Sunday, December 30, 2007

Giving up

 The trees are falling one by one
as if they’ve given up
the need and will to stay
in love with mother earth.

Some decide a drawn-out death
of slow and creeping fear
that kills the leaves and trunks
before severing the roots.

I too could fall or suffer more
but the sky like my desire
bears down the sheer enormity
of what I’m hoping for.
It’s blue for me today devoid of obstacles,
tomorrow maybe clouds of fear
will crowd out the beautiful
and bear down hopelessness.
Well so much so for that
because the blue is always there
waiting like a lover
to speak of many things
silently and reverently
by its very presence.
The sky is blue, deep, and new
each time it chooses life
and pity so the trees, you, me,
who think of giving up!

Saturday, December 29, 2007

Some stories can be true but also maybe not

Slowly, slowly coming home
the spirit into man
and smiles a woman so, just so
but in the night she cries
for gone the lost and wandering
that brought love into mind.

And mind unto the body joined
ignites the fire, desire
but she and I watch embers die
for such is life without
the needful spirit heat.

'tis a shame the tears that fall
for the wanting of it all
and the time alone like thunder
rumbles sad within the frame
of that woman holding tightly
to the reins of other times.

I join with her in sympathy
for empathy's too deep
to allow for detachment
and I turn her physically
closer in to home
like I'm a useless trader
selling goods she doesn't want.

So there you are, that's that; she's in but never home
and free to sleep alone
for such is life with the spirit now within
and not wandering about!

Sunday, December 16, 2007

Love and Time

Love leads with a gentle hand
right to the edge of time
where I stand as one in awe
of what is still in store
for it stretches still and further on
than ever thought before.

And too love snatches back again
the vision of it all
to make of mind the searching kind
that ne’er can see or feel again
the immensely beautiful.

Now for life that one true time
makes of itself a mockery
in the hiding and denying
and necessity the thief of time
has stripped that vision clean.

Time, there’s time and still more time
and there is love and still more love
but the once created not ever re-created
unless they stand together
on this precipice called “life”!

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Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Story of a Searcher

Down at the tip of the southern shore where the sea always flows as before the eyes of a searcher look far ahead but soon unwillingly return once again to where she started out from. 

No grain of sand is exempted from the eternal movement of life’s restlessness but she is now anchored and firmly implanted at the point before she so longed for more.

Small puddles of water felt but unseen gather together like a minority group in fear of the onset of more disregard from the high and most powerful will of a mind.
The sun remains full and quite unperturbed, the sky like a model changes shades of blue, and the clouds simply hang unaware and distant as a means of remaining in ignorance. 

The wind once still introduces itself and makes a wild statement of its own importance  in attempts to distract and topple to ground the seriousness of the searcher’s quest.

And the eyes of the searcher flutter then close on the view she perceived beyond the horizon to assist in the machinations of fate and allow for the twist she now has to make.

Her movements are slow, tired to the bone of constantly turning north, east, and west, always searching and needing a good place to rest her beginnings and endings and in between's.

The next step like tomorrow lies in a heat haze and shimmers with mirth till she too has to laugh and she does right there into clear air and the eyes of a woman standing quite near.

But the nameless woman older than she remains in the shadows of insightful dreams knotting and unknotting the cords of a rope in the hope that soon she can fold it away and know love has reclaimed its rightful place.

Two women together will one day recall
that day at the tip of the southern shore
but until then the searcher turns, turns again,
while time runs away to the far corners of earth!

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Thursday, December 6, 2007

The voice of a poet

The voice of a poet soft and dulcet in its tone
or harsh, abrasive, cutting, and reaching to the core,
moves freely like the wind, touching, circulating,
and speaking only, and always, to those who wish to hear.

Ideology, philosophy, wishful thinking, memories,
unsubstantiated dreams, and hopes, wishes, needs,
woven like a tapestry too soon to be outdated
and discarded like a heap of old and musty books.

In a fire of these times volumes and manuscripts
will burn and be forgotten like bodies of the dead
and cynics will grow to outnumber those who know
till all and everything disappears into the air.

