Tuesday, December 30, 2008

The fall and climb

How fragile the edge of this life and times
to crumble at thoughts of needs and desires
and drop the people from stability
into the arms of possibility.

And in those depths of possibility
there’s a view past normality
and the vision lands for a fraction or more
on what can be that was never before.

But to hold that vision forever in mind
blinds men and women to this life and times
and imposes a walk unsteady and slow
until the heart no longer grows.

So climbs a woman, you, me, and all
back up from a need, desire, and more
till bruised and battered we again stand
firm and upright upon the land.

The edge, the edge, I know how it calls
all who desire the “not ere before”
and I mourn that fall weightless and free
into the arms of possibility!

Thursday, December 25, 2008


She lingered longer in a state of eternal grace
where love exchanged on platforms high above the ground
till thunder, lightening, and the storm of forceful intent
sent her searching for a hiding place amongst the race of men.

She found a place between the walls of what the people know
and settled well into the mould of spiritual withdrawal
where love a thing apart from the forging of a path
towards the treasure chest of things not made to last.

Time closed the circle, cut the cords, and set the people free
and she was one let loose from the many man-made oracles
made to bind the soul and force the flesh to wither so
under the full impact of sheer ignorance.

Once free she found the force of love pulled her up above
and the platform there as once before welcomed her desire
but for all the free who seek release betwixt the lines of time
there’s a price to pay for violating the first rule of intent.

But the first rule of intent like the air she breathes
in and out to not remain and make its presence known!

Wednesday, December 24, 2008

The ghost

‘tis the ghost of times long past
that haunts this present human state
and flits like thoughts and feelings
within and round about
the all and everything of life.

I know it’s here when I am here
and there when I am there
and I would shake, rattle, and roll
this attachment from my life
if I were a one to be
unmindful of that state of grace.

And in that state love hovers so
within or on the outskirts of
my experiences
and though I seek the knife, scalpel,
that cuts through energy
I find that none exists.

There is no mortal man-made tool
that severs who I am from you
but ‘tis the “I” of transience
that seeks to touch again the face
of love’s now earthly form.

And so I touch when I am here
to find again the same as there
but ‘tis known in circles of the wise
that ghosts are ghosts, times past are past,
and the haunted remain haunted
until, until, until …
well, until I am detached.

Wednesday, December 17, 2008

Christmas trees

If there's magic in a Christmas tree,
how more so in you and me
but baubles, beads, attract the eye
and not what's down inside.

So it is then how it's got to be;
I sparkle not nor glitter
and that's because, I'm not, you see,
tied to a Christmas tree.

And because I can't see down inside
I do not know to what I'm tied
and so the glint and gleam once bright
disappears into this life.

Yet and yet there's something there
that shines through the veil of time
and I guess it simply has to be
the free to be both you and me
who left in part, returned in heart,
and reclaimed the glow of love.

But meanwhile we have Christmas trees
to attract the eye and make us sigh
for all we are down deep inside
not seen or known this mortal life!

Friday, December 12, 2008

The pain of loss

Even that which we have will be taken away
and it's like nothing ever is meant to stay
and the moon tonight full in the sky
can't compensate for the pain I imbibe.

But ne'er is it swallowed and gone like the moon
when sun rises up to declare a new day
for it sits like a boulder, a rock, pebble stone,
that never breaks up with the force of sheer will.

And the will is inside fighting demons of loss
with the tools of the trade grown blunt with old age
and yet with the toil and sweat of endeavour
one day it will wear the crown of victory.

It will glitter and sparkle as crowns always do
but the wearer with eyes not attuned to the view
will appear as one down hearted and bent
until she steps out and looks from afar.

From a distance she'll see gold and silver
streaked with rubies and emeralds of love
but tonight when the moon is full in the sky
she cries for the will not yet crowned.

One day, one day; how many days
for sheer will to defeat heartache?

Wednesday, December 10, 2008

Beyond the limits

Beyond the limits of a mind
a mystic one with love abides
and at a whim moves you and me
betwixt, between, true ecstasy.

From there to here; what do I fear
robed and anointed with my tears
restrained on this unstable ground
in spirals spinning down, down, down?

And life's unending turn from love;
who stands behind this daily shove
that lands you/me distant, apart,
from an immense and fulsome heart?

Beyond the limits I declare
a merchant gathers up my prayers
like winter hoards for warmer days
sun's truly awesome summer rays.

And there they lie in endless sleep
beyond the limits of my keep!

Monday, December 8, 2008

Love's empathy

I may be following or perhaps ahead
but I'm here, always here, and not yet dead
to the birth of heartache in one not yet of age.

The young and the old; how special the day
when love paves the way for the sharing of pain
and as empathy joins two breaking hearts
the bond between souls is confirmed and defined
and remains forever inviolate.

The physical showing of love's empathy
in the touching of arms, bodies, cheeks, tears,
lights a candle beneath the healing process
and lays a foundation for honesty's growth.

But to be like a man on the sidelines withdrawn
from the cause and effect of it all
leads only to isolation and no true company
in the forever and permanent world
of the spirit community ...
perceived to be real by the magic in me!

Sunday, December 7, 2008

An artist on a wire

An artist on a wire closed 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 eyes, said a prayer,
to stay, go back, or fly, and I too closed my eyes!

Tuesday, December 2, 2008

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, hopes, wishes, and desires,
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's 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!

Saturday, November 29, 2008

A little ditty

There once was a lady called Dawn
who arose with a stretch and a yawn.
She looked to the left and thought it was best
to disappear to another love nest.

But that was then when men were men
and the spirits came down from heaven
to share for a time two bodies on fire
and know of this thing called life.

Now, the devils and demons as we all know
haven't yet learnt to go slow
so they dreamt a dream inside of just one
and framed it in gold like the sun.

They hung it, they did, in the heart of Dawn
and dusted it off with feathers and all
to tickle the fancy of her many parts
and send her in search of a loving heart.

Dawn found a heart like an almond tart
but that was only the start
for there was a soul so mournfully low
that she said, "Pack them both up to go".

And now in these days of pay, pay, pay,
Dawn has no earthly say
whether to eat or sink to her feet
because the spirits, you know, are free
to arise with a stretch and a yawn
and fly into the golden dawn!

Friday, November 28, 2008

That lingering rhythm

That lingering rhythm of love's evensong
releases the angel and demon of dreams
and so complex in nature is this combination
that feet pound the road with all we can own
in attempts to outwit the haunting.

