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?