The foolish

Ten, thirty, forty, fifty. but more
words of the foolish into the bin
for overtaken they are by the pain
of no love today.

There are no words now for the truth
follows the words into “nowhere”
from whence they surprisingly came
to spin webs of deceit and lies
in the heart of one so inclined
to believe in the wisdom of love.

The wisdom of love; how foolish it is
when decreed is the walk to the garbage bin
to discard the junk and disembark
from the round-about of belief.

It was a walk and alight of difficulty
for the heart heavy and burdensome
in the knowing of completion
that yet brings its own release.

Such is the way of no love
that clouds the view beyond the blue
and entrenches itself in the earth
so all who walk thereon will know
love’s a transitory energy
un-tethered to stakes of the foolish!

Helen / 27 December 2009

The beautiful

No snowflakes fall to overlay
the truth of who we are
and yet there is a shroud
thick, heavy, and so dense
that grants unto the beautiful
the semblance of a grave.

And when there are no snowflakes
no one thinks to clear away
mortal imperfections
and facilitate the rise
of the buried but not dead.

So the beautiful lies comatose
awaiting the awakened
to brave the elements
like a determined warrior.

But we are lovers, are we not?
Out fighting spirit tackles nought
but flesh and bone, muscle, fat,
and what we say and do.

And then I don’t like you,
and you and you and you,
until I am possessed of tools
to dismiss the now imperfect.

And then I still don’t like you,
And you and you and you,
for in the clear and sweep away
the beautiful is not always
appealing to my eyes.

But you, “the” you, unknowingly
rose unaided into view
and in that moment of glory
I fell in love with you ~
but then you disappeared
back into the grave.

So the beautiful lies buried, lost,
to ne’er again rise from the grave
and stand naked before the eyes
of a woman who loves …
the beautiful!

Helen / 23 December 2009

Fingers and thumbs

How like life to twist the truth
into knots of little use
and glue and staple them in place
as an extra safety measure.

Come the fingers deft and sly
but up to now not yet tried
for years it takes to plot and plan
an attack on all the knots inside.

The fingers have been twiddling thumbs
in the safety of old comfort zones
and ‘tis the twiddle, twiddle, thumbs
that tire of such attention.

And so they leave the stretch and reach
of fingers lost in plot and plan
and stand apart entrenched within
the truth made known and visible.

Fingers, fingers, numbered eight
cut adrift from truth and light
stumble in the gap between
what is and what should be.

I feel for fingers numbered eight
lost so within the in-between
but they will mutate and grow
according to the place they’re at.

But who would grow in no-man’s land
that neither was and nor will be?

Turning the table

Sometimes there comes a day
when one thinks to turn the table
and dine on the other side
of life as it seems to be.

And then there are other days
when all of life holds sway
and the dished up fare though grandiose
holds no appeal for the hungry.

It’s an evil plot or  love’s intent
to send the hungry behind the scenes
but some tables are heavy, too heavy,
for the weak and disparaging.

No matter the sideline clap and cheer
encouragement falls on deaf ears
and the weak remain weak and hungry
in their own perceived destiny.

The outcome, I bet, is never a pound
or a kilo gained round the waist
and this perhaps so the skinny
can slip through birth/death unseen.

Oh, yes, but the news of this very day
applauds the turning of tables
for beneath the illusion of … meat
there is on the underside
the most amazing and sustaining
glorious spiritual feast.

But tables no matter still stand
on the base of this beautiful land
and how great to eat on the top side
when you know what lies underneath!

Betwixt and between

If I could I would hop on a plane
and fly above the land
of the now betwixt and between
all knowing and sheer ignorance.

The pendulum swings, scales are unbalanced,
and nobody leans the same way
on hallowed ground that’s typecast
as a place meant for defilement.

There’s an army of ants that march faithfully
and unconsciously down the middle
like ogres armed and empowered
to make of the knowing an enemy.

And so there’s an underground movement
setting bombs and committing arson
to break up the enemy camp
and scatter and spread the knowing
like ash to be blown away.

The knowing when valued tips the scales
and when ignorance grows it blooms
and so for the masses stuck in between
there’s no where to hide but inside
the safety measure of life
where ants shape shift according to
plain and simple convenience.

But how convenient to have the sky
filled with ash of the knowing?
It’s not, you see, for ash believes
every scrap of its once former self
will meld and o’er lay the start, middle, end,
and everybody’s life.

Don’t hold your breath! Time decides
or maybe those androids in sky
who fight from a better standpoint
than all of the ants on the ground!

Pretence

A complicated and indistinct map
is placed in the hands of the now inept
but they don’t think to use other means
to find out which way to go.