They follow like shadows; they are shadows
shackled and tied to a mortal life
but one day an angel, one day a demon,
twirls and whirls mind's many thoughts
into a knot at the back of a head.

Of course there's a breeze to blow it all free
and serenity after the storm
to debate the merits and demerits
of running away staid and sedate
to a tune that demands a wiggle.

Time forces, you see, the forgetting of moves
to the thump and bump of angelic views
within the sphere of demonic release ~
and that's okay except for the song,
that haunting, haunting, song,
that follows the hands of time
till on the point of demise.

And then, and then, one stroke after then,
the lingering haunt of memory!

Thursday, November 27, 2008

A season of reality

It's not the ghost of fantasy
lost and lonely wandering
but a season of reality
getting ready so to pounce
on the vulnerable.

I flex with the knowing
and stand naked and unveiled
in this moment's grief
so contrary to the pose
of a woman with a dream.

Time beckons all into the fold
of waking up, it seems
for dreams are only pauper's gold
of little worth and value
in the soon to be new order
which, of course, has always been.

I once was blind but now I see,
I once had hope but now believe
I and you and them and they
are pawns of reasoning
dangling like the dead
on strings of convenience.

So I dangle, dangle, cavort, dance,
but tip-toe round a heart
for it's right and proper, true, correct,
that heart can sever ties
with the blink of loving eyes!

Sunday, November 23, 2008


He left her like a bride at the altar of desire
to blindly follow footsteps of a human fool
and then she knew of heartache
emanating from a level
previously denied
the consciousness of brides.

But that was then and now today
she remembers how it was
when first she knew of him
faceless and unseen
yet known to be as one
timelessly entwined
with the spirit of her love.

She called him near in dead of night
to lift the clouds of her despair
and she travelled many miles to be
in the centre of his being
till finally she knew at last
even conscious brides
must forego desire.

She lives today with that heartache
like a pall o'er happiness
detached like a press-stud
from its other half
but when she succumbs
to the memory of then
she's known to be the cliff
o'er which the river flows!

Saturday, November 22, 2008

Deep in the beat

Dreams speak of a greater fear;
is there love in the atmosphere
or simply molecular dust
strumming the beat of lust
in trial and test of human fools
stuck in a modern day groove?

Deep in the beat no dancing life
can two-time a mystical mind
or side step possessed duality
in the swing and sway of light energy
unbound by the laws of attrition
in this period of transition.

One, two, three, and something new
disturbs the rhythm and blues
and the "pretty/pretty" dancer in me
surrenders into a scream
the past offbeat and lustful tunes
played to death by tenuous views.

Come drummer, guitarist, singer of soul,
and the dancer is cast a lonesome role
in love's amazing but easy quickstep
because no one can quicken footsteps
when heart in slow-time decides
to deny love's ardent desire.

Thus to life and the music unheard;
the lustful dance undeterred
misses love's corners and bends
in the throes of modern day trends
and the dancer bows out defeated,
her energy now depleted!

Thursday, November 20, 2008

Many a day

It's been many a day since stories were told of how the young and the old passed each other midway for the old held their secrets sealed up inside and the young too excited forgot to ask why.

The old went up, the young went down and landed, I bet, in the middle of town and so it was done, God loved everyone, but he too had secrets locked up inside in case the young refused to become pawns on the everyday board of his inexplicable plan. So to children he gave only half of a brain, the other half buried too deep to be found, and he watched and he waited, smiled, cried in pain, but always believed they'd come home again.

Life was good for little children unable to see above their head height and the maneuvers and movements of perceived adulthood of no consequence in their frantic rush to quickly grow up. The children then grew new hairstyles and frowns and walked in the shadow of their former selves while the adults tried hard to remember the rules and find again the meaning of life hidden somewhere beyond failing eyesight.

Some found it, they did, and smiled for awhile until a spider came down and frightened it out. Some thought it was cool to rule like a fool while others refused to accept a new view and they all together as one became old.

The children now older but not yet too old changed the face of the earth as they're prone to do and made everything ready and waiting for a brand new intake of young. And these young ones passed the old on the way but not once in the passing did they exchange views or offer advice and it's a bother to me why they weren't ever told that they would land here with a part missing from brain.

I think it's the middle between the two sides were secrets are kept like treasures unfound but it could be the top, the bottom, the sides, because wisdom, you know, moves around all the time - and through time and with time.

And if I should pass the young on the way I too won't speak for I wouldn't know how until I have landed in some other place and grown a new style in accordance with mind.

I maybe have found a miniscule part of that half of my brain hidden somewhere down deep but, yes, that's right, a spider came down and frightened it out. The spider's name? I'm surprised that you've asked because, of course, we all call it "life"!

Sunday, November 9, 2008

The search for understanding

In a search for understanding
true harmony is lost
between the real intrinsic self
and this temporal state.

It's like the mind chooses denial
of its innate stretch and reach
for as it seeks to know the route
and how the roads criss-cross
it lands within a ditch
of only its five senses.

And in this ditch it's like a frog
in jump in/out of self
to land again, again, again,
on good old mother earth
and croak unsynchronized
with the truth of who it is.

Ordained perhaps for frogs, you/me,
because we can't walk on air
or be sustained and fortified
by the sense of an invisible
energetic flow
that neither holds nor strokes, touches,
the body beautiful.

But frogs don't cry, they don't lie,
frogs are happy, yes?

Friday, November 7, 2008

Shattered dreams

I dreamt in the days before love took form
and proceeded to break and shatter them all
and they litter the floor still awaiting a bend
in acknowledgement of the now state of them.

Tomorrow perhaps when the body undone
from the bone and muscle that keeps it upright
the pieces that lie at the base of a life
will be as dust discarded and gone.

And then, and then, no need to bend
and a woman, a man, can know of no trial
that forced them to kneel and sweep to the side
the broken and shattered dreams of the time.

They lie silent and seemingly dead to the turn
of one who now knows to overstep love
but always a step too large for the frame
can topple a steadfast and steady resolve.

Knowing that, knowing that, it's like I can be
a bubble that floats ever nonchalantly
above the now shattered and spent
many, so many, remembered dreams.

But bubbles ... oh, damn, they're so very fragile
and don't know how to align themselves
with steel inlaid concreted balls
that roll over love as if not even there.

And the drawing board calls to creative endeavour
but I know I'm the board, the creative, and all
that ensures safe passage over shattered dreams!

Saturday, November 1, 2008

At the beginning

It was at the beginning that sea touched on shore
like a woman  unsure of her sex appeal
and the shore did not recoil or think then to move
until the sea withdrew as time and tide decreed.

