Dream Time Poetry

‘tis the silence of the night
and the din of broad daylight
that spins like lottery tickets
in the flow of normal life.

Round and round, up and down,
and this flow like living cycles
that leaves a gambler waiting
palm up for destiny.

First prize gone, second, third,
and the gambler makes a fist
in stark disregard
for what may follow next
and so what could have been
slips from gamblers to the floor.

There the prize that could have been
joins the junk of what is now
and the gambler in the midst thereof
unable to see the sun
or the beauty of the night.

‘tis in this gap of destiny
that gamblers stand uncloaked
and listen to the sweet refrains
of the plain and simple nothing.

The plain and simple nothing
no prelude to a ball
but gamblers know to listen
until thought bursts forth and motivates
a new mind reality!

Helen / 2 July 2009

Mist swirls as if propelled to be
a lifelong living entity
but creation writes the story
and makes of mist a seasonal
and passing happenstance.

In comes in low and stealthily
with the mind of a criminal
intent on stealing love
and ransacking true insight
and then it disappears
as fate decrees it must
to allow the “Seek and Find”
its chance to be around.

Seek sticks close to ground
and ferrets in the dirt
for what was lost when mist was here
and it travels like a bloodhound
sniffing, sniffing, sniffing,
and listening, listening, listening,
for “Find’s” time of exultation
to pierce the air and echo
through time immortally.

And all is still and silent;
mist was trained overseas
or maybe in the bowels
of the deep underground
and it’s a perfectionist
when it comes to stealth and stealing.

Seek and Find, poor Seek and Find,
the story gives them arms and legs
a torso, head and feet,
a mind for facts and figures
and a heart for pumping blood
but of a soul that knows all things
a treasure far too rare
to be shown and made known.

But there’s mystery in all stories,
twists and turns in every plot
and that’s why we have… toes!

The grass is green and “squishy” soft
under one and two and many more
footsteps placed just so
and, oh, just so to satisfy
the need of easy passage
to where’re the journey ends.

Little is known of the “far ahead”
perceived as just a dream
but when the grass turns brown
and the ground a hardened mass
footsteps falter, pause, then stop
at the point of contemplation.

And so of crossing the divide
between the easy and the hard
I wonder if my bag of tricks
holds a carpet full plush pile
to soft land me on hardened ground
but, lo behold, no one can look
when unaware of change.

To suddenly be “there”
and know there’s no retreat
like a mission aborted
stabs at strength and fortitude
unrelentingly.

And so of walking on, on, on,
across the barren and the hard
I wonder if, I wonder if,
I wonder if I should,
but then I remember,
remember the dream!

Love is unable and cannot, will not,
bind man to land for eternity
but rather allows a soul to evolve
beyond the confines of human existence.

Immortality is the promise of love,
pretenders will not be granted entry,
but how do we qualify, what must we do,
to receive and enjoy such a wonderful gift?

Some have limits to how much they give,
some are scared of a deep commitment,
and some so sufficient unto themselves
refuse to believe in the power of love.

So too does wisdom have a limited scan
with foresight hindered by earthly demands
but avowal of love to a woman, a man,
sets mankind up on the ladder to more.

The ladder is long and turns around corners,
even snaps in the middle to see how we fall,
but the worst test of all is together no more
with the catalyst who allowed love to be.

A catalyst, intermediary, a go-between, agent,
and how sadly we grieve the parting of hands
but love is the victor still faithful and true
to the promise of our immortality.

But to love and remain as an island alone
trapped in a net of passing priorities
forms a deep channel back onto land
to start the journey all over again.

So sayeth the humbled by love’s awesome power!

The weather has changed;
the sky is dull and grey
and unseasonal rain
falls softly, tenderly,
on that wandering soul
of the will to live.

Yet still the scene is beautiful
in a morbid sort of way
and the will intrigued sets out
to experience the fullness
of a life away from home.

