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!

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!

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”!

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 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!

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 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!