And by this same decree the sea returns again
to assess the state of nature since last she knew of it
but the shore for many years has lain comatose
absorbing air, dispensing it, and dead to the world.

The world meanwhile has succumbed to history
that decrees another war, another shift and crack
and another upheaval of what was solid, sure,
and still the shore sleeps as before.

And by this same decree the sea has too succumbed
to history's penchant for repeating itself
but ‘tis not a free will choice to replicate the past
and experience again the very same outcome.

But, tra-la-la, the sea moves on, the shore sleeps as before,
and air does its magic trick of keeping the dead alive
for ‘tis nature's decree that a state remains a state
from that time of the beginning until the very end.

So know this now; there's no escaping history
until within a movement starts that grows to overtake
the  dictates of the past
but better really just to say
until the sea and shore unite!

Thursday, October 30, 2008

The river and the stone

It's the season now of melt down
and even solid ice must know
to thaw the edges of withdrawal
and bring the inner out.

But I'm not ice; I'm just a "me"
who melted into love
and seek still now to find the air
though yet I breathe in/out.

I remain like stone immovable
from the point of my descent
but that is not unusual
for one who knows to stay
faithful to the spirit
that flows within unseen.

But you, the one who doesn't know,
aligns with rivers everywhere
and that's not bad except you stay
stuck within the banks of time
unmindful of the need
to escape imprisonment.

So the faithful and the unfaithful
commune on common ground
together but so far apart
that the chasm never crossed.

This chasm broadens every day
and it's like it has to be
to dislodge the stone from truth
and send it tumbling quite bereft
into the arms of death.

But ‘tis just the death of love
and rivers and the stone know well
they won't commune again
because stones and rivers cannot walk
across a chasm, see?

Tuesday, October 28, 2008

Okay, fine

The day holds no promise yet still it is day.
Life is unpleasant yet still it is life.
Love has no touch yet still it is love
and "yet still" positions the whole damn lot
right on the edge of okay.

The edge is a line drawn to the side
off centre and angled away from desire
and bold, so bold, it makes a good place
to attract and hold the whole human race.

On the brink of this line everyone's fine
in rush and scurry to ensure there's no time
to glitter the surface with bits of a heart
and spread and sprinkle onto the blank part.

But a day in a life without love is fine;
this too shall pass with the blink of an eye
yet still it's a bother because then comes another
and another, another, another.

The line circles, you see, like a net of dis-ease
and traps inside the essence of feel
but, "Hi, how are you?
"Okay thanks and you?"
"Fine, just fine, I'm always fine" ~
and the parcel is passed until I walk away
from the game of life everyone plays!

Tuesday, October 21, 2008


Clouds always creep up from the rear
like the natural march of indifference
intent on a search and destroy
of the sky's so heavenly blue.

It's a silent but deadly approach
like the reality of a ghost
unseen but felt and known to be
an ineffective and useless guard
at the heart's unmarked border post.

So crosses indifference speedy and swift
into the haven of love's settled state
a warrior, gunman, thief, murderer,
in rampant and raging disregard
for what is intended to be.

And the sky that once vibrant and blue
succumbs to a dim and dull overlay
like the eyes of love once fearlessly clear
now brushed with the strokes
of complete indifference.

Flutter, flutter, and I flutter eyelids
simply today to no avail
because indifference begets indifference
in terms of section one hundred and three
of the perceived playact of life!

Tuesday, October 14, 2008

Love's ride

I never thought that life could be
a one-sided pleasure ride
but, yes, ‘tis so when love
from up front drives the train
and never thinks to mingle
with its passengers.

It's like its mission not denied
is to carry us somewhere
perhaps to fantasy or simply into dreams
wherein we chat and harmonize
as if love is really real.

Oh, it travels all the byways,
lets us view the scenery,
and when we think that this is "it"
love accelerates and goes
wherever it decides.

It's not for me to question why,
it's not for me to cry,
because love is driving, don't you know,
from way beyond my sight
and like all drivers lets me think
it's going to stop in time.

It doesn't though; it travels on
to not let me alight
so all who think to leave
must simply jump and crash land
into the rough of humankind.

When done one simply walks the line
more slowly than the ride
and picks up little bits and bobs
to fill a box of tricks
for ‘tis trickery to think
love's ride mean spirited.

Love drives the train, I think to jump,
I think to stay inside,
but mostly I'm the lazy kind
who wants an easy ride
to the end of my lifetime!

Sunday, October 12, 2008

The ache of love

And as the silence of renewal
o'er lays what used to be
I look back and remember love
with a deep embedded ache.

It's a pain of such intensity
no one should have to bear
but it doesn't grow to overtake
the forward movement of a life
like a shattered spinal column
keeps one immobilised.

It's simply there like skin and hair
to be moisturized and brushed
when it starts to dry and crack
and become unmanageable.

But no one says, "Ah-ha, I see
you've creamed and put asunder
what night has brought again to light
from the dark of daily life."

We just daily groom it out of sight
like something meant to be
and even I can't stay as love
when embroiled in life's betrayal.

So then the ache embedded deep
becomes something we refuse to feel
and mind the victor once again
takes a bow on centre stage ~
and all of this is meant to be
so the prophets say.

But prophets, sages, and the like
are really just like you and me
finding grace within the night
and dispelling it in daily life!

Monday, October 6, 2008

Within the air

Love's desire travels high
and lands within my response
but I know of spirit minds
and how they do what no man does
down here on the ground.

It's like that mind a thing apart
from mortal flesh and bone
to work within my body, heart,
the magic of desire
that makes its presence known
in the midst of daily life.

So, yes, I know and am aware
of the mysterious unseen
that lives and loves within the air
as a human's meant to do
but now I disassociate
for the need is far too great
to not be honoured, satisfied,
down here on the ground.

I pity spirit minds and me
who seek to join and know the feel
of immortal love
because down here on the ground
most believe in different things
like the same old, same old, system
put in place to suffocate
what is meant to live.

I'm on the ground a woman old
but not too old to honour love
within the time-frame of this life
but I've turned and will keep turning
from the invisible ...
but that's not to say I do not know
love lives and loves within the air!

Saturday, October 4, 2008


I've seen a rainbow, seen the stars, and embraced true love deep in my heart and now when life is soon to end I know what was won't come again.

There is no rainbow end of grace that will repeat again, again, the wonder of love's face and touch upon my human state.   The stars that once lit up the sky will not remain within the mind and keep a woman, man, and child in thoughts of God's pure holy light.

