Monday, March 14, 2016

Emotion

She wound emotion round and round
the stake of present times
and secured the ends to resolve
to prevent escape and leakage
out of two blue eyes.

She feels the twirl and whirl within
and so the walls are fortified,
the exits double bolted,
and she feeds detachment
in the hope of forcing speedy growth.

There’ll come a time o’er yonder hill
when freedom will be celebrated
and emotion will fall to ground
to finally be trodden on
and be as if it never was.

So she wonders why not let it go
but emotion far too meaningful
to end up in the dirt
and so the perimeter is electrified.

It may die for lack of air and care
but that’s alright, you know,
because then she’ll know at last
she’s joined the human race! 



Tuesday, March 1, 2016

As inherently bred

As she turned from the sky to the ground
she heard the chant of the whole human crowd.
“Love myself, love myself, love me, me”
as the only way to ere love another. 

Could it be, could it be, but no one should be
wrapped up and engaged with weeds in the fields
that seek to degrade the beautiful, free,
with thoughts of only a me, me, me.

She tried to go back to when it began
and find the corner she didn’t turn round
so she too could be in the valley of “me”
and chant forever in unison. 

Now directions for gypsies are none to clear
when issued by someone known not to care
for the you, the you, the you, you, you,
and so gypsies remain as inherently bred.

Who bred them to be so mindful of you
and battle the dragons plaguing your soul
when , oh, that tree of only a me
promises peace and harmony.

Would anyone leave such a paradise
to feel another’s pain and heartache
and she wonders how many would gather at noon
when asked to leave themselves far behind.

She doesn’t sigh as gypsies can do
but proceeds on her journey happy to be
a singer of her own special song
for you, of course, and you, you, you.

Maybe one day she’ll find the corner
and join the chant of humankind
but she doesn’t like corners that lead nowhere
and so she’ll remain as inherently bred. 

Saturday, February 27, 2016

Sunday's story - In her reverie

That gypsy stared intently at her ancient tree of life
and wondered in her reverie how the smallest branch
had managed so effectively to infiltrate and weave itself
into the fabric of her soul to make of the scattered parts
one all inclusive whole.

And then she thought of your tree and the cut and prune
that left a gaping hole that never bled but cried
the tears of one who knew that  human ignorance
had cut it down before its time and left it so to rot
in a barren field of total isolation. 

Not as intense as then but she still can feel today
the branch’s pain and agony, the disappointment and heartache
and most of all the sadness at being cut adrift
from the foundation of what was meant to be.

And so the story goes; no one needs to know
if the branch of love grew or not when transitory pleasure
wears the crown of ruler over the human race
and dispenses rewards to what can be perceived
as the completely undeserving.

But such a gift is free will that surely there can’t be
reprisals or punishment for deciding not to love
and she wonders in her reverie if it even matters
when all is said and done and all the trees have died.

However, in that silent space between each heartbeat, breath,
there’s a deep abiding knowing that in the fullness of all time
what was allowed to grow will enlarge, expand and spread
to shade the future path of one who way back then
decided of her own free will to fall in love with you!


Helen / 28 February 2016

Thursday, February 18, 2016

Lost

Time brought her the meaning of life
and placed it down at her front door
but slightly, oh, ever so slightly
off to the right so she didn’t trip
and land prone on the ground of her birth.

Now gypsies, you know, traverse here and there
and don’t believe in walking straight lines
so over she went and swallowed and swallowed
enormous amounts of dirt from the earth.

She chocked and spluttered until finally knew
she had to get up and leave it behind
but dirt in these not so merry times
manufactures its own special glue. 

So down to the river (there’s always a river)
but where, oh, where, is that special one
that will gladly accept the intolerable
and make believe it never ere was?

So tired and weary the gypsy had grown
from searching and searching to no avail
that she turned about face to make her way
back to the meaning of life.

Too many hills and too many dales
and so much underbrush to clear away
that finally, finally, she had to admit
she was plain and simply completely lost!

Monday, February 1, 2016

The Awakening

Set one of the stage opens to show a table for two prepared near the  door.  Fairy lights dazzle and sparkle with hues dancing and glowing up to the moon.

Reflections in water of love’s precious dew surround the table covered in blue and the music that plays whispers a tune of heaven’s own bliss that’s come none too soon.

Locked hand in hand a couple emerge, he walking proud with graying of hair, she passed her prime and showing the signs, they dance until chimes of midnight resound.

The glow from the fire inside of the door promises comfort for love’s early dawn but the call of the wild can be seen in her eyes as she leads him away to the fields and the sky.

