foolish swine. Decree the notion of hate, pitiful hate. Thus oh me, and the Silent whisper.

A letter to Marilyn Monroe

Who could have ever dreamed of the life you would have. A babe to a beauty, unknown to an idol. Who truly knew you, the Hollywood star? Who could have loved you more than the millions now? I think I kind of knew you, somewhere in my distant past, a girl with a head full of dreams. Where love deserted you, hope never did. Where pain tortured and racked you, hope never did. Where too many judged you, without care or remorse. Marilyn Monroe, we knew only a shadow of what you were. Tears wore like a mask where only your smile could deceive. I think that I love you now. I think that I loved you then. Love, sweet Marilyn that was you. You were so funny and bright too. Not at all dizzy, oh no, not you! Beauty personified. Man’s perfect dream. No one could doubt you were a star in all scenes. All that we are left with is all that you were. Love, beauty and a star in an uncaring world.

Beautiful by memory

Compare thee to beauty once was, a picture no longer seen. Compare thee to the maiden fair who lost her looks, frail and haggard thus is. Compare thee to the memory of sun filled day but now ‘tis winter’s show of savagery. The withered rose lay pitied, fallen on winter’s day. No more to shine gloriously. No more to bring beauty to mine eyes. Oh rose, I remember thou beauty on summer’s day, I remember thee that way, beauteous and adored. Withered by eye but beautiful by memory.

A painting of life

I painted the picture of life. I used images in my mind. I used colours to portray emotion. I used strokes that move in time with the days of life. I used mirrors that reflect the image in the face of the tired man. I used conundrums to fill the minds of those whom search the painting. I used degrees of self to portray my picture. The picture, a painting of life.

Such beauty

Were ever your beauty to smile, ‘tis more the sanity of mind deceived and yet were ever to please a face of such beauty. Were ever more beauty to touch and grace, so sweet a charmed face, where heaven did smile before thee in celebrated glee. Oh see with eyes whom whisper silent verse, a magical spell, never to seek or tell a beauty’s tale. Fortunes bless thy skin so fair and words the poet speak so well, voice thy beauty’s fallible hell. Never thus to shame the rose but thus he did compare. ‘Twas beauty bound upon thy lips that ever more a pleasure shared, than eyes did ever see such beauty.

I and me

I and me thus a twinning of incoherent harmony. Imbalanced but defined, ready and sublime I and me. ’Twas nay a memory, a figure of eloquence seen, but I and me a perfection of mind. ‘Tis relevant I can see a description of I and me, as being a symphony of sweet music thus played. You see I and me are mad, mad and sad but happy and glad. ‘Tis I and me and my perfection of mind.

Despairing conscience

My despairing conscience torn in two, finding irrelevance a sordid friend. Perpetual deviance, soiling a mind. Weakened, pitied am I to choose between a conscience soiled and truth. Pervade me a tolerance of dignity, pursuing a mind of indifference. Perceive in mind’s eye a tolerant side, a conscience to trust, but woe is me. ‘Tis time of madness. Melancholy me, and a conscience soiled.

Lost in the winds that blow

Though young am I and fortunes fade this hour, this day, I lay fallen with friends I barely know. Such is this war, oh lovely war, where numbers not names have meaning. Dreams lay scattered in fields, with fires burning into the night. Wretched war, that cursed war, that scars the heart. Bemoan a soldier’s life. A worthy man but a worthless corpse in bloody fields far from home. Where is the reason? Where is the hope? When letters to love one’s penned, lay muddied, lost in the winds that blow. War in anyone’s name? Not mine or yours!

Poem on Dementia

The I Once Was

I sat looking at someone I knew I knew, but somehow I know them not. Each page of each day has lines that diminish one by one. You are not you anymore and I not I. I look in the mirror of time and relate to so little. The I that I used to be is not the I that I am now. All that is me is coiled in a spiraling oblivion of what used to be. My mind races with thoughts of what I am to you. Expressions seem the only way you know, but know not, of what I think, feel and am going through in my slow descent to death. Make me know, you know I know, touch me softly on the brow. Love will still be there long after the shell I become. For you, are you, and I am me, individuals who once shared a laugh, a tear, a cuddle. Now look at me, vacant, absent, no longer there. Cry not for me, as I no longer need, my time has come, you must go on. Letting go is life’s despair, so say goodbye to the I of now, but not to the I once was.

Just at this time

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 down, and drift into a flow of thoughts and images stretching my mind, how joyous my life is just at this time.

Rapturous love

‘Twere a love so rich. A love to splendour my heart. A love too fickle by far, and yet fortuitous I to embrace the arms of such beauty. Thou art before me like the sun and the heavens, creating bliss, a night time kiss, I celebrate thee. The magical heavens thee I ask to sing unto me and serenade my good fortune. Alas I seek not of your knowledge or wisdom of words, but a blessing upon me. Desire me, desire my muse, for thou art bliss my love I kiss so oft poor lips are raw. Too wish my heart such succulent feast. A love to taste forever. Rapturous love embrace me till I breathe nay more.

Summer’s day

I wander through fields kissed by a golden sun. I smell the breeze which captures nature beneath its wings. I ponder thoughts of days gone by, thoughts of me and you. I capture beauty in my vision and caress the gentle wind that tenderly nurtures and disguises its ill intent so well. I ask of thee O gentle sun to shine gloriously upon mine heart. I watch as daffodils like soldiers march together in triumphal mood, billowing back and forth. I count the hours that day did bring and thoughts I ponder thus did say my, my, what heavenly day. Birds my friends whose songs delight, my ears are blest and thus my heart and `tis I who inquire did love ever capture the essence of beauty so much, as my walk this summer’s day.

