The Poet & The Sage

A Journey Beyond the Distant Hills

The Poet & The Sage is an esoteric work of deep symbolism and archetypal metaphor. Delivered through the time-tested language of poetry and prose, The Poet & The Sage merges the worlds of philosophy, theology, mysticism, art, mythology, and narrative to convey deep truths about human nature, and about our common aim of being reunited with that which is most divine about us. The careful student will do well not to simply read this book, but to sit with it, and to allow the ideas therein to play gracefully within the heights and depths of their soul.

The Poet & The Sage is a work of art as much as a book, and as such, the hardcover book has been designed with beauty in mind, and in such a way that it will aid the student greatly in their careful study, containing illustrations as well as poems that are not available on the online version of the book

Listen to Simon introducing The Poet & The Sage

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Sample Chapters

Prologue

If thy mind doth seek adventure, 
Which a great mind often will, 
Then walk with Me to Heaven, 
And there thou’lt find thy thrill.

For Heaven is a place 
Where people go to find their story,
And although we’ve all been called,
Only some will find their glory.

Rise

On a dark and frosty meadow,
‘Fore the dawning of the Sun,
The morning birds are singing,
For their day has just begun.

A cool breeze gently shifts the trees
While all the world is waking; 
A golden hue now pierces night
As distant stars are fading.

The Sun now slowly rises, 
Giving light to those who see,
And all His face now shines upon 
Reflects with fervent glee.

And all who are are nourished
By the Sun’s peculiar rays.
The campfire warms them through their nights;
The sunlight through their days.

The cold and lonely valley 
Now becomes a lively sight
As foxtails glide above the grass
And bugs reflect the light.

And all that is is ising 
As the daylight shelters all
From the terrors that the darkness brings—
But every Sun must fall.

He’ll rise with might to midday heights
And bear His horrid fate;
He’ll slowly sink below the hills
Neath Mother Nature’s weight. 

And never will He shirk from this
Divine preordination, 
For e’en the Sun that shines above
Is bound by fate’s causation. 

Wilt thou now feel the warmth of He 
Who shines from Heaven’s heights, 
Sharing Wisdom with each son of His
Who, every candle, lights?

Wilt thou listen to His promptings 
As He seeks to, chaos, part?
Wilt thou sit upon a mountain, 
Writing Wisdom from thy heart?

Or wilt thou ever tarry 
In the land of distant dreaming?
Wilt thou let thy fire smoulder 
As the darkness now is scheming? 

I say “Arise and be thou clean,
For the night is soon to come,
And all who now are sleeping
Will, a dragon’s feast, become.”

The Call

There was a time—the future told—
When a poet sat in his cabin, cold,
And dreamed his dream, and scribed his lyric,
And died his soul with his thoughts—satiric.

And when he paused to take delight,
And to praise his intellectual might,
Past lightly frosted window sills,
He cast his eyes to the distant hills.

And as he marvelled at the sight, 
His incandescent soul took flight;
Oh, to see the fading hills afar
As they hid the Sun and woke a star!

And as was done—for tradition’s sake—
He looked upon the star and spake;
“I wish upon this ev’ning star,
That with her Wisdom, I may spar!”

And though his superstitions lacked,
His wish, an answer, did attract,
For, clear as day and dark as night,
The hills did whisper a ghastly plight.

“Be careful where thou seeketh, son,  
For now thou art the chosen one
To hear My words and set thine aim
At saving thy village on the plain.

And if thine eyes will see this sight, 
And if thine ears will, truth, invite,
And if thine hands will, Wisdom, write,
I’ll make of thee a guiding light.

But if thine eyes should turn asunder;
If thine ears hear not My thunder,
Babes will scream, and teeth will gnash,
And thee and thy village will burn to ash.

For all thy people are turned corrupt,
And many idols they construct;
They live lives of sin and vice,
And they will pay a dreadful price!

For if they listen not to thee—
Whose words will come direct from Me—
If, from contrition, they refrain,
I’ll smite thy village on the plain.”

The Poet knew not what to do,
So in a fit his soul withdrew,
And—holding back his fearful chills—
He turned once more to the distant hills.

And now a gloomy silhouette, 
He asked the hills what he had met;
A daemon speaking truth and light?
Or a frightful dream on a winter’s night?

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