Dream Time Poetry

Photo courtesy PDPhoto.org

Spit and spurt; no one is hurt
when water trickles gently so
upon the garden all must grow
but send me to a waterfall
unbridled, uncontrolled,
and sinks the part that could be heart
because always too much spray
is just too hard to swallow.

Out there amidst the drip and drop
is where I hold opinions best
but in the roar, the crash, the fall,
all I thought entrenches more.

Out there amidst the drip and drop
is where I hold opinions best
but in the roar, the crash, the fall,
all I thought entrenches more.

But I turn the cheek of tolerance,
these days I’ve grown some more
for what is noise and bluster but
the building blocks of nature
in mix and match like flowers, weeds,
in everybody’s garden.

Nothing serves a garden best
than a soft and gentle morn
breaking ever quietly so
over all that tries to grow
but when the midday sun screams out
only weeds survive the heat!

She dances again the dance of love,
that gypsy woman unseen,
amidst a thousand silent sighs
and fallen to ground bygone thoughts
but far, too far, this fearful life
from the gates of happiness
and the loosened mind of a woman
flies beyond physical love.

In the rush and wish to grow new blooms
rose bushes forsake everything
and carry the seed of remembrances
as a stake for strong future growth…
and who can decry the will to survive
in a land of different soil?

That gypsy queen still dances unseen
and swirls out the colours of soul
in a radius suited to her empathy
until the book falls naturally closed
on the bloom of life read but not dead
in the mind of those left behind.

The sun, the sun, or under the moon
gypsies dance in the light of belief
and all of the steps rehearsed and upbeat
signal new starts from untimely ends!

Jezebel, that Jezebel,
rings on fingers, toes,
dances in the limelight
of all she’s come to know
but Guinevere, that Guinevere,
beauty personified,
merely offers up her tears
as evidence of soul.

They trickle slowly, softly,
from her knowledge base
for she knows that love’s a grandiose thing
and one to be revered
by even the most lowly
or the seemingly so.

There are no lowly beings
in her now endless world
but she can see how people learn
to disregard the soul
and invade her personal space
with unwanted particles
of narcissistic energy.

But she smiles through her tears,
forgetfulness must always come
before conscious recall
of the most high.

Guinevere, that Guinevere,
still lives today, you know,
for the semblance of her archetype
is somewhere in the world
far away but not apart
from her Sir Lancelot!

No manna falls from heaven
to feed the starving masses
because nothing comes for free
except a silent thought.

I can think of castles large and grand,
of shacks that barely stand,
or of hate over love’s design
patterned in the sky.

And so I think, you think,
and presume the privilege free
until it’s known payment’s due
for what I chose to think.

I won’t pay with dollars/cents
or even sacrifice my life
but look down quite bemused
at what my thoughts created.

And so I think, you think,
but if I can think before I think
I might think a better thought
and should I think before I die
I think I’ll think of love!

I came down a little bit
from my high and lofty perch
but now the shoulders lift
and the tension ripples
down to my finger tips.

It’s always better up, up, up,
in the air of a belief
but the world calls, “Come on down”
and I plain and simply, humbly,
crash land on the ground.

And I breathe the dust and grime
of a polluted mind
day in, day out, and every day,
in the manner of a mole
forced to forge a path
through the sand and stones
of life experiences.

It’s like it has to be
to survive the crash land, see
and weave the dirt within
the fabric of a soul
but I don’t know the reason
or why I even mind
what affects the soul.

But I know today, these days,
that only love can pave the way
up from the underground
and so I love, I love you,
to nullify the effect
of choices un-befitting
the magnificence of soul!

(Photograph by Frank Bennett, New Zealand)

Formations of rock surveying the scene
stand firm near the edge of approaching winter
vulnerable and exposed to man’s evil ways
and saddened by how a person can change.

But if I walk down to the base of it all
and gently embrace the visible truth
layers and layers confirm and bear out
the intensely emotional upheaval of earth.

And then was created another good place
with diligent care to the gift of free will
to enable the testing and assessing
of sincerity, honour, empathy, love.