Those other means aren’t real, you see
to those with no eyes to see,
with no heart to feel,
and no faith to believe.

I’m such a one today in the mire
of refusing to believe
but I do have two eyes and a heart
that nudge the senses day in and day out.

It’s them against me in this stand-off phase
and for now I’m the great pretender
turning away from the nudges
like the dead who refuse to breathe.

So now when I want to know
whether potholes or not in the road
I sit strapped in to “what the hell –
I won’t see or feel or believe”.

And a car like you and me, them, they,
when stuck in a mire can’t move
until pretence a thing of the past
and all other means are embraced!

The rebuff

The tune of love played hauntingly
for many a day undisturbed
until the seriousness of a rebuff
made of the ears non-working organs.

But everyone knows the ears aren’t soul
and soul still listens and sings along
like an uncontrollable wilful child
while the parent wails and bemoans
its complete and utter inability
to produce what the world expects.

The parent in time knows to let go
and let the soul listen, sing, dance,
for surely it is the right of soul
to make of its life what it likes.

But when parent and soul split up
there’s an emptiness in the “gut”
that like a virus crashes the system
and prevents a needful restart.

The system is dead that once played love
and held body and soul together
because when a rebuff hits home
there’s nothing left to speak of.

And so for a time, the longest time,
the unspeakable silence of soul’s depart
reverberates down the lines of time
because nothing ever can rectify
the dire and seriousness consequences
of an all-embracing rebuff!

Second chances

Summer’s glory a thing of the past
not destined to ere come again
while clouds of grey, rain and hail,
stand full on life’s centre stage.

I shiver sometimes for it shouldn’t be
that summer bows out to winter
and brings back again the intolerable
like karma not yet resolved.

It’s an evil trick that makes me think
heaven chastises the meek
when really it’s just a change of the times
and not a personal affront.

The meek shall inherit – oh, blah di blah, blah!
Summer’s not meek or reticent
but simply withdraws from the fray
to allow winter a second chance.

So what if the season’s not right
to be denied the light
because what was and what is to be
all mixed in a common pot
and those who eat will soon enough know
there’s more than one mouthful.

Winter will stay until summer regains
the force of its own convictions
but it will give way again and again,
because it knows to allow latitude –
and summer is love, beautiful love,
that knows to give second chances
again and again and again!

A moment of enjoyment

Two upon the highest bough
remained in enjoyment
of each other and the air
until one had a thought
to leave and forage more
in the dirt of mother earth.

So off it flew and left the one
to wait and hope and pray
until it too had a thought
to go the other way.

One came back and I don’t know
whether first or last to leave
and I stood back a watcher
in deepest empathy.

Just a time but how it seemed
an eternity
before that bough stood empty
and lonesome in desertion
of what was beautiful.

The bough flourishes and dies
according to the times
in the sure knowledge
that the love birds will return
and enjoy its offerings
be they soft and comfortable
or stark and hard to bear.

The birds and I have left
but I still mourn the passing
of an extraordinary and amazing
moment of enjoyment!

Helen / 16 November 2009

The maze

Love comes at its own time
and takes us from the mundane
into the extraordinary
but to see it, feel it, know it,
not for the feint hearted.

The heart needs strength and fortitude
and the will to survive
through loss and grief and circumstance
that twists its path into a maze
with seemingly no exit.

But the exit’s there with every turn
for every corner holds the truth
albeit closely to its breast
like a mother would a child.

That child is fed and nurtured
but of love in this duality
it bears the brunt of fire and ire
and becomes as dust and grit
in the eyes of the beholder.

And that beholder’s you and me
who meander in our suffering
until we truly can believe
love never leads us to a place
that kills our free will choice
to simply turn the corner
and find the opening!

Stairs

Stairs start and lengthen more
from the dungeon of despair
to make of every step
a laboured affair.

No man or beast, angelic friend,
or sweetheart of the heart’s desire
can lift the burden, ease the pain,
or change a state of mind.

But there always was and still is
the self that knows no other way
than up with good and down with bad
until the climb turns night to day.

And in the light of clarity
effort begets its own reward
that creeps into the psyche, see
and turns a servant into lord.

And so of lords both here and there
they set a standard for us all
and soon upon the highest stair
life will be as once before!

The shudder/shake

‘twas not the spark of passion
nor the advent of desire
but the shudder/shake of terror
brought up from her recalls.

It’s not to say she didn’t know
love hovered near to still her fear
but so much more she needed then
to make of life a good event.

It didn’t come. She called again,
again, again, again,
until still wrapped up in terror

she stepped into the world of Gods
to re-affirm true love’s avowals.