How pointless, how degrading, how useless is intent
to expose to the already wise the wisdom of the old
or shine like a star in the path of a blind man
in the knowledge that he has no eyes to see.

And the lilies in the valley, sunsets, mountains, hills,
all viewed and assessed from standpoints of the known
recede into the background as if they don’t exist
like love that is annihilated on human battlegrounds.

Too numerous the setbacks and too far away the moon
to highlight a soul within the shell of flesh
and the voice of a poet disappears into the dust
to be trodden on and crushed by life’s intolerance.

The air once thin, sustaining, grows thick and thicker now
with the absorption of …
simply all and everything!

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

As a river flows

I get the drift, the drift of life, 
and how unperturbed it flows 
directly and determinedly right to the very end.

No rock can bar the way or stand up to the force 
of unrelenting movements towards extermination 
of our once-upon-a-times.

Some may pause at the bank 
to feel again the wonder 
of days spent in the sun 
and bask in a re-run of what once was meaningful
but even those lucky few soon lose their desperate hold 
as the current of time overpowers feebleness 
and returns unto itself the power to decide 
each and every fate.

As a river wends its way through mountains, valleys, dales,
to finally arrive at the waiting sea
so each and every life force dances little jigs
through events and circumstances
until it’s merely vapour in in an occasional thought
soon too to disappear like a river into sea.

And there’s no river to be seen in the hungry jaws of sea
by future generations standing on the shore
and yet we’re all embroiled in life’s amazing travesty
so passionately playing at ...
being meaningful.

Would that there could be an appearance of thought forms 
to tell the “why” and “what for” 
of flowing speedily 
towards a state of being ...
completely meaningless!

Monday, December 3, 2007

Left, right, behind

There could be rain today falling on my window pane
and lightening in the sky because of love’s denial
and there could be thunder rumbling like a deep heartache
if I was asleep to the spirit in your keep.

There, you see, in the mind where memory abides
I feel but cannot see who stands left, right, behind,
the body beautiful of one who claims a name
but disowns the unseen fibres of inheritance.

There none the less like a shimmering heat haze
he dances in the spotlight of eternal grace
and infuses my brain with the meaningful
not meant to be known to any but the soul.

‘Tis a mixing up of real/unreal into a witches broth
that bubbles need and boils desire into the atmosphere
there silently to lie until moonlight bids goodbye
and the sun no longer rises in accordance with the times.

Left, right, behind, and there’s a smile within that mystery
because amazing grace effectively hides his given face
and who can not applaud such incredible dexterity
that keeps him hip-hopping a lifetime out of reach.

There could be rain tomorrow because now I choose to sleep!

Friday, November 30, 2007

Fish in the sea

I see how they live in the sea where they’re free,
a community born of a deep consciousness
bound in a school and kept always together
by love or a purpose instilled in their brains.

If I reach down to touch, they scamper away
afraid, I would say, of something unknown
or of shadows cast cover their claimed terrain
or fear of betrayal from a human hand.

As fish in the sea perhaps we are scared
to reach out and touch what we cannot see
in fear of reprisals or what may befall
should we be aware of life’s mystery.

Yet deep consciousness belongs to us all
and binds man to man with connecting lines
but dropped in the middle of free hungry needs
we proceed to live as an island, I fear.

As fish in the sea swim close to the shore
and enable the blind to see how to be,
how many believe God brings to us too
the means and the way to live better today?

Be it me or the fish, or a lover, a wish,
be it hope or a dream or only a thought,
it’s all meant to be the beginning of change
and we have the means of making it be!

Saturday, November 24, 2007


Love is low, deep down low, where it’s always been
trying hard to rise above stacked up disregard
and mountainous piles of inconsequential junk
to land in the awareness of the disadvantaged.

But there’s trouble in the camp of this gypsy clan
who thirsty search for water in another’s field
and make up the loving from an overflow
un-contained within by he who dug the well.

Yet be it not a sad, sad, tale of doomed to be a fool
because overflows like rain on seeds can produce a tree
and shade the path of he who walks aloof and alone
up and down, up and down, in the same old-fashioned way.