Today the rocks stand a paradise lost
like a woman alive without a good man
alone but strong to suffer the sun
and not turn away from the wind.

Where are the lovers?  They’ve gone everyone
to pointless realms of electronic release
to gain and acquire the meaningless, false,
and upturn foundations of Physical love.

And the sea one day will rise up to hide
the signs and symbols of faithfulness, trust,
and the trees will appear to grow from the sea
in the inexplicable manner of life.

The universe whispers, I hear and believe,
that time should stand still, remember the feel,
and recall again how such intense energy
upturned the world for a reason, a cure.

And when it is know, will time then deliver
a warning and caution to the sea not to rise
and trees not to think they can live forever
on shaky foundations of improper love?

When it is know it may be too late,
too late to reverse an intolerable fate.

The witch and the wizard
one day made a pact
to go it alone without love
and life was good
with the birds and the bees
until flowers closed ranks
and the trees grew no leaves.

Magic, you see, not a mythical king
called “time” on the play-act of life
and set in motion a devious plan
to suffer the witch and the wizard
to come again unto love.

Swords were drawn by that good man of war
and the witch traded tears with her peers
because a turn, turn around, humbles a man
and makes a woman a servant to him.

And so with the stubbornness of a mule
the wizard sought refuge in caves
and the witch, poor dear, took up her broom
and flew off in a different direction.

For many a year magic prevailed
within that kingdom of dreams
where wizards and witches unite
and make of love a true delight.

But magic, my friends, never can last
if wizards too weak can’t open a heart
and witches leave cobwebs untouched
around yesterday’s manifesto.

Magic is dead - squashed like a bug
when we go it alone without love!

Who can draw lines or erect boundaries
when soul is the maker, creator, of all
and we the mere puppets and lowly workers
enslaved in its will and told to obey?

And soul doesn’t care if this life or next
because ultimately so its agenda is met
but I, the worker, need it now to be
to know the peace of attainment.

Better, in fact, to not think as such
or seek the results of an inner plan
lest the mind then becomes firmly fixed
and refuses to open to alternatives.

It’s been that way for me in my day
but now as the sun rises on pain
I must through necessity open my arms
to the offerings of the far from ideal.

So I argue, debate, go to work late,
and plan and record my strike tactics,
because workers rebel when soul doesn’t care
to ensure culmination in this present life.

But who can draw lines or erect boundaries
when soul is within and determined to be
the leader and most over-bearing master
of what the workers must do and feel, know?

Can you see how the sea believes it is free
but naturally so the mountain stands tall
and confines the sea between boundaries
set in place by a contract of sorts?

It must be a sort of a contract or more
that decrees the sea remain as before
restless to know, to feel, to believe
its stature is that of a mountain, you see?

It’s a contract of sorts that humbles the poor
and a sort of a contract that deprives the rich
of the truly amazing and magnificent feel
of scraps from the table dropped thoughtlessly.

It’s a contract of sorts that causes a war,
a sort of a contract that allows peace to fall,
and a contract of sort that ties spirit up
in the mind of a human just like me.

It must be a contract of sorts or more
that allows a mouse to promulgate fear
and a bee, oh, please, why must it die
when protective instincts come to the fore.

So contracts of sorts all thought into being
by the will of the mountain, the sea, you/me,
and I cannot believe there’s no escape clause
to allow for a twist and a turn from it all.

And the twist and the turn no magic trick
but a contract of sorts and so very much more!

It’s time to go away when the heart is full of woe
as if the world at large can re-align that part
where consequences lie and multiply
for the turn away
from the dependent helpless.

But it’s known in circles wide and large
that distance cannot by itself
twist the truth into a lie
and make from that a happy smile.

It’s heart alone that re-aligns
when the knowing of a mind decides
to supply the tools, nuts, bolts, and screws,
that hold in place what has to be.

And mind, my mind, too slow to know
a heart in need pleads for relief
and so that part off-center leans
and threatens every day to fall.

But nothing falls; heart knows to wait
until the hurt lies fallow, dead,
and weights the heart with all that’s past
like roots that hold what’s yet to be!