But, of course, the end is yet unseen; this still remains a mystery but it seems to me there cannot be a re-run of my history.  I take the staff, the compass, map, because I can in mental realms plan a journey, trip, voyage, that leaves the rainbow, stars, and heart buried in the long lost past.

‘tis a plan I have in place to be not one to suffer life's dis-ease or be as one abandoned, lost, in a world of fickle love.  I'll miss the birds and bees, the trees, but not the "you" not loving me and so the vision hazy first sharpens and becomes the means to not return again.

‘tis thought that activates the deed of no return into the feel of human foibles, you and me, and all the need that churns and whirls when love denied and sacrificed!

Thursday, October 2, 2008

A moment of love

There was a moment within the moments
of all the moments I've lived
that huffed and puffed like a lone wolf
on the prowl for breakfast, lunch, dinner,
and so it blew on my heart of stone
and surprisingly laid it to waste.

It wasn't fair to come so near
to completing my moments in tact
because moment by moment
I was going somewhere
just as I'd always been.

With then no heart to call my own
I yet had a solid foundation
but everyone knows love has no walls
and to re-build a heart no easy task
without the construct of barriers.

Day by day now I polish, refine,
the foundation and essence of love
after the wash with free-flowing tears
of my longing for you
because I cannot polish my moments now
until what was and won't be again
has been finally placed in the past.

Now with nothing to blow away
the wolf no longer huffs and puffs
but each/every moment of the moments I live
I'm aware of the movement of air
that not on the outside but deep within
makes me still love that moment of love!

Wednesday, October 1, 2008

The heart of love

‘tis the heart of love that mourns
and cries the tears of need
silently within the self
no one has access to.

And not to say it goes away
amidst a fulsome life
or changes form and mutates
into something less
as the years accumulate
one upon another.

‘tis the heart of love that knows
to keep it in a safe place
while turned it is by destiny
to look upon another face.

And not to say the heart of love
can't o'er lay the grief
with a different kind of feel
and it's called in modern parlance
the moving on from love.

But ‘tis the heart of love
that must move beyond the grave
for there perhaps another face
and another sense of grace
will capture and hold sway
over all of life's dismay.

Perhaps, perhaps!  Perhaps I make it so
by the thinking and the planning
of a future that I presently
don't even know I'll have!

Monday, September 29, 2008

Thoughts of then and now

It's not like I can compensate
for thoughts of bygone years
because they've all accumulated
like a pile of dirt.

Somewhere they sit and wait
for a shovel and a sieve
and the one of many thoughts
to sift through the rubble.

I did that today; chose the best stones
and patterned them to be
a reflection of me
and the rest into a plastic bag
on route to the garbage can.

But I noticed from the then to the now
a large unsightly gap
and considered carefully
returning them to where they were
and so I did for I was me
when thoughts were broken, chipped,
and unrounded by perceptions
I never thought to have.

I stood back then hands on hips;
if only all the stones
were perfect from the start
but progress now made visible
enlightens me to all contained
within the distance travelled ~
and I came into the knowing
I had to think the way I did
to now think the way I do!

Tuesday, September 23, 2008

Story of desire

No rain on the plains, no ice on the slopes,
no wind to disperse the longing for you
and the sun today seems to compete
with the internal heat of desire.

Desire rises up to the platform of cheeks
to await the arrival of cooling tears
but they don't flow now like waterfalls do
and the wait interminably hot.

Fan she does the heat with a vow
but of desire she knows to rebuff
its slow and insidious encroach
into her lacklustre consciousness.

But the force of desire like powerful lust
pushes through to the knowing inside
and lingers as if to make it known
there's a reason for its existence.

There is no reason, no purpose, no point,
but desire too stupid to know
time has run out like a train derailed
and it can't be carried on thermal waves
into the ether of a future life.

So the woman involved writes a few lines
to hang round the neck of desire
because one day it's bound to read
the sign that says it must leave.

"Read, read!" shouts a woman in need
but desire buries its head in the sand ...
and I hope it suffocates!

Sunday, September 21, 2008

A woman's need

At the stroke of memory
a woman's need awakes
and it runs like Cinderella
to the safety of her love
o'er the cruel and dastardly
deeds of other folk.

Out of breath it arrives
at the door of happiness
but stops to then remember
it lives within a woman scorned
and an arm upraised to knock
falls slowly to its side.

It tries to raise the other arm
but the message has got through
and the need falls asleep
to a woman's out of tune
and forced lullaby.

And a woman burdened so
drops her ray of hope
into the marshy swamps of life
like one who knows to be
lighter on the move.

Energized with devil's blood
she travels o'er the hills and dales
seeking shelter for her need
that can't remain within
sleeping like a log
on her river of desire.

And there the tale remains;
she's not returned again
but perhaps I know no one's au fait
with a woman's need
to take it in and feed, nurture,
what they cannot see!

Monday, September 15, 2008

Where is the river

Fingers barely touching
trail like whispers down her cheeks
back and forth searching
for the river of her tears.

Maybe lower to her chin,
neck and fulsome breasts,
and her fingers play
softly, tenderly,
between the folds of skin
age ushered in one day.

No wetness to attest
to the presence of despair,
no dried up river bed
to show how much she cared,
and her fingers travel,
waist, belly, thighs,
to the very centre
of true womanhood.

She pauses there to think;
perhaps the river flowed
down, down, down,
to where he one day lay
unknowingly to open
the floodgates of desire.

Not now, not there;
where are they then
those accumulated tears
and she turns from this reality
to face the world of soul.

"Watch out - a river flows!"
screams the echo of her needs
and she cowers in the shadows
too exhausted to run
from unfiltered emotion
threatening to flood
and obliterate
surface composure.

Immobile she stands
remembering it all
before silently detaching
to live the way she must
in total denial of ...
the echo of her needs.

Thursday, September 11, 2008

Turning, turning

It's a challenge to remain on indigenous soil
and not turn the sand to aerate a heart
and plant a new seedling of love to be
that one day will grow fulsome and free.

But I never met the challenge well;
I turned and turned again
for this land is hard, inflexible,
and the groundwork never done.

Days and nights, months and years,
turning, turning, mind to heart
sifting sand, removing rocks,
to end up with a blistered thumb
not green by any means.

No balm to ease the sting and burn
when he who would relieve the feel
walks a line above the ground
spaced out and not entwined
with the dirt of mother earth.

‘tis just the kiss of love required
to placate and educate
the muddled up and muddied
people of the land!

