Sunday, May 3, 2020

Before ...


Before the night claims my day
I think of words to say
that perhaps will aid and abet
the furtherance of love.

But then in the morning light
I come to the understanding
I need to grow and increase
my force and effect.

How tall, how big, how loud and dictatorial
and then I shrink with the knowing
the my hands are tied to the post
of plain and simply who I am.

I cannot shout from mountain tops
or dance the light fantastic
to the tune of all I know should be
or simply tell you quietly.

I am here and you are there
but before the day lays claim to night
I like to think that in that peaceful state
everyone is dancing to the tune of love.

I like to think but can it really be
when some don’t think to dance?

Tuesday, March 24, 2020

Magic


The air is fresh and clean
and that gypsy over yonder hill
stares up above in wonderment
because she knows that way up there
magic has been made and despatched.

She cannot see it, no, she can’t
and yet it’s real and tangible
deep in her heart that’s been dismayed
and sunken in despair.

For everything there is a time
and this her time to receive
and she will breathe the fresh clean air
in gratitude and thankfulness.

And that time to lose too far away
to spoil her happiness
and she dances as all gypsies do
deep in the essence of herself.

No argument, no, not one
that she is free to be
unencumbered by the grief
and agony, heartache.

Remember, remember,
everything must pass
but always there is magic
that will make it come again.

Remember, remember,
help her to remember!

Monday, October 14, 2019

State of grace


I’ve got it today, had it yesterday,
but for tomorrow who can really know
because grace is a state that comes and goes
when humans behave in the strangest of ways.

Fortunately so it always is there
buried down deep waiting to rise
and bloom like a rose to offset the thorns
life is so keen to challenge us with.

So we rise to the challenge and not to the grace
and cut the thorns down however we can
but with never a care for those poor lowly thorns
grace will forever stay out of our reach.

But I’ve got it today and I celebrate
while keeping the faith that it never will leave
but, of course, it never can ever do that
while totally comfortable within our keep.

However, sometimes it cries day and night
for lonely it is without our company
and really how much does it cost to visit
and spend some time in a state of grace?

Saturday, September 14, 2019

Agony


Rain doesn’t wash the agony out
it simply spreads it around
and allows it to settle where ere it will
while waiting for times to change.

And change like a storm sometimes
and sometimes an unnoticed drizzle
but change a definite and certain outcome
after agony of a day, month, year.

It’s the waiting that lays one down inert
unable to rise to the new and untried
so the this or that lays claim to mind
and creates complete and utter confusion.

Now confusion like a devil incarnate
that overloads the mind, heart, soul,
to cause withdrawal from the meaningful
until, until, well, perhaps the next storm.

But in between the storms and drizzles
there is the sun and new growth
if we can but know and certainly feel
something’s growing behind the times.

Let there be peace and so it must be
to enable that “thing” to grow happily
without the distraction of agony
and the devil’s work of confusion!

Sunday, August 4, 2019

Spinning


Round and round and round
and it ain’t no mulberry bush
but rather this thing called life
that attracts the whim of circumstance
and spirals out of all control.

Caught so in its evil trap
we fight to release ourselves
and we do when the wind dies
but, lo/behold ‘tis just a spell
before that wind comes back again.

And it blows, and it blows,
day in and day out
until exhausted we collapse
into the sleep of the dead.

Sleeping so we hope to gain
the strength to carry on
spinning, spinning, spinning,
until the next release. 

And so of that spin/release
it surely is a testing ground
but I wonder when if ever
we’ll pass that damn exam.

And as we go with the flow
we can only hope and pray
for that stillness that surpasses
all out understanding.

Friday, July 12, 2019

Strife


The sun sinks slowly, slowly, down
o’er the strife of humankind
and sits there like a devil hand
to leave no escape route.

And so the strife is quite content
to way mere mortals down
and bar entry to our state of grace
that waits so patiently.

So to that state of grace I say
don’t wait for invitations
but gather strength and infiltrate
that evil barrier.

And then, and then, what happiness
will o’er take humankind
but I wonder, yes, I do,
can that ever be.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps,
but then again, perhaps not!

Thursday, May 2, 2019

End of an era


This is a story written from my own poem titles.
Perhaps a bit of truth buried in it.

THE END OF AN ERA


Shadows sing to the music of a moment but in Africa I’m listening to the frogs instead of Jingle Bells.  I should take a gentle stroll through the minefield of the mall but it’s a bad place to be and quite a bothersome ordeal at Christmas time so see me like a phantom in a dream purporting to be real in a summer haze.

Reality is born in the old in me but if it’s Sunday, it must be story time and the poor and needy, lonely, sad, like the fallen and the dead in a village of humanity can think that there’s a rainbow on a dark horizon when the rain falls and not think of cyclical manoeuvres felt but unseen

Winter is turning the air of love into an emotive roll but it doesn’t matter in Africa, South Africa, where life is good in the turn, turn around.  It’s not like yesterday but it’s alright. 

Someone laughs between the trees and believe I would in secrets if not for the flame, desire, walking, talking, of wisdom and hope.  Look!  It’s not as if it matters that I read from left to right when the sun, the son, is a million steps behind after the summer sun because I am love born anew in the shadows of the truth and the river sings beyond the limits.

Someone whispers Christmas thoughts and wishes but nothing makes any sense and so I dream again of rich and juicy plums at the edge of need.  No one needs to know about the jump and spirit plans because goodbye is just a word in the mind of a woman.  I didn’t die but I believe it was me with blue eyes and backbone in the garden of love on wash day.  I’m waiting for the sun, the sun, and not the wind and bricks of change!

