Dear Mayan Gods – Trevor Taylor

Myan Cacao God by Renee Sarasvati @ Fine Art America


Did you really have to…

(With tongue firmly in cheek)


Dear Mayan Gods we love you but
I will have to let you know
Did you really have to stoop so low
You gave your people those calendar things
And over 2 thousand years they grew their own wings
They travelled far and wide with a message of doom
That filled the people with darkest gloom
The world will end on twenty first of December
It’s now a date we will all remember
We had people camping on the top of hills
Others stockpiling assortments of pills
We’ve had prophets of doom in a hamlet in France
We’ve had preachers leading us a right song and dance
We’ve had newspapers shouting the ‘End is nigh’
Without pausing to tell us why.


Maya what you meant was like miles on a car
The odomometer only goes so far
It re-sets to zero on a hundred thousand miles
And your calendar does the same, hence our smiles
Your 13 buktans of 394 years
Have been interpreted with so many fears.
But they came to an end on twenty one twelve
It doesn’t take long to delve
And see like the miles in a car, you re-set to zero
Now I’ve worked that out and I’m no hero


Ok, right, you didn’t foresee the car
But surely you should have if you could see that  far
You had me praying and preparing for the worse
And we all now realise it wasn’t a curse
The gentle Maya never meant it that way
They wished us to live to see another day.
But …you have left us stronger, with much less fear
A new Baktun has begun and a New Age is here.


Trevor Taylor LLB (Hons)
Devon, United Kingdom
Award winning Commonwealth Writer and Academic Magazine Editor.

Gratitude to artists for their beautiful art – credit is given where this is known.

The Spirit of Kelsang Nampso – Trevor Taylor

Tibet, Himalayas by Nicholas Roerich

My poem below, and set in the Spiritual Himalayas, was inspired by Kelsang Lampso, the 17 year old Tibetan Nun shot by soldiers while leading Tibetan children and pilgrims through the Nagpa La Pass in the Himalayas, on their way to Freedom in  Nepal.

I dedicate this little  poem to her Spirit and her inspiration to many children who followed her

~ * ~

The Spirit of Kelsang Nampso


In the Mystical Misty Peaks
Of the High Himalayan Fells
Where the God of the Mountains dwells
Where crystal streams laugh as they fall from the sky
Through the Kingdom of Eagles in the realms where they fly
A snow leopard shadows the children below
As the thar of the rocks dances a fleeting show
Kelsang Nampso guides them through
The fateful Langpa La pass


…They do not see her,
but they know of her care
See their bright smiles, they know she is there
Guiding them on through rocky way
Through the dark of the night, bright light of day
Giri Raj takes them from the Langpa Pass
Gently gathered from Kelsang’s firm grasp


The devatma divine guides them on the road to Nepal
Tapobhumi nods, all is well
While Shiva’s Bull under the Deodar Tree
Waves them on to the hills of the free
The King of the Mountains, sacred Himalayan Lands
Devatma has delivered with his safe hands
The children of God
From Tyranny in the Land of their Birth
To young lives anew, joyous re-birth
Trevor Taylor

Snow Leopard via WWF


Trevor Taylor LLB (Hons)
Devon, United Kingdom
Award winning Commonwealth Writer and Academic Magazine Editor.

San of the Sun – Trevor Taylor

San Bushmen via Afrizim


San of the Sun

The inspiration for this poem (below) came from some scribbled notes I had written some time back about a camping trip in the Magkarikari Pans in North West Botswana, near the game filled sand banks of the Nata River, where I had come across a gathering of San bushmen and their children. Instead of the traditional hunting spears, they were carrying wicker baskets with fruits and roots, and Ostrich Egg halves to scoop water.

I asked them why they no longer hunted game and travelled without spears, and laughingly they told me in their ‘click’ tongue, through an interpreter, that the spirits of their Gods lived in the Game and creatures they were hunting and the insects they caught. This troubled the group greatly and they had asked the sun what to do about this.  I thought then I would write a poem for the OM Times poetry group about the mythology at play that I found on that trip. Glossary of African terms used is at the end of the poem …