But to hold and keep forever the times of being deprived
makes nonsense of a mind’s inbuilt override
and grants regal status to sensory impulses
implanted and connected by the uninformed.

All it takes is a firm stand in one state of being
for the disadvantaged to grow tall stately trees
but until love rises up from the deep down depths
the drip and drop from overflows makes a lover, see?

Thursday, November 22, 2007

The fuss-fuss dance

When time decrees the merge of soul
into what the people know
there begins a fuss-fuss dance
with stubborn hands on hips
but slowly, slowly, comes the slide
down along each side
and so bends the soul into a bow
of complete acquiescence.

It’s easier, you see, to bend into the known
and be as one deprived of insight into source
than stand a pillar fortified by intuitive knowledge
brought up from the depths of soul’s watering hole.

But soul undaunted rises up again and again
until the stretch and bend begets no happiness
and soul sinks into the centrefold
of the discarded and rejected.

Stay, stay, and flesh pleads like a beggar
but learns the moves nonetheless
of the fuss-fuss dance
and slides the hands according to
soul’s continual rise and fall.

Ha! ‘tis just a dance of chance;
a chance to be and then not be
as well and truly made!

Sunday, November 11, 2007

The aperture between

From snapshots to a movie screen
and that’s how love can grow
when hope o’er lays our yesterdays
and projects them into dreams.

From winter into spring
and that’s how love can move
into the aperture between
dreams and reality.

But that aperture between
like an unfulfilled sea
rocks the boats, normality
and conformity
until a mind like the shore
stretches comfortably at ease
along the length and breadth
of what it can believe.

And I believe that sea is me
in wilful rock of boats
because screened today within
love’s sure but slow progress
from first sight unto forever.

Do not disturb this woman, please;
the end’s still a mystery!

Thursday, November 8, 2007

Sparks of brilliance

A golden nugget buried low
beneath a false veneer
flashes sparks of brilliance
into the atmosphere
and these combine, entwine,
with sunshine on the rise
to make of every brand new day
a time to breathe and feel
alive to possibilities.

They parade upon the stage
of what could maybe be
if the shell from which they came
moved forward into more
and I watch enthralled and awed
until twilight time closes gates
and locks them back inside.

The source of them sad sometimes
yet welcomes home again
each and every spark that died
while trying to catch the eyes
because wisdom knows another day
begets another rise
of brilliant possibilities.

But the golden nugget not perturbed
because the burning spark of love
enflames a mind with soul’s designs
from the safety of within
and wise the one who sets an eye
on a spark that never dies!

Wednesday, November 7, 2007

Village of Humanity

In a village of humanity where the children all grow old
double-sided rainbows weren’t expected every day
but suddenly in awe the inhabitants looked up
and radiated energy pulled the sky down to ground.

Blanketed in blue and shades of other hues
the energy confined boiled over into crime
and the mothers, fathers, children,
as one became unglued
from a value system and the merit of kinship.

Up and out they struggled one by one alone to find
the earth no longer stable had become a rolling ball
from which they fell and tumbled into a foreign mode.

In adjusting to the temperature and the intensity of change
love became as water free flowing down a drain
and collected in deep pools beneath the earth’s crust.

There it bubbled, boiled, and today it bubbles, boils,
denied full release into the atmosphere
but through the hues of sky and me it erupts occasionally
and sends boulders, pebbles, rocks, flying everywhere.

Catch them … but they can’t
for love and foreign modes
are and will remain

Tuesday, November 6, 2007

Simple Simon

(It simply must be time for a little bit of nonsense)

Simple Simon clapped his hands on the way to going mad and said, “Don’t you know, my dear?  It’s really very clear. There’s an extra strand of DNA messing with my brain.”

So turned the one who didn’t know a brighter shade of pale because openings are none when always closed to love.

Perturbed she went a-scratching.  Nothing, nothing! Down she went right to the very core and, lo behold, a little gem lay nestled in the middle of confusion.