How the people lie – don’t ask me why but there’s always a sign beyond the tone when I’m sleepless in S.A.  I am the will to believe in love because and simply so because of evolution, you see, and not because I throw “them” bones.  And I dream of the weatherman and what to wear these days if not paradise clothes when I don’t look down like an artist on a wire.  But where do dreams go?

I think the energy of soul is the sinking sun and not the bread of life when the power of love like one last flickering fire in February memories but this isn’t confession time.  It’s a story from titles and the words I heard before a summer rose sank in the quicksand of goodbye.  It’s not echoes of indecision or a story of a “she” but men of the land, beware because she cries again and Sunday’s nameless woman, a once beautiful china doll, now just the words of spring from me to you.

Thunder rumbles when a river meets the sea and waves of thought like dream energy come back above my head in the blue, so blue, of sky and tonight perhaps I am now like a willow tree in the game of life and not a girl turned woman, older now.

Who writes of love’s awakening and what the spirit knows in the silence of heartache?  What is love?  Hey you!  Why don’t you let it out?   Love is a friend they say not the happy-sac of heart in the shadows of a picture un-perfect. 

It’s the wall of truth fresh from the earth in spheres of the natural where once a budding rose, my heart, folded first in the deal.  Be calm.  I love alone in the waiting game like a lily amidst brambles, thorns, of life.

Wine, women, and song and the matador and the bull like an acorn in the lost lining of sweetness in the pit of a soul.  Left or right over a mountain?  I cannot stay at the crossover point in the mist in mid May in case the demon of need would catch, grab, and keep my head/heart and the eyes of a woman.  Perhaps but maybe not the time has come for spirit love.

As a river flows so my train of thought of what I don’t/do want to know about love’s empathy but, really, I won’t go there no more because the skeleton of doubt like formations of rock when I get there.  Intuition tells me that if time could know more about winter roses and crosswise manoeuvres, there would be no deceit.

Spells are cast over dying trees and the common heart and love and someone needs to pay attention because the call is for growth spurts.  To think there can be rainbows in life’s tapestry when the wind blows cold just illusionary sketches in the silent spaces of a last plea. 

Behind the voice of thunder a flower blooms similar to the perfume of a heart and that’s alright because the air I breathe brings peace after the tears.  Oh, to love like a lovely lady but where I’m at there’s no love’s hold in the circle of my soul and this is my confession.  I could go to a land called Swaziland for just a release but sun touches windswept roads in the overthrow of summer and I might imagine things in love’s sky.

How do you feel when exhausted with no hope or new car under the African sky?  Only one tree as a symbol of human need in memory but be still because in the grooves and threads run leprechauns and ghouls to frighten a caveman not to mention the termites and rats. 

God saw it was good that she dances again and so I write the words of love at the start.  Praise me for this bonus pain because partners like the sea and the shore have knock-on effects in unholy matrimony.

It’s been said that the music makers pull the strings off the wings of simple things but that’s just a ramble for the good of soul transplanted in the grey and not a last and final call for memories to play ball. 

The grey sky in descent like handmade footsteps of dreams and how knowing this progression around the mulberry bush of unrequited love but I’ll remember today/yesterday and the glow of summer over rolling hills until one to twelve, the end.

Emotion speaks in the swing of time, “Be my Valentine” but decisions, decisions, and who gives way to new life?   In simple terms it’s simply this; it was only a dream of your touch and her walk into withdrawal only shadows in the glare of necessity vs. need.

Court is in session.  You did it all and on appeal I’ll give you a woman’s tears but it’s not the usual please pity me or story of a monkey because it’s all in the mind of only an “I” of the gender feminine where once no unconditional love. 

Heaven isn’t bliss but God speed the stream of ecstasy and the voice of a poet to the morning after when it’s the need.  One fine day when I know the air of dreams is at the window only me perhaps will see a woodman’s fire and say, “thank goodness it’s Friday and not a collision in sky”.

No one is driving complacency like a stream in heaven because backward energy is lazy sometimes and wayward steps make no impression when the light changes.   The sun, alone tonight but at ease on the ride, asks, “What if I hear her pray for the plight of innocence and I think it’s about me and not love’s rope and the colours of a heart?” 

The “thing” or “things” in value-pack bags in the artful warp of time like a volcano shooting pebbles, mere pebbles, at the base of my heart but in the likeness of man is Mike from the north and this I know from the murmurings of sea and the night sky. 

Where is the river of my yesterdays?  In the groove on the edge of love’s punishment as yesterday when Sally broke my heart? 

Pat-a-cake; what to pack when love cannot and will not be God, the air, emotion, or a mouse who learnt to shout like the sea when at the limit of endurance?  Rather let me die towards the end of May because life is about hands and perceptions of air when time is my master.

She thought it best to write a note but not me soon into air to ride a cloud like Will-o’-the-Wisp past moving walls when the train has no brakes.  I seek to find vintage wine not the merry minstrels or magicians of the air.  Let nobody say we cannot fly or write a little ditty for light relief from illusive love or only one silly tale for today but not yet because it’s time for Sunday’s story of a ball.

Dear Diary.   In the story of a man and story of a searcher, I would say “so and so” like a swan about love and to love following on dancing with the stars before the swing, slam, dunk, from butterfly wings of once-upon-a-time.  Oh, if I was love like the sea and the sky and not the night from the light!

She asks, “Is this the untitled and unfounded confession of sky, of daisies, or of the “This Is Me” from the inner or the outer because I could wilt like the rabbit and the tortoise?”  “No”, says the queen of the sky in wilful protection.  “This is just my thought for the day because it’s Sunday and the countdown to another Sunday!

There once was … but, no, that’s it!

Helen
6 November 2005
(and that's that - the end of an era)