And from that sojourn she awoke
not still or settled, calm, peaceful,
but lost, bemused, abandoned,
in a world of foreigners.

She lives today, so they say,
within the shadows of the day
but you will look and never find

that woman who was known to call
again, again, again!

Shawls and blankets

She who opens doors to more
feels the breeze of who she is
but then the cold of the “before”
wraps around her daily life.

She ponders so this memory chill
like strangers in her new abode
and in her manner so polite
offers them an overnight.

‘tis not to say they do not know
to leave before she suffers more
and yet it’s like they’re glued to beds
made before awakening.

She cleans around their imprints felt
and discards the useless junk of hurt
but the crown of how she knows to be
never placed upon her head.

But time is such that ponders not
the speed with which it leaves behind
the glorious and magnificent,
the amazing and fantastic,
and the really quite remarkable
woman that she is.

And of that woman, all women,
who open doors to more
they sit with shawls and blankets
until time comes round again!

Thoughtful energy

So blows this life into the mind

where lives a thoughtful energy

and it joins and dissipates the force

that once was paramount.

And in this mix creation’s orb

shrinks and shrivels, disappears

and becomes a servant to dis-ease

clothed in shredded leftovers

of its former glory.

To search and find and reinstate

what once made life worthwhile

like a chore unlisted on the board

of human existence.

Lonely is the voice in time

that calls with silent needfulness

for thought to rise and fight, fight, fight,

the dictates of a mortal life.

Creation’s orb is there somewhere

tattered, torn, not as before,

so blows this life into the mind

again, again, till death the end!

Helen / 22 September 2009

Country girls and woman folk

‘tis a country girl that knows to be

in complete and utter harmony

with the wild that calls within, within,

in the dead of lonely nights

but she wakes to find the sun up high

on the crying fields.

The crying fields spread far and wide

over all her hopes and needs inside

and she traces them with hands attuned

to the fabric of despair.

Such fabric is o’er laid with fear

and studded with the beads of need

and the pattern formed a travesty

of the wild that calls within.

‘tis country girls and woman folk

who know of harmony and fear

and how it works to blend and meld

the real into the false

and grow amidst the crying fields

one red and vibrant rose.

That rose looks left and right,

sisters, brothers, none

and then it knows to stand upright

and speak for those who can’t

and it screams into the atmosphere

with all it’s innate might.

The echo travels far and wide

but so deep within the crying fields

it fades before the target reached

and the rose knows it must die

before the next sunrise.

Today there is no rose to shout;

the crying fields have spread and grown

beyond the confines of the known

and of country girls and woman folk

they’ve become like you and me

misplaced and dispossessed

of the wild that calls within!

Helen / 14 September 2009

Cocktails and little crumbs

Life moves in and takes out
dreams, wishes, hopes and needs
and stirs and mixes cocktails
like a barman paid to be
a maker and creator.

It has no mind for me to sense
or heart to pump intent
but, oh, so diligent
it serves up and clears away
like one who doesn’t know
there always is a crumb or two
missed in the clean sweep.

Crumbs mix and meld in their own way
with the morning of the day
and catch in the oesophagus
of one who knows to breathe
the remainder and the residue
into the atmosphere.

And so into the twilight
crumbs scratch and irritate
and scratch and irritate
and scratch and irritate.

Night descends and shallow breath
skirts the crumbs of what is left
and brings unto the one who lives
a sense of silent happiness
that sometimes, sometimes not,
sweeps the crumbs into the bin
of “what the hell, I live”.

And after, long after,
the “sometimes not” grows bigger than
those everyday little crumbs
and that’s the way it goes
until happiness evolves
but never can it grow
when love like a little crumb
remains an irritation!

Neutral shades

‘tis neutral shades that rule the day
like women who are known to be
without, within, and round about
the dictates of a mortal life.

The colour swatch of passion, grief,
awaits a willingness to be
pushed and pulled and swung around
the totem pole of happenings.

There is no wish to ride the wave
of wanting, needing, wishing for
a better “this", a grander “that",
and a love not meant to be.

And neutral welcomes in the night
to sleep within that state of mind
but soon the dawn cancels all
and colour is again the norm.

Neutral prays, indeed it does,
to stay within the colour wheel
but in the field of all it feels
to not be tainted by the world.

The world, the world, the thief of love,
and taker of essential grace,
show your colours but desist
from imbuing the unique!

The sea

The sea came in from way out there
where love’s a stable entity
to tell of many grandiose things
and the beauty of it all.

