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!

Technorati Tags: Inspirational,poetry

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!

Moving on

There comes a time of crossing

from the old into the new

and this tightrope high above the will

dares a first uncertain step.

 

From behind the sadness of “goodbye”

halts the hesitant

but the call of “Come and finish it”

moves a lover finally

into a void of detachment.

 

Able then to be like a bird it seems to me she spreads her wings and flies from the past of her desire into the future of a life minus the things that last.

But she can’t nest and procreate undying happiness when the twigs don’t fit and intertwine into the newness of a mind grown and expanded so long ago behind.

 

‘tis the moving on that is required and though she wobbles on the brink

of what she does not want she succumbs to the call

and folds her need of more to the side of her lifetime.

 

 

 

 

It’s not the wind you hear,

it’s not the rain that falls,

and it’s not the thunder roaring

high up in the sky!

 

 

 

 

  (Photograph by Frank Bennett, New Zealand)

Technorati Tags: General,poetry

 

 

 

 

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.

(Photograph by Gareth Howell)

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”!

Technorati Tags: General,poetry

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 betweens.



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.

(Photograph by Frank Bennett, New Zealand)

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!

Technorati Tags: General,poetry

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!

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 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!

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!