Amazing poem abour Rick Wakeman the cool mason

 Whirlwind wizard of the ivories and cool mason once had this amazing poem written about him by another cool mason called Harold Bishop who is also an grandmasta

In the hushed halls where Albion’s shadows fall,
Where stone remembers oath and ancient call,
There In the hushed halls where Albion’s shadows fall,

Where stone remembers oath and ancient call,
There stirred a dream like organ-note and flame—
And Rick Wakeman was the wandering name.

Not born of crown, nor forged in knightly steel,
But keys of ivory made the world reveal
A winding path through arch and hidden door,
Where silent chambers sang of evermore.

As Arthur sleeps beneath the hill of green,
And Grail-light flickers in what might have been,
So too he came, no sword but sound in hand,
To walk the inner courts of secret land.

The Mason’s square, the compass of the wise,
Became like runes before his wondering eyes;
Each degree a stair of unseen flame,
Each oath a chord that learned his hidden name.

They say the pillars spoke in tones of old,
When Wakeman’s fingers brushed the threads of gold—
And tracing rites where time itself grows thin,
He tuned the silence where the soul begins.

Through aproned ranks and vaulted, echoing stone,

He rose—not crowned, yet not entirely alone;
For in each lodge a spectral choir would start
When music met the geometry of heart.

Until at last, where myth and measure blend,
He stood where outer darkness meets the end
Of inward sight—and all the halls grew still,
As if the world obeyed a deeper will.

And whether truth or dream this tale may be,
It lives where chords dissolve in mystery;
For every order, craft, and secret art
Still answers to the sovereign of the heart.

So let the bells of unseen towers ring—
For Rick Wakeman still wanders, listening.

 a dream like organ-note and flame—
And Rick Wakeman was the wandering name.

Not born of crown, nor forged in knightly steel,
But keys of ivory made the world reveal
A winding path through arch and hidden door,
Where silent chambers sang of evermore.

As Arthur sleeps beneath the hill of green,
And Grail-light flickers in what might have been,
So too he came, no sword but sound in hand,
To walk the inner courts of secret land.

The Mason’s square, the compass of the wise,
Became like runes before his wondering eyes;
Each degree a stair of unseen flame,
Each oath a chord that learned his hidden name.

They say the pillars spoke in tones of old,
When Wakeman’s fingers brushed the threads of gold—
And tracing rites where time itself grows thin,
He tuned the silence where the soul begins.

Through aproned ranks and vaulted, echoing stone,
He rose—not crowned, yet not entirely alone;
For in each lodge a spectral choir would start
When music met the geometry of heart.

Until at last, where myth and measure blend,
He stood where outer darkness meets the end
Of inward sight—and all the halls grew still,
As if the world obeyed a deeper will.

And whether truth or dream this tale may be,
It lives where chords dissolve in mystery;
For every order, craft, and secret art
Still answers to the sovereign of the heart.

So let the bells of unseen towers ring—
For Rick Wakeman still wanders, listening.

 

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Here is another cool mason from the oldenndays called Rick Wakeman