Monday, September 8, 2008

An apple

An apple falls to ground from an old apple tree
and it has no wish to be an orange or a pear
or red when it is green or green when it is red
because little apples that fall from apple trees
know they simply are what they're meant to be.

They do not land with a thud in the middle of a pool
of mixed up DNA and crossed personalities
untutored in the art of reaching solid ground
and unschooled in the means of reinventing themselves.

They simply lie there quietly waiting for the hand of fate
to ravenously bite and chew from the outer in
and haphazardly and unconcernedly
throw the core away.

There must be a moral to the story of an apple
but words of wisdom fail when I'm in a pool
trying desperately to reach a solid base
while knowing that the hand of fate
treats everything and everyone
with the same degree of ... taste!

Sunday, September 7, 2008

The wind

The wind has claimed the day
like a despot and not a cleaner
and in its grasp my love of you
unwillingly goes into the blue.

So I watch for a time and think of no rhyme
to fold into the goodness within
as a gift and a token to keep it alive
to the full scope of passion, desire.

Perhaps one day back down to ground
and the crime of withdrawal no need to cry
but a crime is a crime and punishment due
to both villain and victim each one in situ.

I know how I'll pay for this dastardly day
because awareness brings knowledge, you see,
but the villain for now walks ever free
from the burden of emotional feel.

The candle has died that once flickered hope
but villains in dark must find their own match
because love in the sky can't enflame mind
and make in the body a beautiful fire!

Friday, September 5, 2008

Where does one go?

Where does one go when love turns away
but into a cavern dark dingy and grey
where the underworld lives in gay abandon
and laughs at the turmoil raging within.

The echo resounds in midnight avowals
to find an outlet for deep seated heartache
and left/right the eyes survey the scene
like a prisoner seeking an escape route.

There, over there, a gap in the rocks
chiselled just so to let the light in
but small, too small, to allow free passage
for one inflated by desperation.

Hands claw at that fixed and immovable block
with blood running free as if to assist
because no one goes into a cavern prepared
with the tools necessary to widen the gap.

A bend and a rise disturbs the spiders
and they congregate as if to attack
until only withdrawal the way to survive
for one so trapped in a dark dingy place.

Lo behold withdrawal suffers the plight
of one forced to be when it rather would not
and a smile steps in as a protective measure
while life manifests what is meant to be.

To smile, they say, chases spiders away
but the hands only heal as time allows
and I guess it will be when finally death
reclaims and buries a desperate need.

She dies, you know, that one in a cave
day by day slowly and agonizingly
but she smiles the smile of the pretender
because time, the teacher, has shown her the way
out of a cavern dark dingy and grey.

But see her there like a know-it-all queen
unable, unwilling, to let wrong become right
and so she weaves most diligently
her very own web that traps within
the undeniable truth of love!

Dream woman

I'm a dream woman, yeah-yeah, yeah-yeah,
dressing the maypole in ribbons and bows
and baubles and tinsel and sweet fairy lights
until beautiful, beautiful, just like you
it grows the soul of a large Christmas tree.

This is the land of grand make-believe
where women are gypsies in love
and men the dispensers of open doors
to the wild and the natural untamed.

Really, oh, really?   Yeah, yeah -yeah,
but you do have to dream to believe
she dances to tunes of loving a fool
while he tinkers away in the fields.

He listens, you see, to each/every tree
but never, no, never, to gypsies and me
and uses the tools of fully grown men
to cut, cut, cut, and run from love.

Yeah, yeah,-yeah, it's a very rush job
and the ground is littered with bits and bobs
and there in that land of grand make-believe
they take on a life of their own.

They rise and they grow and
yeah, yeah- yeah,
into the best of all Christmas trees
because that gypsy was there
sowing the seeds
to prove that love is a... tree!

There you are then, that's that!

Tuesday, September 2, 2008

Just a tree

What was is gone and now no more
will symbolize the truth
of love's forever fortitude
amidst the fickle ways of man.

It's just a tree tall proud like me
that weakened in a storm
and dropped to ground a canopy
once spread over the earth.

And the core still strong as once before
lies in silent contemplation
uncertain whether the "to be"
is what the people need.

The "not to be" against the grain
but therein lies the root of all
for only when love's left to rot
will the people learn.

Still today that tree like me
thinks yes to grow or maybe not
for to give the body up to death
frees the soul up unto peace.

Yes or no the mind debates
but not to die before peace reigns
and so the tree grows back again
one branch, one leaf, one hope,
until again love's canopy
envelops the whole world.

Our world?

One day

One day in the turn around
the "make of love and not the tears"
will come as sun and moon
naturally and artlessly
into a timeless sky.

‘Tis the lack of knowing more
that stifles words of furtherance
but I know of the sun and moon;
how beautiful, intense, and free,
how passionate in need,
and that bow unto each other
a most essential element
in the shining forth.

Sun and moon and timelessness;
words to harvest lovers' needs
planted, grown, and tended
by the intent of heart ~
but could it be heart today
a timid factory hand
in manufacture, check, dispatch,
of all, everything, and more
that makes the people weep?

Saturday, August 30, 2008

The acquisition trail

Winter sings a mournful song
to the scrunch of every leaf
trodden on by humankind
along the acquisition trail.

The trail is long and winding
from inception unto closure
and the "got to have" a drive
inbred behind the eyes
until the cold, cold, air of winter
permeates the bones
with a sadness reminiscent
of a lover's empty arms.

And life like a circus tent
awaits the make of love
to attract the curious
because inside the deep within
lies the amazing magic
of perfected balancing.

People love and money love
but the throw, catch, hold, of both
the exulted state
of balanced harmony
still yet to come of age.

Winter sings a mournful song
and the scrunch, scrunch, scrunch,
goes on and on and on!

Thursday, August 28, 2008


Love has a need to hang itself up
on an outside “thingamajig”
to show the world it always is there
and also is everywhere.

A coat hook of note, cold, solid, and staid,
a chair back upholstered in rich brocade,
the intent of a poem that’s not fallen flat,
or a totem pole in Seattle’s downtown?

The sun on high will frizzle and fry,
and life will snuff out its light
because safety in numbers a fallacy
created by lustful minds.

It has to be somewhere easily found
and accessed when the wind blows,
available too to say a “bless you”
when pepper gets up your nose.

Where, oh, where, but, hush, my friend,
love moves when you least expect
and finds its own “thingamajig”
when time is of the right mind!

