The sea today

 

Wind whips at the sea and she crests in anger
at the will of the life force that puts her on edge
for placed of nature she'd much rather flow
straight to the shore like a woman adored.

No friend the wind to pierce through her heart
and bleed her frustrated womanhood feel
into the rough of an unsettled life
like a figment created for picturesque worth
and not for the using, the feeling, tasting.

Sea sprays her ire right up to the sky
but it crashes back down into her mass
swallowed and swallowed so she can begin
making slow rolls towards calm repose.

Night hastens to come and relieve the sun
for the sentry of day no help in the fray
and the sea bids the night be her lover
to still the frenzy within.

Night settles at last on the sea’s many fears
the promise of peace still yet to be
and the sea believes like the seer in me
that everything comes to he who believes.

Meanwhile the rain and just so you know
tomorrow the wind will blow yet again!

Missing

 

And as that gypsy emerged
from her bubble of silence
she wondered what happened that day
when life stole her earthly voice.
 
Was it the rain that washed it out,
the wind that blew it away,
or simply the evil of humankind
that burnt to ash each/every word?
 
It matters not; what’s gone is gone
but that gypsy knows to search the terrain
because the entrenched that’s missing today
not yet dead and buried.
 
If found could she then still verbalize
the intent of goodness, mercy, kindness,
and speak to the deaf of forever love
and belief in the everlasting?
 
Meanwhile the days relentless march on
while she struggles to remain undeterred
from the battle to retain her core beliefs
in a world so intent on evil.
 
She searches today, she struggles today,
but evil, that dastardly thing called “evil”,
attaches itself to her every day
and relentlessly marches on and on and on!

The run and jump

 

She’s a baby at this thing called life
because she cannot understand
the lies, the greed, the arrogance
and that dreaded manipulation
that trips her up time and time again.
 
But babies grow and learn
and know to take little, little, steps,
before the run and jump
that takes them away and over.
 
I reckon she’s in mid jump
uncertain how or where she’ll land
but at least she is in motion
from years of immobility.
 
If I had a hat I would take it off
but I can bow from the waist down
and pay homage to the strength
that came out from the blue.
 
Yes, she was strong and is strong
now way up in the air
but will a cushion or a rock
be awaiting her “come-down”?
 
But such is life that no one knows
what a run and jump will lead to
but to stay as one immobile
a fate worse than death.
 
Please let’s pray that she will hand
upright on her feet
and live to tell of the heartache and grief
that will surely follow her all of her days!

Sifting

 

These days more than then

it’s time to sift through the dirt

and find a little miracle

waiting to be noticed

and rescued from the pain

of being trodden on. 

It takes a time, it really does,

for sifting’s no easy task

when distracted is the mind

by life’s activities. 

But to sift, look, and be aware

of something waiting in the dirt

to be lifted up and cherished

always gives a good return

on the effort expended.  

How sad these days to walk on dirt

and ignore what’s underfoot

until each and every miracle

breaks up and disappears.

The voice of free speech (adapted from the original)

The voice of free speech soft and dulcet in its tone

or harsh, abrasive, cutting, and reaching to the core,

moves freely like the wind, touching, circulating,

and speaking only and always to those who wish to hear.

 

Ideology, philosophy, wishful thinking, memories,

unsubstantiated dreams, hopes, wishes, needs, desires,

woven like a tapestry too soon to be out-dated

and discarded like a heap of old and musty books.

 

In a fire of these times volumes and manuscripts

will burn and be forgotten like bodies of the dead

and cynics will grow to outnumber those who know

till all and everything disappears into the air.

 

How pointless, how degrading, how useless is intent

to expose to the already wise the wisdom of the old

or shine like a star in the path of a blind man

in the knowledge that he has no eyes to see.

Too numerous the setbacks and too far away the moon

to highlight a soul within the shell of flesh

and everyone’s free speech will evolve into dust

to be trodden on and crushed by life’s intolerance.

 

The air once thin, sustaining, grows thick and thicker now

with the absorption of … simply all and everything

Season

It’s just a season good or bad

that comes and then it goes

and caught in the cycle we obey

whatever rules are laid out.

But then mid-way or at the beginning

a mighty struggle ensues

and who once a leader becomes a loser

and the old gives way to the new.

We can blame the season or leader now loser

who once in the task of growing up

caused an event that sapped his strength

at a time when most it was needed.

He doesn’t bend his head in shame,

he doesn’t wring his hands in grief,

and certainly no tears can fall

when evil is his saving grace.

Yes, evil applauds dastardly acts

and the one who caused his downfall

because evil’s not fussy as long as it lives

and as long as the people suffer.

But evil forgets it is just a season

and soon the season will change

and over the land one word will rebound

and that word is, of course, …

“Freedom, freedom!”

Once ...

 

Once on a Sunday that lady believed

magic would manifest all of her dreams

and the sun shone on that day in between

the beginning and end of that Sunday that was.

 

She remembers well the heat of the day

and how blue the sky that captured her gaze

and as the leaves danced on each/every tree

she wondered what tune played only for them.

 

She listened because she too wished to dance

to celebrate fully her day of belief

but instead she sat still and breathed in the air

that surely held tunes she couldn’t yet hear.

 

And then the night fell; it kept falling, you know,

and blanketed out the sun, sky and trees.

to make her believe her day of belief

was plain and simply a dream.

 

But what held the dreams she certainly had

except that glorious day of belief

that weakened its grip and let them fly free

to perhaps manifest in some other time.

 

She waits and she waits and listens each day

for the music she couldn’t then hear

but she knows she will one Sunday in time

because days of belief don’t disappear.