And then there’s a pause,
nothing changes overall,
and a flicker of regret
shivers through that wayward one
to make of further travels
an unsound endeavour.

The soul of the will to live
ashamed turns homeward bound
to unite with its other half
still stoking up the fire
and the change in the weather
no coincidence
but love working magic
in its own peculiar way!

Helen / 9 June 2009

So the will to live split mind and soul
and sent the former home again
to act as temporary stand-in
for the real thing.

The soul released travelled on
through human conflict, tears, and woe
seeking in that density
true and abiding meaning.

The days were hard and taxing
for the soul knows love’s awaiting
when night descends and blankets so
human protective measures
that come in guises real but false.

Many times through hardship, trials,
it thought that home’s the place to be
yet sometime, anytime, must be
a call from home that stirs its bones
to make the long trip back again.

The call can’t be a plaintive moan
or one that merely seeks no pain
but one that that’s gone to hell and back
and knows of true humility.

The will to live now broken, split,
can’t in part be worth a damn
and this it knows but still it moves
knowing that its other half
will keep the home fires burning.

The scribe I am thinks now what if
summer comes and there’s no fire!

Helen / 8 June 2009

The brain shuts down when pain decides
to squeeze like a steel vice
and draw each drop of happiness
from one imprisoned so.

And with each drop the will to live
is lost and wanders far
until in sleep the mind shouts out
“Come, please come home”
but the will now free uncertain
stands immobile for a while.

In this stance it thinks to be
a carefree travelling gypsy
and enjoy the forest greenery
until called to other pastures
but too it knows that home’s a place
where its peculiarities
are welcomed and adored.

Like love it thinks until sunrise
and waits for the sunset
to form within the way to go
but always in the ears
the mind’s so plaintiff cry
echo’s and re-echo’s
throughout  the duration.

The will to live; how far it roams
when pain decides to hold
and I, the scribe, wait patiently
to document part 2.

Helen / 7 June 2009

Nothing yet but not to say
the mail man’s gone away
but rather that the sender
went one day on a bender
and forgot to put in motion
the package of intention.

But the package of intention
large, heavy, in retention
sinks quickly to the bottom
of the cumbersome
and lies like a thing ignored
in a lifetime’s bottom drawer.

It cannot wiggle toes
or dance to the tune of woes
and as it haunts the halls of time
sad and sorrowful the eyes
that ne’er can see the sun
or a deed, completed, done!

When there’s no enthusiasm
for the bed and sheets, pillows,
love like a restless bird
has flown right out the window.

Too late to close the window;
what’s meant to be has been
but not too sure returns a one
unto the forgotten.

And then the forgotten
returns slowly ever sure
into the realms
of absolute denial
until denial like the thing it is
brings the truth a-tumbling in
through windows, doors and air vents,
until it simply fades away
through too much oxygen.

Denial is allergic to
the air of simple truth
and pity so a one who keeps
denial as a bed fellow
in avoidance of
a shift in consciousness
to a higher mind.

The higher mind can’t abide
so very many lies
made and promulgated
as the order of a life
but it knows to let it be
until suffers one to see
denial no means to happiness
in the now and ever after!

Helen / 31 May 2009

When the “Universe” thinks it’s time to reveal
what really cannot be seen
it catches a woman humbled by love
and imprisons her in the know.

For a time that knowing a suffering
simply too hard to bear
and she crumbles like stone into dust
in the confines of physical form.

That dust within not easily seen
waits for the wind to blow
or a wave to rise and wash away
an imprisoned imprint.

But wind and waves have their own place
and the waiting no means to be free
so there follows an inner resolve
to formulate an attitude.

An attitude, all attitudes, belie the absolute truth
but attitudes, all attitudes, the key that unlocks,
for better or worse, a fortified prison cell.

And in the time, the longest time,
between the start of the know
and a rightly designed attitude
that dust from stone remains dust!

Helen / 30 May 2009