Wednesday, August 13, 2008

Everybody's Garden

Spit and spurt; no one is hurt
when water trickles gently so
upon the garden all must grow
but send me to a waterfall
unbridled, uncontrolled,
and sinks the part that could be heart
because always too much spray
is just too hard to swallow.

Out there amidst the drip and drop
is where I hold opinions best
but in the roar, the crash, the fall,
all thoughts become no more.

But I turn the cheek of tolerance,
these days I've grown some more
for what is noise and bluster but
the building blocks of nature
in mix and match like flowers, weeds,
in everybody's garden.

Nothing serves a garden best
than a soft and gentle morn
breaking ever quietly so
over all that tries to grow
but when the midday sun screams out
only weeds survive the heat!

Saturday, August 9, 2008

She dances again

She dances again the dance of love,
that gypsy woman unseen,
amidst a thousand silent sighs
and fallen to ground bygone thoughts
but far, too far, this fearful life
from the gates of happiness
and the loosened mind of a woman
flies beyond physical love.

In the rush and wish to grow new blooms
rose bushes forsake everything
and carry the seed of remembrances
as a stake for strong future growth...
and who can decry the will to survive
in a land of different soil?

That gypsy queen still dances unseen
and swirls out the colours of soul
in a radius suited to her empathy
until the book falls naturally closed
on the bloom of life read but not dead
in the mind of those left behind.

The sun, the sun, or under the moon
gypsies dance in the light of belief
and all of the steps rehearsed and upbeat
signal new starts from untimely ends!

Thursday, August 7, 2008


Jezebel, that Jezebel,
rings on fingers, toes,
dances in the limelight
of all she's come to know
but Guinevere, that Guinevere,
beauty personified,
merely offers up her tears
as evidence of soul.

They trickle slowly, softly,
from her knowledge base
for she knows that love's a grandiose thing
and one to be revered
by even the most lowly
or the seemingly so.

There are no lowly beings
in her now endless world
but she can see how people learn
to disregard the soul
and invade her personal space
with unwanted particles
of narcissistic energy.

But she smiles through her tears,
forgetfulness must always come
before conscious recall
of the most high.

Guinevere, that Guinevere,
still lives today, you know,
for the semblance of her archetype
is somewhere in the world
far away but not apart
from her Sir Lancelot!

Tuesday, August 5, 2008

I think, you think

No manna falls from heaven
to feed the starving masses
because nothing comes for free
except a silent thought.

I can think of castles large and grand,
of shacks that barely stand,
or of hate over love's design
patterned in the sky.

And so I think, you think,
and presume the privilege free
until it's known payment's due
for what I chose to think.

I won't pay with dollars/cents
or even sacrifice my life
but look down quite bemused
at what my thoughts created.

And so I think, you think,
but if I can think before I think
I might think a better thought
and should I think before I die
I think I'll think of love!

Sunday, August 3, 2008

The crash land

I came down a little bit
from my high and lofty perch
but now the shoulders lift
and the tension ripples
down to my finger tips.

It's always better up, up, up,
in the air of a belief
but the world calls, "Come on down"
and I plain and simply, humbly,
crash land on the ground.

And I breathe the dust and grime
of a polluted mind
day in, day out, and every day,
in the manner of a mole
forced to forge a path
through the sand and stones
of life experiences.

It's like it has to be
to survive the crash land, see
and weave the dirt within
the fabric of a soul
but I don't know the reason
or why I even mind
what affects the soul.

But I know today, these days,
that only love can pave the way
up from the underground
and so I love, I love you,
to nullify the effect
of choices un-befitting
the magnificence of soul!

Tuesday, July 29, 2008

Formations of rock

Formations of rock surveying the scene
stand firm near the edge of approaching winter
vulnerable and exposed to man's evil ways
and saddened by how a person can change.

But if I walk down to the base of it all
and gently embrace the visible truth
layers and layers confirm and bear out
the intensely emotional upheaval of earth.

And then was created another good place
with diligent care to the gift of free will
to enable the testing and assessing
of sincerity, honour, empathy, love.

Today the rocks stand a paradise lost
like a woman alive without a good man
alone but strong to suffer the sun
and not turn away from the wind.

Where are the lovers?  They've gone everyone
to pointless realms of electronic release
to gain and acquire the meaningless, false,
and upturn foundations of physical love.

And the sea one day will rise up to hide
the signs and symbols of faithfulness, trust,
and the trees will appear to grow from the sea
in the inexplicable manner of life.

The universe whispers, I hear and believe,
that time should stand still, remember the feel,
and recall again how such intense energy
upturned the world for a reason, a cure.

And when it is know, will time then deliver
a warning and caution to the sea not to rise
and trees not to think they can live forever
on shaky foundations of improper love?

When it is know it may be too late,
too late to reverse an intolerable fate.

Thursday, July 24, 2008

Magic is dead

The witch and the wizard
one day made a pact
to go it alone without love
and life was good
with the birds and the bees
until flowers closed ranks
and the trees grew no leaves.

Magic, you see, not a mythical king
called “time” on the play-act of life
and set in motion a devious plan
to suffer the witch and the wizard
to come again unto love.

Swords were drawn by that good man of war
and the witch traded tears with her peers
because a turn, turn around, humbles a man
and makes a woman a servant to him.

And so with the stubbornness of a mule
the wizard sought refuge in caves
and the witch, poor dear, took up her broom
and flew off in a different direction.

For many a year magic prevailed
within that kingdom of dreams
where wizards and witches unite
and make of love a true delight.

But magic, my friends, never can last
if wizards too weak can’t open a heart
and witches leave cobwebs untouched
around yesterday’s manifesto.

Magic is dead - squashed like a bug
when we go it alone without love!

Monday, July 21, 2008

Who can draw lines?

Who can draw lines or erect boundaries
when soul is the maker, creator, of all
and we the mere puppets and lowly workers
enslaved in its will and told to obey?

Walls and fences with sea and clear blue sky in the background

And soul doesn't care if this life or next
because ultimately so its agenda is met
but I, the worker, need it now to be
to know the peace of attainment.

Better, in fact, to not think as such
or seek the results of an inner plan
lest the mind then becomes firmly fixed
and refuses to open to alternatives.

It's been that way for me in my day
but now as the sun rises on pain
I must through necessity open my arms
to the offerings of the far from ideal.

So I argue, debate, go to work late,
and plan and record my strike tactics,
because workers rebel when soul doesn't care
to ensure culmination in this present life.

But who can draw lines or erect boundaries
when soul is within and determined to be
the leader and most over-bearing master
of what the workers must do and feel, know?