“Ah-ha”, she said happily.  "It's a little lump entrenched” and she wondered what would be if she could set it free. Simple Simon looked amazed.  “Don’t, don’t, you dare! It’s a strand, you know, not a lump you should be looking for.”

She scratched again a little more.  Maybe something strange from a long ago misty morn crept in with the breath and brought everything together but even then and there she knew the lump was love bound and tethered inwardly by another strand of DNA.

Simple Simon clapped his hands. “Tell me, tell me, please” and she stood a moment longer in that 
intensely beautiful and vibrantly alive brighter shade of pale before turning back into one who didn’t know.

She left him then standing there a simple man with love and she wondered if in years to come she’d miss her DNA given freely to ensure love doesn’t come undone.

Simple Simon clapped his hands ~ as he damn well should!

Saturday, November 3, 2007

The waves of time

Restless now the waves of time
seeking so to make it known
it’s moving quicker to the start
of new and better days.

I wait a woman humbled by
this flow of desperate means
that brings within a need
to know where I’m going to.

But silence follows all my days
and shadows me at night
to make it seem I’m cut adrift
from my destiny.

To ask of time is not to get
for who can speak to one not fixed
within a limited concept
but always I’m in sync with time
and restless toss until I find
I’m in the new and better!

Friday, November 2, 2007

Purporting to be real

Higher, higher, higher, where broken dreams can’t go
and I find I have no wings folded in my will
to overcome the memory of emotive love.

Run, run, run away, to where the ocean roams
but the river is in me and I carry memories
in the current of my feel.

Too long, too long, this corridor of dreams
purporting to be real
but death of flesh and bone no mercy for the soul
destined to rise and run beyond horizons of the sun.

Sad and lonely is the river
meandering through dreams
and losing force and volume
to life’s everyday demands
purporting to be real.

Spun and tossed in rapids of purported truths …
and still the river flows!

Wednesday, October 31, 2007

In Africa, South Africa

In Africa, South Africa, inhabitants bend low
and run indoors for safety from the pelting rain
but after the turn-off the sun shines down again
and we forget the trauma of sodden outerwear.

In Africa, South Africa, we simply must forget
for remembrances produce a long-term problem
and it costs everyone about twenty-years of life
when empathy in full swing slashes at a heart.

In Africa, South Africa, there are broken down trucks
and the traffic lights are out when energy is shed
but when the local commentator says to turn around
there is plain and simply nowhere else to go.

In Africa, South Africa, we’ve got the bigger things
like crime escalation and credit providers
but when we talk retirement we look at the crossroads
in the distance small with non-existent signs.

It’s a land of milk and honey; everyone is milked
and the honey bottled lest we become too sweet
but everything is charged at current standard rates
and we pay, pay, pay, to help the people pray!

Monday, October 29, 2007

Centre aligned

The midday report can’t speak of a dream
or announce a most beautiful love
and the world at six by omission
embeds the idea of denial.

And welcome to the eight o’clock news
that word by word encourages crime
to bang the nails into dream chests
and bury what really could be.

I thrive on attention and crime’s the same
but my numbers are small if any at all
compared to the many and too many
focused today on everything bad.

Newspapers imprint my hands with ink
and o’er lay my mind with dirt
but to turn the page of a dream
repeats the previous ecstasy.

I hold now the dream centre aligned
for the left and right but human rebuff
of what could and really should be!

Sunday, October 28, 2007

Who writes?

Seconds, minutes, hours,
and time merges them together
until day gives way to night
and I walk the shadowed halls
of each weakness I possess.

Night comforts and caresses
like a lover’s gentle hands
and I stir within a dream
frightened there to see
love walks a lonely path
beyond my mental feel.

Wakeful now, aware,
but dreaming still I see
the coming in of loneliness
and I suffocate.

“Breathe”, she says,
and I listen to the gurgle
of one by love possessed
rise up and out in agony
into the still and silent night.

Dramatic for effect
and I read the words, reflect;
who writes the pain and heartache
of unrequited love?

Thursday, October 25, 2007

At the edge of need

At the edge of a need the sea waits patiently
for my approach and encroach into the world of feel
like love on the perimeter of innate desire
lingers around the will of stubborn minds.

