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!

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!

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?

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 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!

Technorati Tags: general,poetry

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?

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!

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!

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!

Technorati Tags: inspirational,poetry

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?

Technorati Tags: love,poetry

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!

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!

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?

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.



(Photograph by Frank Bennett, New Zealand)

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!

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!

So says the dream

From within the heartache overspills

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!

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 larger 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!

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!