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!