A carpet of green and tall stately trees,
in the distance a shadow; perhaps it is me
mathematically challenged but counting memories
and preserving or discarding for the sake of harmony.

But I’m only a one in life’s long domino line 
on shaky ground susceptible to a change of mind
unless I walk the path marked “Intuition’s Way” 
through the hills and dales of my African days.

And led that way by need I entered into feel
disruptive, confusing, yet plain and simply me
receiving and perceiving lasting emotive facts
tied in little bundles concise and compact.

The mathematically challenged yet can count on feel
though perhaps it leads astray for the sake of harmony!

Wednesday, October 24, 2007

The Murmurings of Sea

In pitiful plea the murmurs of sea
rise up from the roar of tumultuous storms
with a need to now find wisdom from fear,
love from no love, and compassion from tears,
until like a queen revered and admired.

One a cliff looking down and back long ago
there still is a smile and forever blue eyes
dedicated to love’s most timely dismissal
of the madness surrounding soul loneliness.

Across and around, all spirit lands aside,
there flows a memory stream of pure ecstasy
but clarity and truth, mummies bound to secrecy
on the sea’s rolling move towards royalty.

Soft murmurs of the sea and there is no reward
if a plea like a bird flies overhead unheard
but I listen and can hear from a whisper to a scream
the words and intent of sea’s pitiful lament.

She says this and that – did you know it is a fact
that women and the sea interchange and interact?

Monday, October 22, 2007

The eyes of a woman

No eyes but the eyes of a woman in love
can flaunt the passion of sky
and shed tears like an innocent child
at the beauty of love’s honesty.

If I had the eyes of a woman in love
I could speak of the power they hold
to see through time, distance, and space,
and know of all things beautiful.

If I had the eyes, if I had the eyes …
oh, if we all had the eyes!

Sunday, October 21, 2007

One last flickering fire

In form like the sun’s rise before fall
she dreams of love’s fire licking at sky
and dances her heart, openly, unafraid,
like a passionate gypsy on a hot summer’s night.

“Come! Feel the burn of this energy!”
she sings to no one and to everyone
as her body in sync with involuntary action
gyrates to the beat of mystical tunes.

The air opens up like a fabled cave
to the heat of desire and need of release
until precious gold and sovereigns of old
become useless tender to the sensitive.

The fire, the fire, one last flickering fire,
forever burns love as a symbol of wealth
when earth meets sky in explosive delight
somewhere over there beyond her foresight.

She’s a lady, a woman, an angel, you/me,
imbued with love’s feel and in motion to be
a second string bow to the masculine soul
like sun is to sky when earth turns to fire!

Thursday, October 18, 2007

Winter to summer

Winter’s sleeping death will pass like birds in flight
migrating to a warmer place to review its past mistakes
but in the time of ice and snow no blade of grass will stir,
no thunder split the air nor water flood the lakes.

September heralds spring when birds return again
and when gardens of hope renew eternal vows
but new flowers always grow as if they already know
they’re born anew into a world not ever seen before.

And fragile roots in soil abused need courage to sustain
their joy and optimism as they bow to nature’s laws
but in the law of seasons love repeats its endless call
and shows us passion’s glory in vibrant coloured fields.

Spring to summer glory, autumn, winter, then again,
turns within the wheel of a life that we perceive
but true eternal love which never ceases or begins
escapes attention of a mind that really can’t believe.

I believe and always will for truth lives deep inside
waiting quiet and silent through life’s cold winter years
but when I welcome spring and summer says it’s here,
my spirit dances with the stars in God’s own atmosphere!

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Wednesday, October 17, 2007

What is love?

The gifted, the wise, the pastors, the wives,
the noblemen, preachers, and poor humble beings,
turn feelings to words in attempts to describe
the emotion of love, if there such a thing be.

Not gifted or wise, no longer a wife,
I stumble through love with the pen of my mind.

It’s lacking in substance and cannot be seen
yet in the market it barters a give and take fee
but the fee is a feeling exchanged for free
so it could be construed as an invalid deal.

