The Philosophers Stone

The Philosophers Stone




Natures alchemist is the honey bee, the secret masters
Of the Great Work, who virtuous in their humble hives,
Hidden within the cells of the inner Anaktoron,
Build the hexagons of Aphrodite, as at Mount Eryx,
Where arose the glory of the goddess, Sicilian honey,
Millefiori, the spirit of a thousand wild flowers.



Gathered by workers, at the royal command of their Queen,
The reborn servants of Apollo hasten to the harvest,
Flitting to and fro on countless raids, divine journeys,
Seeking holiness from ripe blossoms, that sacred mass,
Where a natural magic transmuting dust into elixir,
Forms the chrysos of summer, craved by gods and men.



For the philosophers stone is the hive, though few see,
That within the inner sanctum of its divine geometry,
Is found the mystery of the elements, the secret itself,
And the humble epopteia, with their ancient wisdom,
Once worshipped as wise gods in the glory of Greece
Unite sun, moon, earth, fire and water, in perfect harmony.



Oracular they arrive and leave the Ark, as smoke from a censer,
Drifts to convey a deeper meaning, for their missions began
Long before we walked free from the Garden of Eden,
Fermenting the fruits of kykeon for larvae and men,
Who trapped in dark cells of flightless materiality,
Await release by these magicians of the mystic art.




The blessed Bees, servants of the Delphic priestess,
Are the last guardians of the Eleusinian Mysteries,
Hidden in their hives, they enact the sacred rituals,
To gain the aurous of Knowledge, that the enlightened seek,
Whose taste is a honeying of the soul, as sweet as love,
The only food created on earth without taking life.



Conceived when the golden light of summer is captured,
The liquid flame slowly formed from precious pollen,
Whose purity weeps from the flowers, as warmth from the sun,
The essence of the season, those golden nectar grains,
That death overcoming, blesses the morning glory,
and sunflower stars, released as exines from stamens.




Divine sculptures gathered in a simple pollen basket,
Carried forth upon the way by a passing troubadour,
Strumming a rural song, humming a jaunty trobar leu,
Wooing a thousand fey blooms until a camellia blushes,
Surrendering her secrets for a strangers kiss,
The gilded granules, the soft sighs of her bliss.




The attendants of the god, singing their paens,
Dance forth upon the day, taking flight to steal the light.
Lovers of the blossom, whose wings caress the petals,
gathering the aurous grains of the sacred pollen,
As the poet so gathers his words upon a page,
To sweeten our lips, when spoken as a blessing.




They who are sinless, give life with virgin caresses,
As Alba is blooming, serenade its conceptions,
Pillaging the perianth to plunder the nectaries,
Gather giddy in hosts at the groaning vines,
Seeding the Spring and ripening the fruits,
Simple spirits, the architects of Albions beauty.




Beware the vengeance of Demeter, for death awaits,
Those that harm her loyal concubines, the busy bees,
For tricked Persephone of the six bitter seeds,
Shall sleep in Hades until the Judgement comes,
And bleak the world that will bear her anger,
Whipped with harsh storms upon the naked rocks.




As winter walks a year in its white frozen frocks,
Bitter as salt are the tears of all who forget,
For the black death afflicting the silent hives,
Is a curse upon all, from seraph to serpent,
And the roar of an avenging angel, who cries,
This world so profaned, is now about to die.