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!

"Thingamajig"

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!

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!

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!

Guinevere

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!

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!

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!