Too it is given with no earthly reward
so the gold in our hearts must be ill gotten gains
and the castles it builds are made out of air
so, therefore, love’s castles are not meant to be.

It doesn’t have legs to cross the divide
between mother earth and heavenly sky
so it’s surely not love when we think we see stars.

If love is the greatest, who taught it to play
sweet lilting music to which we all sway?

Its mission I’ll say, but then won’t deny it,
is to find a “something” that’s missing inside us
but whichever, however, it destructs if ignored
and, therefore, must be as if it was not.

What is love? It’s a thought, an idea, a wishing to be,
a prayer, a hope, and the longing in me,
but if one day it knocked, would I even know?
Would you?

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Monday, October 15, 2007

Reality is born

Reality is born from integrated minds
in eager response to energetic growth
and experimental life its enlightenment.

I, the forsaken, vehicle of all knowing and vessel of emotion,
provide the tuck and stitch for reality’s survival
while threads of personality entwined and combined
lend authenticity to its existence.

Reality’s obedience to mind’s every whim,
no rarity on earth or unusual occurrence,
exceeds and goes beyond normal expectation
and bears well the fruit of experimental labours.

Too I’m called to obey, lift arms to love and hate,
and embrace pain’s embarrassment
as substantiating evidence
of regenerating power.

Time and reality still eons apart
force me to inculcate, assimilate, disperse,
fragmented elements of each experiment
as if I was a mailman on duty every day.

But when the children stop midway
and the circle of life remains a static sphere
then time has caught up with the reality of love
and no man can ignore or indeed put asunder
that most amazing creation of integrated minds!

Sunday, October 14, 2007

Selfish needs

From the pillow of a million sleeps
and the bed of unawareness
the newly born and fragile
awakes to a different world.

‘Tis the babe of selfish needs
that kicks at swaddling clothes
and bares its naked body
to the element of mind
sitting like a regal queen
on the throne of fiscal truths.

But a baby; oh, this baby cries
deep behind the eyes of life
that too long has numbed the will
to arise and walk
and the queen nods knowingly
but unsympathetically.

Hush, hush, little one,
it’s just the awful agony
of unrequited love
that makes you vulnerable
to an inner need
but I rule this kingdom mightily
with my money studded sword
so sleep, little baby, sleep
from now until forever.

And the babe of selfish needs
kicks restlessly in sleep!

Friday, October 12, 2007

Preparing to exit

Heartache and woe line passageways
when preparing to exit the common place
and debark at the station of grace
but I promise a pianist of note,
a drummer and trumpet player,
and a woman beside the river
of what has always been.

Clouds will desert this new playing field
and leave the sun clear to shine
like a symbol of love’s ever true heat
joining at last two separate parts.

The sky will be blue, the purest of blue,
like soul in its final renewal
and the wind of trust in its infancy
will determine a speedy growth.

And he who lies down in surrender
yet stands like a victor and champion
on the pedestal of love’s promise
to forgive and forget past waywardness.

This is the plan on the draft board of soul
or in the dreams of a woman I know
and I look out there, way out there …
and don’t you just simply love it
when a plan comes together?

Wednesday, October 10, 2007

The halo of love

As the future gets less
the past is more blessed
though haloes are hard to find
amongst the artefacts unearthed
from the corners of a mind.

I only need one to fit above love
and I know it is here somewhere
wrapped in the mohair of tenderness
and packed in a solid gold heart.

I wore it one time as a once off affair
but it slipped like a disc
from the spine of goodness
and leaked from the inner out.

It happens like that when life has its way
because how stupid today to wear a halo
but to remember the best when the future is less
polishes to a glorious shine
the much too long neglected.

The halo of love; an artefact, yes,
but a treasure that lasts beyond death ~
and I know it is here somewhere!

Tell it to the sky

Fly, fly, little one – tell it to the sky
and find comfort in the arms
of one who understands
it’s a question of perception
of reality.

