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!