A dip and glide

The book is open today at insight

as the birds claim the glory of sky

and seem to be forcing a look out there

as a turn-away from the knowing.

Yet the knowing follows the need to see

how they dip and glide gloriously free

in the vastness of no limitations

or rules as to how they must be.

Slowly it dawns like day after night

that I too must soar like the birds

un-weighted by the burden of sight

that penetrates all falsities.

And when it is known that a dip and glide

is a personal saving grace

can I say I’m a bird gifted by verse

in claim of the glorious sky?

No, cannot be; we’re all land bound

manipulated sometimes unknowingly

by falsity dressed up as truth

as a means of clipping our wings! 

Original music

For something different and free follow the link below to some original music by Devin Howell.

http://www.devinhowell.com/2013/06/03/winter-rose-live-in-studio-ep/

As gypsies do

That gypsy looked as gypsies do

into the heart of silence

hoping there to see

golden threads of happiness

purported to be real.

Lo/behold, a mass of many colours

starting bold and vibrant

and ending pastel, dull

and she started to unravel

still hoping as all gypsies do.

Not here, not there, but somewhere, yes?

And she looked again as gypsies do

way beyond the pale

and there in quiet repose

cross-legged on the seat of time

sat pure happiness.

What time, what time, she didn’t know

there was no day, month, year

and she returned to move again

from here to there like gypsies do

unfettered and uncluttered.

No golden thread can be entwined

with the bold that turns to pale

but it is there waiting, waiting,

for the sure permanence

of all things combined!

The 16th May

There’s nothing wrong with the 16^th of May

for it did in the past birth a special resolve

but wrapped it up in flesh and bone

before sending it into the world.

There it lived for a number of years

with inklings of the absolute truth

and a sense of all the mystery realms

that intruded into the physical world.

There were times when resolve was strong

but settled back into weak states

seeking there to be like the rest

unknowing, unthinking, unfeeling.

Its façade was broken one day, one day,

but it held on for the lives of them

and pushed against love with all its might

like the drowning would look for air.

So drowns now resolve that sought to be strong

and with flesh and bone weakened by age

it cannot now rise and be counted

as one who bowed to the call.

But not yet dead resolve still lives

in a fantasy world of next time around

seeking solace and comfort in an uncertainty

in attempts to make everything right. 

Oh dear, oh dear, right won’t come again

when wrong has ruled a lifetime!

Hope

And those times of hoping, hoping,

too fluid to remain within

compartments of the mind

trickle down to ground

there to be trodden on

by life’s sheer disdain.

But it is the month of May;

there’ll be no rain today

and consciousness degrees

a time of watering

from now until the summer

brings in the clouds and rain

to flood our hope filled fields

and make them be as if were not.

And if we pack and carry hope

there’ll be a weakening

and down to ground it will fall

and again be no more.

Yet and yet hope can’t be

a discarded entity

and it clings ever steadfastly

to all of the hopeful

until they too fall to ground

and be as if were not.

How stupid, how senseless,

but who can say hope does not

while alive fight to survive?

The lines

In that pit of no-man’s land

he lay as one unconscious of

the hand of love that gentle traced

the lines of bad experiences.

They twisted this way/that

and went beneath the surface of

the certainly most transitory

to disappear and be absorbed

by the real and permanent.

And yet she sought to draw them out

and lay them end to end

so they could shrivel up and die

before the last goodbye.

But the hand of love stopped midway;

only one who lies in that dark pit

can delve and ferret deep, deep, down

for all the lines not suited to

the one beneath the flesh.

So the hand of love off to the side

merely waits with downcast eyes

and one could say she’s praying

and wishing, hoping, needing,

to see before her one fine day

the clean and clear countenance

of one who knew in good time

to make a bonfire of those lines!

Love story?

A thought comes stealthily to mind

not like a thief to steal

but to leave a package bound and wrapped

with remembrances

and a card to say write today

the words of a love story.

And I search the archives of that mind

from the start until today

looking for a grain of truth

to weave the plot around.

I find instead impressions

where once the grains did lie

and know that in the world today

truth has gone awry.

The grains of truth blow o’er the earth

but sometimes, yes, they stop to rest

and show their colours openly

to those who wish to know.

And they can see within that truth

how love can truly be

but before pen’s put to paper

the wind blows yet again.

So of that thought I’m sad to say

its efforts are to no avail

when truth and love caught every day

in the gales of life’s disdain!