Tuesday, July 15, 2008

A contract

Can you see how the sea believes it is free
but naturally so the mountain stands tall
and confines the sea between boundaries
set in place by a contract of sorts?

It must be a sort of a contract or more
that decrees the sea remain as before
restless to know, to feel, to believe
its stature is that of a mountain, you see?

It's a contract of sorts that humbles the poor
and a sort of a contract that deprives the rich
of the truly amazing and magnificent feel
of scraps from the table dropped thoughtlessly.

It's a contract of sorts that causes a war,
a sort of a contract that allows peace to fall,
and a contract of sort that ties spirit up
in the mind of a human like me.

It must be a contract of sorts or more
that allows a mouse to promulgate fear
and a bee, oh, please, why must it die
when protective instincts come to the fore.

So contracts of sorts all thought into being
by the will of the mountain, the sea, you/me,
and I cannot believe there's no escape clause
to allow for a twist and a turn from it all.

And the twist and the turn no magic trick
but a contract of sorts and so very much more!

Sunday, July 13, 2008

The heart

It's time to go away when the heart is full of woe
as if the world at large can re-align that part
where consequences lie and multiply
for the turn away
from the dependent helpless.

But it's known in circles wide and large
that distance cannot by itself
twist the truth into a lie
and make from that a happy smile.

It's heart alone that re-aligns
when the knowing of a mind decides
to supply the tools, nuts, bolts, and screws,
that hold in place what has to be.

And mind, my mind, too slow to know
a heart in need pleads for relief
and so that part off-center leans
and threatens every day to fall.

But nothing falls; heart knows to wait
until the hurt lies fallow, dead,
and weights the heart with all that's past
like roots that hold what's yet to be!

Thursday, July 10, 2008

No lines

No lines are writ that says to look
and know the truth within
because to see and then to know
a most peculiar thing.

And this thing is like an alien
for it flashes from the eyes
the fire and passion, love,
of a million other lives
and plays, re-plays, quintessence
in the silence of all time.

And all time is like a labyrinth
that keeps us in a circle
no matter left or right
until consciousness draws a line
and we step off to the side.

And the side is just a no man’s land
of choices good and bad
where experience no master
of who we are inside.

And the inside is a gift
not unwrapped until we die
but I died, you see, and came to life
the day love held my hand.

And a hand is not a hand
but a channel for the mind
to impart and then imprint
what I cannot now deny!

Sunday, July 6, 2008

A monster rises

A monster rises from the skin
eyes ablaze, the fangs displayed,
and spits the fire of vicious ire
into the air I breathe.

Down it travels, hot, hot, hot
through the esophagus
straight to that tender part
some would call a heart.

But 'tis a place that spirit builds
with walls of love un-roofed
and doors that open full unto
a better place to be.

Thus open it's a landing strip
for devils, monsters, him,
and I'm surprised they still arrive
when every day I try, try, try,
to see them in a different light.

And as the manic manners shout
walls and doors quiver, quake,
until a crumbled ruin that part
some would call a heart.

But foundations laid and sunken
suffer not that vicious ire
when buried deep and deeper than
a monster"s artful reach
and yet the wait for love's rebuild
like a forever internship
in this excuse for life!

Wednesday, July 2, 2008

In case

After a number of tests
and love still doesn’t manifest
extinction lays claim
to the blueprint of soul
or it could be God overfilling
a very large garbage bag.

Where do they go, the unloving
or the adept at burying
what is known to already exist?

tis a problem to ponder sometimes
but not to say that I lie
when I predict a retreat
into a place similarly like
the graves of the dinosaurs.

How long is a day in a grave?
Maybe more than I’m able to say
or maybe no day to shed the light
in the dark of the unchangeable.

Oh, “shiver me timbers”, I’m scared in case
the plank that I walk should break
before change has taken place
so touch me love, my love,
and make of the tears I’ve cried
a river that flows us on
to the sea of eternity ~

in case, in case, there’s a case
against our God given grace!

Monday, June 30, 2008

At the feet of the rich

Need calls the poor to the feet of the rich
but don’t forget once they were lovers in love
proud to own something that cannot be bought
or bartered and sold for trinkets and gold.

Risen from then up into these times
the poor acquire fame and candles that burn
through the storms and the pain, the agony,
of life as it is for the lovers alone.

And the rich getting old deserve their gold
because always we get only what we can give
but you know that, of course, one time you were told,
“Love is more precious than any man’s gold”.

Gold’s heavy, you see, and can’t leave the earth
and always, forever, it’s no use in heaven!

The toad of love

Love isn’t in my daily bread
nor in the corners of
insignificant temptations
so the check, re-check concludes. 

love’s a green/black bloated toad
playing “peek-a-boo, look at me”
in a senseless fantasy
before the hop and drop
into memory.

Toads croak when I’m asleep
and jump the lines of consciousness
meant to confine the mind
to the marshy swamps of life.

And it follows in my footsteps
like a ghostly apparition
in hop from air to land
as if it was a man
floating from a dream
into reality.

I love that toad wrought from soul
and will “tomorrow” when
“There, that’s done – here is love”
evades the obstacles
placed upon a lowly toad
in a fast paced city town.

But toads have left for pastures green
because life has moved the goal posts on
and that hippity-hippity, hip, hop-hop
in my senseless fantasy
maybe just a bug
in the sizzle of my love!

Saturday, June 28, 2008

I want

I want the silence of together
to treat me like a lady
and when apart I want to be
the monarch of your heart.

I want eyes to see the real me,
hands to touch my soul,
and fingertips to gently trace
the lines of my desire.

I want the silence of your choice
to stay beside the river
that flows inside for you
and the silence of your heat
that speaks of love to be.

I want to breathe your ecstasy
mingled with my own
and I want the blend of passion
to still my restlessness.

I want the silence of your smile,
your memories, dreams and needs
and the silence of your mind
that never says goodbye.

And I want you here with me
in the silence of my love!

Tuesday, June 24, 2008

Under the sky

Under my African sky
people move like robotic fools
wooden and stiff, inflexible,
with the aid of outdated beliefs
held together with unawareness.

I sometimes think a cut and snip
or at least a mental ramp
to enable quick flows of energy
to levels not hitherto reached
and I despair but sit with my hair
undisturbed by anxiousness.

It’s all on the screen, the big picture, see
where reason and purpose are shown
but I, like the rest, don’t watch the film
because fuzzy and blurred, voices unheard,
taxes the mind of the willing to learn.