~ * ~

San of the Sun

San of the Kalahari rose before dawn, and scaled the high leopard Kop
Discarding Beetle poisoned spear, turning to the East, reaching the lofty top
The glow of the Sun at horizon’s tip threw long shadows on morning’s veldt
Shading eyes from the fires of the Sun with the rag of a dassie’s pelt
The San Sun rises from Crocodile, and voices wisdom at early morn…
…To be swallowed at night, until new day’s dawn
“Sabona, I greet you and what seeks you today?” – the voice of the burning Sun
“Sabona, I greet you, seeking redemption and truth,” – the voice of bushman San.
“Witness shadows flee as I rise in fire, and truth there you will find
Hurry to the plains and speak loudly of redemption to your fellow-kind”
San bowed low to the sun and sped to the plains to tell of redemption he found
First to be spotted was Kudu Bull, a spirit long worshipped, pawing the ground
“Sabona, I greet you San, but I fear the harsh spear of past day”
“Fear not” said San “I hunt no more, the sun has shown me the way”
Hovering ‘Go Away Bird’ sung “where is your sling shot today”
“Fear not pretty Bird, I shoot you not, for I have found a new way”
Short Warthog paused in trot to morning water;  “is it peace at last”
“Yes, my friend, I laid down my spear to the Sun and atoned for deeds of the past”
Kudu Bull, Bird and short Warthog followed, the spell firmly cast
Wild Berries and nuts, he gathered; tubers and bush onions, and forest’s ripest fruits
And for his medicine he gathered herbs and roots
From Marula tree he fermented fine wine
And never again did he cross that line
Of harming fellow creatures of the high Mopane plains
For San had become a Gatherer of gifts; drenched by African rains

Kalahari Kudu via African Hunting Gazette


Sabona – An African greeting. (Short for Salebonane)

Kop – (or Kopje) a hill or mound in Africa

Dassie – Bush squirrel.

Veldt – African grasslands, mainly southern Africa.

San – The bushmen of the Kalahari (the Khoisan Group)

Kudu – An African Antelope. A God in San mythology.

Go Away Bird – a bird of Prey called such as its call sound like “Go Awaaaayy” !!

Warthog – African wild pig with dangerous tusks.

Marula Tree – Indigenous to southern and central Arica, the fermented fruit is high in alcohol content…

Mopane Bush – African savannah

~ * ~ 

Trevor Taylor LLB (Hons)
Devon, United Kingdom
Award winning Commonwealth Writer and Academic Magazine Editor.

A Poem Found Me – Trevor Taylor


Sun Soakers in Paignton ~ Painting by Dallas Smith


“A Poem found me …
Early sun’s waves tease old harbour wall
Angrier surf greets dark summer squall
Seagulls glide, loud sentinel cry
Shadows of clouds in painted blue sky
Silent sea wakes in mists a’ dawning
Rushing sea-voice herald sounds of morning
Wind bells of sea gently shake souls arising
Pebble dashed rhythm forms words inspiring
Crabs sidewind, fearing small splashing feet
When the worlds of children and shoreline meet
A poem has found me this day …


Sunlight pirouettes off the fisherman’s stand
Deftly casts his rod with a flick of the hand
Praying the sea to give up a catch
He watches and waits, old pipe and match
Sea- weathered brow seeks fin-rippled sea
Rewarding his solitude, fresh fish for tea
No gravity of thought and a weightless mind
Shuffling home fearing ties that bind”
Trevor Taylor

Sally Swatland Paintings ~ Children on the Beach


Trevor Taylor LLB (Hons)
Devon, United Kingdom
Award winning Commonwealth Writer and Academic Magazine Editor.


Honouring all images. Any queries, please contact me, Shekinah

Moorland Walk – inspired by many long walks on Dartmoor, Devon -Trevor Taylor


Moorland Walk – inspired by many long walks on Dartmoor, Devon
Sunday’s bells break morning stills
Calling country folk to pray
Witch-spelled cats on window sills
Watch children rise to play
Whispers of smoke join mists of the night
Thatched cottages wake from their sleep
Dappled brooks shine with rising light
Winding their way past ancient Keep
Melodies of night slink quietly away
Giving way to tunes of the day
Course Fishermen cast at Chagford Bridge
That has seen full four hundred years
The walker tops two moors ridge
Following swift eddies and weirs
Old Rushford Bridge beckons, along the brook
First mentioned of old in the Domesday Book
A curlew’s nest in damp valley mires
A wading bird beloved of old County Squires
Iridescent Lapwing puff their whispy crest
The sharp-eyed walker knows where they nest
The winter flocks ‘home in’ on the moors
Nesting deep in the crag of the Tors
The never-ending song of the Skylark calls
To the poet in the walker’s mind
From within the Tussock a song enthralls
The skylark’s tune a poet’s true find
The winchats call out from their bilberry house
Safe long return from African weather
Homed in bracken frond, willow, high plateau and heather
Amongst warblers and stonechats and striking red- grouse
A walk in the moors is nature’s gift
To sooth the walker’s life long way
A moment in time for spirits to lift
A memory at twilight of day
Trevor Taylor

– ♥ –

Trevor Taylor LLB (Hons)

Devon, United Kingdom

Award winning Commonwealth Writer and Academic Magazine Editor.


