Dream Time Poetry

I love the feel of summer rain
in fall upon my brow
each drop a lover’s sweet caress,
each drip a timeless vow.

I love the feel of rising sun
that fuels my memory
and the night that holds just so
my wishes and my dreams.

I love the feel of autumn wind
around my weariness
like an order to about-face
and endure a woman’s pain.

I love the voices of the young
in tune with modern wisdom
and the openness that says I can
converse in total freedom.

I love my history with you
but to the sea the rivers go
to make of waves a happenstance
that brings in the unknown.

And today I love the unknown;
it’s just the truth of soul!

It was a breath scanning many years
before the exhale
and this breath a hurricane
that mingled truth with untruth
until so well entwined
they became as one.

It is this “one” that haunts a mind
now that the breathing’s done
and it’s known to be the ghost of past
that will not lie down dead.

It’s immune to all my rituals,
my incense, candles, mind,
and merely grins most wickedly
at intent’s ineptitude.

The ghost, this ghost, my only ghost,
nameless in the ether
but in the feel a spark of truth
rises time and time again
and burns within a passion
that will not lie down dead.

And when, and when, I lie down dead
‘twill be as one unmoved
by that spark’s wish to rekindle
what on earth remained unseen.

And that spark of truth will fizzle, die,
amidst residual memory
of all the many untrue sparks
that grew a fulsome fire ~
and I mourn now its demise
heartbreakingly!

Shattered by a thunderous clap
the sound of silence crumbles
into the deep and distant past
there to join with memories
around a cold grave stone.

Head bowed it stands as one unloved
and wet because the rain must fall
today, this day, when mourners pray
in sad and sombre release.

There is no happy place or grace
for the sound of silence
and no chitty-chat for an entity
not honoured during life
and the sound of silence rubble now
rues the many times it tried
to bring a better thought to mind.

There’s a woman at the edge
collecting bits and pieces
but another thunderous clap
and she too stands as one unloved
for she loves, you see, in the beautiful,
so beautiful sound of silence
that brings in thoughts of you.

The thunderous clap of life
shatters and spreads the meaningful
into the gaping jaws of trivia,
useless, useless, trivia!

Between the layers of events and happenings
lies a little symbol of what life is all about
but designed to not be visible it simply isn’t there
to the eyes of a searcher and the maybe you/me.

Next to that the pendant of love’s amazing grace
shines and glitters brilliantly like a polished diamond
but the maybe you/me look the other way
for the glare so fierce and piercing
begets a different view.

Different views like mohair on the skin
go from amusing trickles to severe irritations
because, you see, it’s no laughing matter
to disregard the intent of love’s amazing grace.

So there we are then, searchers and the you/me,
irritated, agitated, and restless beyond measure
in the same old time-honoured comfort zones
that stick like glue and procreate more irritations.

It’s like that different view so beautiful and new
taunts and tempts the mind to reconnoitre inside
with the heart of all matters and the heart of desire
to make of the two transparently compatible.

The heart of desire when too gentle in its need
cannot outweigh the heart of all matters
but it tries and it tries because it doesn’t know
the scales of life are unjustly weighted.

The heart of all matters like dollars and cents
shoots the heart of desire right off the ground
to float forever unattained and unrestrained
until it succumbs to no force and effect.

It’s a sad malady but only if we know!

Ten, thirty, forty, fifty. but more
words of the foolish into the bin
for overtaken they are by the pain
of no love today.

There are no words now for the truth
follows the words into “nowhere”
from whence they surprisingly came
to spin webs of deceit and lies
in the heart of one so inclined
to believe in the wisdom of love.

The wisdom of love; how foolish it is
when decreed is the walk to the garbage bin
to discard the junk and disembark
from the round-about of belief.

It was a walk and alight of difficulty
for the heart heavy and burdensome
in the knowing of completion
that yet brings its own release.

Such is the way of no love
that clouds the view beyond the blue
and entrenches itself in the earth
so all who walk thereon will know
love’s a transitory energy
un-tethered to stakes of the foolish!

Helen / 27 December 2009

No snowflakes fall to overlay
the truth of who we are
and yet there is a shroud
thick, heavy, and so dense
that grants unto the beautiful
the semblance of a grave.

And when there are no snowflakes
no one thinks to clear away
mortal imperfections
and facilitate the rise
of the buried but not dead.