The riverbank

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 breeze. I see such colour from all around, the colour of the seeds. How this does please my eyes, such beauty.

If I were a soldier

If I were a soldier and cradled in my arms was a dying man, would I thank my lucky stars I was still alive? Or would I think for just that fleeting second of the child you once were, and the mother who held you like I do now? Would I then lay down my arms? Would I weep uncontrollably? Would I be half the man that I am now? I wonder if I were a soldier would I feel sympathy for that life lost? My enemy, my foe, or perhaps my friend in another lifetime? Would I feel sorrow for those loved one’s you left behind? That last breath that you breathe, and the thought that you have as life ebbs from you. I want so much to be your friend now as you lay in my arms. A soldier of war or just a man I never knew.

Forever its beauty send

Did ever more beauty speak words than eyes touched by heavenly spheres, where a 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.

Sleep like death

Wipe not your tears when cold death knocks, or fear the loss of love once knew. Lay not the rose to wither on the grave, or watch the morning dew. Hear not the birds come early morn, or count the hours but slow away. Hurt not inside for those that died, and grieve not to dismay. Time, life’s short passage must there pass, like the memory of the looking glass, where pained expression seeks no more. Rest your sweet and gentle head and off to sleep like death.

Dementia – I once was – The Cockney Bard

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , on November 24, 2015 by thecockneybard

Piece written from the perspective of a dementia sufferer. My friend died of this. I really appreciate the wonderful comments I have had regarding not only this but my other works. So thank you all very much indeed.

I Once Was – The Cockney Bard

I sat looking at someone I knew I knew, but somehow I know them not. Each page of each day has lines that diminish one by one. You are not you anymore and I not I. I look in the mirror of time and relate to so little. The I that I used to be is not the I that I am now. All that is me is coiled in a spiraling oblivion of what used to be. My mind races with thoughts of what I am to you. Expressions seem the only way you know, but know not, of what I think, feel and am going through in my slow descent to death. Make me know, you know I know, touch me softly on the brow. Love will still be there long after the shell I become. For you, are you, and I am me, individuals who once shared a laugh, a tear, a cuddle. Now look at me, vacant, absent, no longer there. Cry not for me, as I no longer need, my time has come, you must go on. Letting go is life’s despair, so say goodbye to the I of now, but not to the I once was.

Shakespeare great writer or a useless one? Is this the proof!

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , on November 23, 2015 by thecockneybard

NOTE: Ben Jonson wrote of Shakespeare

‘I remember, the Players have often mentioned it as an honour to Shakespeare, that in his writing, (whatsoever he penn’d) hee never blotted out line. My answer hath beene, would he had blotted a thousand. Which they thought a malevolent speech. I had not told posterity this, but for their ignorance, who choose that circumstance to commend their friend by, wherein he most faulted.

Shakespeare a great writer or a useless one? That is the question!

Summer’s Day – the Cockney Bard

Posted in Uncategorized on November 19, 2015 by thecockneybard

Summer’s day – The Cockney Bard

I wander through fields kissed by a golden sun. I smell the breeze which captures nature beneath its wings. I ponder thoughts of days gone by, thoughts of me and you. I capture beauty in my vision and caress the gentle wind that tenderly nurtures and disguises its ill intent so well. I ask of thee O gentle sun to shine gloriously upon mine heart. I watch as daffodils like soldiers march together in triumphal mood, billowing back and forth. I count the hours that day did bring and thoughts I ponder thus did say my, my, what heavenly day. Birds my friends whose songs delight, my ears are blest and thus my heart, and `tis I who inquire did love ever capture the essence of beauty so much, as my walk this summer’s day.

Shakespeare’s sonnets – CLUE!

Posted in Uncategorized on November 18, 2015 by thecockneybard

Sonnets 144 & 86 key to the Cockney Bard

sonnet 144

Two loves I have, of comfort and despair,
Which like two spirits do suggest me still:
The better angel is a man right fair;
The worser spirit a woman coloured ill.
To win me soon to hell my female evil
Tempteth my better angel from my side,
And would corrupt my saint to be a devil,
Wooing his purity with her foul pride.
And whether that my angel be turned fiend
Suspect I may, yet not directly tell,
But being both from me, both to each friend,
I guess one angel in another’s hell.
Yet this shall I ne’er know, but live in doubt,
Till my bad angel fire my good one out.

Sonnet 86

Was it the proud full sail of his great verse,
Bound for the prize of all too precious you,
That did my ripe thoughts in my brain inhearse,
Making their tomb the womb wherein they grew?
Was it his spirit, by spirits taught to write
Above a mortal pitch, that struck me dead?
No, neither he, nor his compeers by night
Giving him aid, my verse astonished.
He, nor that affable familiar ghost
Which nightly gulls him with intelligence,
As victors of my silence cannot boast;
I was not sick of any fear from thence:
But when your countenance filled up his line,
Then lacked I matter; that enfeebled mine.

In these two sonnets reveal the key to the Cockney Bard. On its understanding everything changes!

What a wonderful world!

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , on November 18, 2015 by thecockneybard

If they taught this in schools, universities, colleges, in the media etc then the world would be on its way to being beautiful!

Pantheism is the belief that the Universe (or nature as the totality of everything) is identical with divinity, or that everything composes an all-encompassing, immanent god. Pantheists thus do not believe in a distinct personal or anthropomorphic god.

Mankind – If we create our own God rather than this nature one, this will give us power & control. It will bring fear to the masses. We will also create a devil too, who will look just like Pan. He will also strike fear into their hearts & minds. If they worship nature, then let us call them Pagans. Make them outcasts. Revile them. The real Pan (nature God) can be thrown into the mists of history. Let division begin!

Picture Pan or Italian Faunus

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