The Ego and Conscious Thinking – Trevor Taylor




The Ego and Conscious Thinking,

By Trevor Taylor.

“Islands are special places. They are finite, complete. They are of the sea, and because of that, their land has added value.

An island can become part of you, though perhaps not you part of it.

An island allows you to stop and stare, to look anew at things with which you’re familiar, and to find the things with which you aren’t. It gives you chances to look more closely at yourself.”

….Armed with the introspection of this eloquent introduction to the Island of St Helena, one of the remotest in the world, by Author Ian Baker, a visitor would perhaps have the concept of ego dimly at the back of his mind in his venture into the island. My goodness, what a shock awaits him, as it did me. Just a few miles from the sleepy capital Jamestown, lies Longwood House. St Helena is of course British, but Longwood House is French Territory. The visitor would not suspect this, until wandering into the grounds, and being confronted by the French tricolor flying proudly in the North Atlantic breeze, guarded by Napoleonic cannons glaring angrily out to sea, guarding the ghost of perhaps the greatest Ego in the history of the planet.  It is the last home in exile of Emperor Napoleon of France, and the place where he died, and with that, came the death of arguably the greatest ego known to mankind.

The visitor climbs the few steps to the cool verandah, and enters into the world of history that is Longwood House, and contemplates, forlorn amongst all the regalia of power and militancy, one of the last remaining campaign cots in which Napoleon slept in the battle-fields in his quest for glory for the people of France. And the visitor at the same time would be struck by the smallness of the cot, almost as if it belonged to a child. Then the visitor would notice the low ‘wear marks’ on the shutters, on the seaward windows, where Napoleon was known to peer out from his forced confinement, probably wondering if his army and ships would come to his rescue. Onwards, strolling around the beautiful gardens and fauna of Longwood House, he would notice how the paths were sunken, so that Napoleon could walk around his gardens without being seen. The Ego had become a ghost.

William Hazlitt, Political activist wrote that Napoleon’s triumphal march on Paris in 1815 was

.. the greatest instance ever known of the power created by one man over opinion .. it was one man armed with the rights of a people against those who had robbed them of all natural rights, and gave them leave to breathe by charter ..

And it was Napoleon, that at the height of his Ego, at the time, said “What is a throne? — a bit of wood gilded and covered in velvet. I am the state…


Yet Hazlitt goes on to say that Charles Darwin had a much greater vision than Napoleon in mind when he visited St Helena in 1836. With a conscious mind, he didn’t even bother to visit Napoleon’s Tomb in the hauntingly pretty Valley of the Tomb, nor Longwood House to pay his respects. In short he had no time for Napoleon and the Super-Ego.

Contrast this with the lonely prison cell that Nelson Mandela called home for 18 years.

On a bleak cold day in 1964, Nelson Mandela was imprisoned on Robben Island, off the coast of Cape Town, South Africa, where he would spend 18 of his 27 years in confinement.. In that single small cell sleeping on a sparse mattress on the floor and denied basic visiting rights, with one short visit allowed a year, and with every deprivation thrown at him, his life was hard labor in a quarry.

With a complete humility and gifted with a balanced Ego born of conscious thinking, Mandela turned the most hardened warder to admiration, was a natural leader with his jailed activist colleagues and took ownership of his own prison. He arose from impossible deprivation and isolation, to one of the world’s great leaders, to take on the great battle against apartheid and hate, thus creating a new democratic South Africa, and with it, being himself honoured with the award of the Nobel Peace Prize. With humility and pride in his people and with the ideal balance of conscious thinking in the Ego, he achieved greatness in his own lifetime.

These extreme examples of the power of The Ego shown here serve to remind us that it is the Ego that finds its voice in conscious thinking and awareness, that is most valued by us all and the more we find and express these values, the more valued we ourselves become.

– ♥ –

Trevor Taylor LLB (Hons)

Devon, United Kingdom

Award winning Commonwealth Writer and Academic Magazine Editor.


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