Tomorrow perhaps I’ll remember again
how to fiddle and tweak for release
from outdated beliefs
but meanwhile intuitive feel
moves within like a rolling pin
to flatten the bumps of ignorance.

Under my African sky
mind moves like a snail, evolves like a bat,
and remains blind to the beauty of love
flickering so on that big movie screen
built on the peak of belief
out of reach it would seem
from all of the fools and me!

Sunday, June 22, 2008

In blend

In blend with the earth
but eyes turn upwards
as if they are pulled by belief
that there in the vastness of space
a full and complete true knowledge base
awaits a poor traveller.

And a traveller knows to move
and knock on the door for relief
from thoughts not in tune and aligned
with what is up there inscribed
but no illumination
from an unblinking stare.

'tis the mind, you see, not the eyes
that knows to travel and see
but blended with good mother earth
it stares like a frog catching flies
and thinks it is staying alive.

Stare as I might I ne’er can alight
from life’s little merry go-round
until at last I stare with the mind
and step into a true knowledge base
that illuminates and advises
on how to make everything right.

And even a frog can knock
when moved by the force of love
to blend and yet jump free
from humanity’s misaligned thoughts!

Friday, June 20, 2008

Down the line

Down the line the mind decides
to simply die as is
but, lo behold, there’s snow in spring
and mind must re-decide
because frozen roots a hindrance
to the furtherance of life.

So unbeknown there follows then
an upturn of the known
that flings the mind right back again
to the start of something grand
that lost its way amongst the trials
of life’s demanding ways.

Back, back, and further back;
it was summer then, you know,
when flowers beautified the land
like love in its first bloom
and when the trees spoke volumes
to a heart not yet of age.

To come of age a lonely time
and how a woman moans
when separated and divorced
from what she’s meant to know
but slowly, slowly, quietly
like snow that falls in spring
she changes into who she is
and who she’s always been.

And in this guise she’s simply me
and you can be you too
if mind decides to re-decide
to not die as it once was
frozen in a loveless state
that flings us back again
to the trials of life that ne’er beget
the true and lasting meaningful!

Thursday, June 19, 2008

The Why

Where once the pain of lonely days
now the gain of safe alone
to hold and cosset, nurture, feel,
the could have been that wasn’t
but in that cuddle close to mind
rage rises like a hurricane
to twist and turn complacency
into the question, “Why?”.

And dependent on the time of night
Why begets a data string
that knots itself upon itself
like a sci-fi animal
with its own agenda.

But always in the breathe, breathe in,
a knowledge base appears
somewhere beyond the eyesight
of a transitory mind
housed within the confines
of my humanity.

Large and clear and bright and good
there waits within the shadow lands
the truth of every Why
uttered deep and mournfully
when memories arise
like yesterday, today, and when
love pops in to mind.

Safe alone the strings of mind
unravel when I cry
and bend and force the soul into
this transitory mind
but still the Why, the Why, the Why,
burrows in and settles down
until the final night of life
begets another state of mind!

Sunday, June 15, 2008

Four roses

Three roses there were
mind, body and soul
and the other one waiting to be
but the heart doesn't wait to receive
before the giving for free
and so there were four
red roses in all.

Gone are the days of poetic dreams
but proof can be found in the heart
beating and pumping
one, two, three, four,
one, two, three, four,
because always that little bit extra
comes to be when the heart’s in play.

Any less is a sheer falsity,
any more sends it over the line
right into the arms of fantasy
always waiting to have the last laugh.

And when it is time to receive
and be a lover for real
one, two, three, four
red roses in all
enlightens mind to the sweetness
so long been denied.

Four roses, four, four,
and love goes on as before!

Saturday, May 31, 2008


Confined to a strip between the sea
and the mountains of everyday life
courage is shelled and moves like a crab
as if it is going somewhere.

Oh, it blusters and shouts and tries to get out
from the folds of a hardened gut
but always a sideways movement
the definite way to extinction
of the perceived unique.

Left/right, left/right; how boring is life
when courage afraid to swim
or climb the mountain of life’s disdain
into love’s mystery
hanging like a voluptuous cloud
in tempt of the scared, afraid.

Courage! Yes, yes! It’s the mind of a fool
who cares not to leave level ground
but one with the courage to forsake all others
for the meaningful things in life
rises above the imaginings
and lands in a beautiful place!

Sunday, May 25, 2008


I am the "me" of everyone
wishing on a shooting star
when night begets a dream
and I speak, speak, instantly
but too slow the star departs
and wishes trail dispirited
into the neighbour's yard.

They lie amongst the weeds
thirsty, thirsty, as can be
because no one waters weeds
when pretty flowers preen
and scatter silly wiles
to attract the honey bees.

And in the time of Autumn winds
that wish blows back again
changed, refined, befitted for
a bigger chunk of energy
from the “me” of everyone.

Easier and easier to huff, puff, and blow
and the wish exceeds the bounds
of the once possible
and it flies, flies, and glides
into the most amazing sky.

Sunset over Africa

You'll see it there at sunset
giving glows to every hue
and showing only part
of the intensity of heart
behind each and every cloud.

The seasons come and go,
sunsets always glow,
and clouds have silver linings
because wishes have the edge
on life’s everyday betrayal.

Tuesday, May 20, 2008

Dream delivery

They tried to deliver yesterday
a dream with dramatic scenes
invisibly open to interpretation
and inspection by reality.

The inn is too full; determined they came
set on the claim of supremacy
over the needs of the flesh
decreed by me an honourable state.

Tears littered the base of human disgrace
that refused to accept and rejected
dream after dream of soul avowals
tendered as right sufficiency.

I walked through the stream
choosing, you see, simply to not believe
but I am the dreamer who knows
there will always be room for a soul.

But soul for soul, flesh for the flesh,
dreams desolate out in the cold,
until the many miles are crossed
and the dreamers can meet
at a place of complete belief!

Saturday, May 17, 2008

Put it there

Put it there, right there, in that puddle of feel
sitting so in the midst of unfathomable depths
where it catches the light and feels the heat
burning into the core of belief.

It’s a funny thing, love, that lies silently
between the confines of immovable me
but drawn by a need it rises sometimes
and breathes the air of freedom.

It’s a game, you know, that everyone plays
when love wiggles and jiggles inside us
and it’s like there’s a crack in control
and a shake-up of everything known
that allows for seepage and flow
into the nub of consciousness.

But love is a gypsy and maybe you/me
catching heat from the fires of passion
and dancing too deep in the soul
to ever really be known.