So the beautiful lies comatose
awaiting the awakened
to brave the elements
like a determined warrior.

But we are lovers, are we not?
Out fighting spirit tackles nought
but flesh and bone, muscle, fat,
and what we say and do.

And then I don’t like you,
and you and you and you,
until I am possessed of tools
to dismiss the now imperfect.

And then I still don’t like you,
And you and you and you,
for in the clear and sweep away
the beautiful is not always
appealing to my eyes.

But you, “the” you, unknowingly
rose unaided into view
and in that moment of glory
I fell in love with you ~
but then you disappeared
back into the grave.

So the beautiful lies buried, lost,
to ne’er again rise from the grave
and stand naked before the eyes
of a woman who loves …
the beautiful!

Helen / 23 December 2009

How like life to twist the truth
into knots of little use
and glue and staple them in place
as an extra safety measure.

Come the fingers deft and sly
but up to now not yet tried
for years it takes to plot and plan
an attack on all the knots inside.

The fingers have been twiddling thumbs
in the safety of old comfort zones
and ‘tis the twiddle, twiddle, thumbs
that tire of such attention.

And so they leave the stretch and reach
of fingers lost in plot and plan
and stand apart entrenched within
the truth made known and visible.

Fingers, fingers, numbered eight
cut adrift from truth and light
stumble in the gap between
what is and what should be.

I feel for fingers numbered eight
lost so within the in-between
but they will mutate and grow
according to the place they’re at.

But who would grow in no-man’s land
that neither was and nor will be?

Helen / 19 December 2009

Sometimes there comes a day
when one thinks to turn the table
and dine on the other side
of life as it seems to be.

And then there are other days
when all of this life holds sway
and the dished up fare though grandiose
holds no appeal for the hungry.

It’s an evil plot or just love’s intent
to send the hungry behind the scenes
but some tables are heavy, too heavy,
for the weak and disparaging.

No matter the sideline clap and cheer
encouragement falls on deaf ears
and the weak remain weak and hungry
in their own perceived destiny.

The outcome, I bet, is never a pound
or a kilo gained round the waist
and this perhaps so the skinny
can slip through birth/death unseen.

Oh, yes, but the news of this very day
applauds the turning of tables
for beneath the illusion of … meat
there is on the underside
the most amazing and sustaining
glorious spiritual feast.

But tables no matter still stand
on the base of this beautiful land
and how great to eat on the top side
when you know what lies underneath!

Helen / 27 November 2009

If I could I would hop on a plane
and fly above the land
of the now betwixt and between
all knowing and sheer ignorance

The pendulum swings, scales are unbalanced,
and nobody leans the same way
on hallowed ground that’s typecast
as a place meant for defilement.

There’s an army of ants that march faithfully
and unconsciously down the middle
like ogres armed and empowered
to make of the knowing an enemy.

And so there’s an underground movement
setting bombs and committing arson
to break up the enemy camp
and scatter and spread the knowing
like ash to be blown away.

The knowing when valued tips the scales
and when ignorance grows it blooms
and so for the masses stuck in between
there’s no where to hide but inside
the safety measure of life
where ants shape shift according to
plain and simple convenience.

But how convenient to have the sky
filled with ash of the knowing?
It’s not, you see, for ash believes
every scrap of its once former self
will meld and o’er lay the start, middle, end,
and everybody’s life.

Don’t hold your breath! Time decides
or maybe those androids in sky
who fight from a better standpoint
than all of the ants on the ground!

Helen / 24 November 2009

A complicated and indistinct map
is placed in the hands of the now inept
but they don’t think to use other means
to find out which way to go.

Those other means aren’t real, you see
to those with no eyes to see,
with no heart to feel,
and no faith to believe.

I’m such a one today in the mire
of refusing to believe
but I do have two eyes and a heart
that nudge the senses day in and day out.

It’s them against me in this stand-off phase
and for now I’m the great pretender
turning away from the nudges
like the dead who refuse to breathe.

So now when I want to know
whether potholes or not in the road
I sit strapped in to “what the hell –
I won’t see or feel or believe”.

And a car like you and me, them, they,
when stuck in a mire can’t move
until pretence a thing of the past
and all other means are embraced!

Helen / 22 November 2009