On a blanket laid out in nature’s own way passion awakes from living as dead and stars hide their eyes behind soft wispy clouds as naked and proud they offer themselves.

He kisses her fully joining their lips as hands slowly travel down to her hips and the essence of her releases to him the truth of her being so different from his.

The wind brushes bodies with unspoken pleas sending out messages coded yet clear and the pleasure they give returns to their souls as heaven smiles down on the knowing of love.

Scene two opens now with return to their homes as sun touches bodies still warm with own glows but the fire has burnt to ashes of cold and the stage slowly turns as they enter the door.

Two beds far apart and divided by “life” await their return without any warmth and as the sun rises they each can be found …

smiling in sleep for the night took their souls!

Tuesday, January 26, 2016

Of Life

 “Of life”, said the woman, “How lucky can you be?”  There are rivers, mountains, border wars, and sun to blister skin together with the turmoil of making money be.  You also have the sea and leaves on every tree in motion entwined with a breeze you cannot see.  You have the moon at night and shadows of your fright, the stars in the sky like goals out of reach, and lungs to keep inhaling both the good and the bad elements of luck.  

Ah, yes, you have your vehicles and speed that always kills on highways to your destiny as well as backs to scratch, palms to grease, and the other cheek. You have doctors, dentists, lawyers, and, of course, the poor.  You have domesticated animals who always want to roam, children born to leave, lovers you can’t see, and mothers like their mothers though they vowed they’d never be.

You have me, the one and only, who can say you have it all when you speak of loving peace and of hating war so don’t ask for more in jungles of concrete that suffocate the weak.

You have the magic of your work, a home you never see, a need to explore the mystery of ego, and a body once beautiful now tattooed with dragons and butterflies and supposedly adorned with studs in ears, eyelids, lips, and rings in belly buttons. 

You have a heart like a magician’s hat that brings forth funny things and a soul you cannot know no matter what degrees trail behind your name but what’s in a name when only a mind remains to tell the tale.  And your mind belongs to you.  I can’t intrude or dare to guess its form and design unless, of course, you pay me to.

And if you wish for many things one day they’ll all come true but scattered in between all the things you do not need, you may not be aware that they are even there.  If you pray – well, it’s the same and still bears your name as if you wrote a letter and dispatched it in the mail.

You can wait by the garden gate for a lifetime more-or-less or search amongst the millions for the one who’s meant for you but never will he/she be delivered by the trees unless you believe there are fairies in the glen.
  
You have the alphabet for life plans of a, b, c, etcetera, and too you have your numbers that balance for the few. You’ve got books to read but no time, things to do still un-done, and a thousand opportunities that never come to call.

You’ve got me to tell you how we feel and poets who write poetry, two faces (maybe more), a stare that says it all, idle hands (sometimes), and body aches to tell you how many years you’ve lived.

Oh, yes, you also have sex and the ones who get lucky may sometimes think it’s love. You have dreams and fantasies that never come true and nightmares that do. You’ve got hopes and you’ve got wishes like fish in oceans deep that always without fail mangle your lifeline.

You’ve got me to show you how to cry, friends you want to be, and always and forever those bills you have to pay.  You have your yesterdays in which you never age and your tomorrows that like a birthday gift land in your lap for better or for worse.

One day we’ll all be free but I’m not too sure, you see, so until we all go walking down mystic avenues, you still, of course, have … me!  How lucky can you be?  

Saturday, January 16, 2016

Now ...

She wishes the moving would lead somewhere
but it doesn’t, not ever, no, not ere
but she trundles along like gypsies do
to simply end up where she’s been before.

Now this gypsy not clever to count the cost
of having to do everything twice
but bound as she is by some strange decree
she surrenders up unto her plight.

Now her wagon must hold more than before
because baggage mounts up each passing year
but her wagon grown old can’t cope with the load
and so she must enter “select memory” mode.

Now she shifts and sorts; what not to keep
to enable the love to remain undisturbed
and caught in this stage she’s a gypsy in red
as if the discarding has bled on her dress.

Now gypsies would choose to follow the river
but a drought has o’er laid the land
so off she goes in her red dress
knowing that soon the river will flow. 

And then she’ll dive in dressed as she is
and wash off the stain of unhappiness
and appear like a woman born anew
into a world not known before.

And in that world she won’t do again
what she has done before
and yet there are tears threatening to fall
for the one thing she didn’t repeat.

Now that gypsy knows well that now’s not then
and nothing will be the same again
so dance with her please under the stars
and tell her she’s lovely when free of the past!