The rock could be me and the sea the need of love 
to chip away relentlessly at incorrect beliefs 
or I could be the sea moulding and arranging 
the features of my soul.

Either way I’m changing, receiving, letting go, 
opening and closing like the come and go of waves 
while still remaining steadfast 
on the sand of mother earth.

But I age and shrink my bones 
like rocks pummeled by the sea 
until internal energy has no more need of flesh 
and escapes into the atmosphere 
of prepared future roles.

And the sea? That too is me avowing my stability 
though I be embroiled in the ebb and flow of life 
bringing in and taking back my innate belief 
in the permanence of love.

Fly, fly, little one – tell it to the sky
but the sky understands the laws of dualism
in force and relevant until it’s necessary
to unite and create a different perception
of reality!

Tuesday, October 9, 2007

It's meant

I am a powerhouse of love
reduced to lighting soul
and not the full magnitude
of what life is meant to hold.

It’s meant to hold you loving me
to each and every day create
a beautiful eternity
where two in one remember
love’s physical enchantment.

It’s meant to hold the simple things
like a goodnight promise
to awaken to a morning smile
from the moment of beginning
right up until the end.

Life is meant to hold
but it doesn’t till we know!

Sunday, October 7, 2007

So says the dream

From within the heartache over-spills
and cuts grooves within contentment
to make of volcanoes matchbox toys
lined up for keen inspection
for nought can equal or outmatch
the energetic free-fall force
of a woman’s tears.

But pooled within and confined
behind barriers of maturity
they call forth a brighter, hotter, sun
into the deep interior
where it shrivels heart to matchstick parts
before the moon is nigh.

And sadly earth’s the counterpart
of all the matchstick men/women
weeping, keeping, negativity
as fuel for the fire
of earth’s will to die.

So says the dream that never reveals
how to be joyful in sorrow!

Thursday, October 4, 2007

An artist on a wire

An artist on a wire closed his eyes, said a prayer,
and heard the voice of love calling from the side.
Softly, sweet, meek and mild, the agenda of a soul
reverberated and filled up the tent of human lives.

From the ground music loud with worldly cares
pounded through a brain the need to turn away
and back track to the safety of insignificance
in the moving picture beyond the flapping door.

Eyes wide unseeing, faces blank unfeeling,
many lives awaiting the pleasure of demise,
waved a needy hand and sucked in energy
until the artist teetered on the edge of sanity.

How clever in disguise is the mass of humankind
how artfully they dance to tunes of poor, diseased,
begging, calling, pity me, forsake your future life
and stay, return again, forever more, amen.

The artist couldn’t see behind the eyes of need,
couldn’t read the questions meant to test a soul,
and so the voice of love once heard departed sad
to watch and wait silently from the far away outside.

An artist on a wire closed his eyes, said a prayer,
to stay, go back, or walk, and I too closed my eyes!

The sea moves

Seen by many, known by none,
and weighted down with love
sea moves like twilight time
into the dark interior.

Though devils trash good hope
and scatter broken leftovers
along the channel preordained
to bring truth into reality
she holds steady to the course.

But the channel is her plight
for it gathers in the negative
until her determined mindful force
slams into the obstacles
and clears the passageway.

Sea moves like an open mind
and rolls with every punch
to safeguard her cargo, love
through the treacheries of life
until on a foreign shore
she disembarks it all!

Wednesday, October 3, 2007

The mind of a woman

The mind of a woman
like a pendulum
sways between pencil
and pen and ink entries
in her journal of awareness.

Not too far away
the eraser of hope
lies in Cheshire cat repose
in anticipation
of a summons to perform
whilst the ruler of reality,
smug in own importance,
knows soon it must decree
the drawing of a line
underneath a dream.

The rain falls today; it must be the rain
for it’s outside and not in 
like distant fellowship with the pain of love.

Drops of water mar her view, sun mingles with the gray,
and she is kept within encouraged by the chill
to pick up pen and ink or similes of them,
erase what cannot be, and rule off happiness.

The mind of a woman has lost the beat of time
but the tools of moving on pitter patter in her brain
when the rain falls ...
outside and not in!