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.

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!

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?

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?

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!