But the shore possessed of seashells, grit,
and discarded human garbage
could not absorb or understand
the sea’s need and wish to be
the bearer of good tidings.

Sea stayed a moment, just a bit,
before the toss and turn
that forevermore will silence
the tongue of one who loves.

Forevermore’s the damndest thing;
it’s how ever long it needs to be
but I know the sea and how she moves
along the grid of her beliefs.

She believes, you see, in evermore
and how what is remains to be
a memory not ere expunged
with the changing of the tide.

And the grid is one straight line
not curled and intertwined
like waves that come again, again,
unto that selfsame shore.

The sea, the sea, may she not be
one to rest amongst the grit!

Ordinary love

Not yet but soon to be a prince
the one who dubbed his mother “queen”
and served her with the humbleness
of ordinary love.

It is and always has been
the core of ordinary
that begets a wave unleashed
upon the population
because one of all and everything
divides, divides, divides,
and then multiplies
to crash upon the shore
of the unaware.

But the wave no soothing murmur
to lull the senses, dull the pain,
but a roar of deep intensity
that shocks and shakes composure
to the point of change.

And change no sweet surrender
until resistance like a sponge
absorbs the meaning, reasons,
and bows in acquiescence.

Now forsaking all that went before
the queen bows to the prince
as I now bow to love
that invisibly divides, divides,
and multiplies
in walking, talking, fortresses.

But love, dear love, so slow and sure
must still get to the core
and fortresses are fortresses
until the door is opened!

Through the maze

So through the maze of goods and clothes
she stepped into a dark recess
where memories lay hidden away
from the prying eyes of everyday.

And in that day of everyday
she chose a route that skirted pain
and smiled the smile of one who knows
love will surely come again.

But still she cried within the feel
of what means more than goods and clothes
as like a retarded maniac
she shredded the leftovers
until but one remained.

It remains until this very day
to go where minds are prone to go
and follow in the footsteps of
her more and many everyday’s.

Love is like that, don’t you know?
It lives in caves dark, dingy, grey,
so all who walk the maze of time
can sift amongst the dirt and grime
and say, “Eureka! Love is mine!"

The tree man and the witch

So the tree man and the witch
cuddled up in bubble wrap
safe and sound cocooned within
a world meant just for two.

Sadly so the time will come
when hands of flesh and bone
will destroy their paradise
and place them in a strange place
cold apart alone.

They will move according to
the dictates of sheer ignorance
and pretend at their contentment
from morn until the full moon
of awakening.

Then the tree man will shed his bark
and settle into gentleness
and the witch will cast her spells
into the garbage can
and together they will stand
as the plain and ordinary.

And the plain and ordinary
like the simple you and me
no statues carved in stone
but breathing, feeling, entities
en route to stardom!

Amazed!

She didn’t stop to look amazed
at the progress of the flame
from slow to fast and furious,
from loving to indifferent,
and from belief into the chasm
of uncertainty.

Instead she stopped to look amazed
at the wind of happenstance
that reduces love’s tall stature
to the likeness of
liquid candle wax.

Breathe! She breathes and yet the wind
moves quickly out from deep within
into the world where candles stand
burning. burning, burning.

And she lights her loving candles
to look amazed again, again,
at the melt and solidify
after the flame has died.

From what love was to what it is
and she sighs before the cast aside
of the distorted and disfigured
made useless by the flame
and the wind of happenstance
brought up from the depths
of his or her or my
unbeknown and inherent
wilful intent.

Ash is ash!

She didn’t walk a golden mile
or embrace a new found love
but wandered down the avenues
of a past long dead and gone.

Trees interlocked and canopied
her feeblemindedness
while the grass underfoot
gave way to barren ground
for ‘tis the feeble of mind
that must walk on hardened ground
until the dead and gone
sits on a burning pyre.

She watches in the twilight
the flames of her repeats
and how the smoke encircles
a love not come again
to pull it closer, nearer, in
the flames of other things.

The heat melts composure
and she kneels by the fire
a woman paying homage
to the dead and gone.

She doesn’t rise on steady feet;
there’s still a part of her long past
she would again repeat
but she knows, yes, she knows
ash is ash and can’t again
be more than it is!

Gamblers!

‘tis the silence of the night
and the din of broad daylight
that spins like lottery tickets
in the flow of normal life.

Round and round, up and down,
and this flow like living cycles
that leaves a gambler waiting
palm up for destiny.

First prize gone, second, third,
and the gambler makes a fist
in stark disregard
for what may follow next
and so what could have been
slips from gamblers to the floor.

There the prize that could have been
joins the junk of what is now
and the gambler in the midst thereof
unable to see the sun
or the beauty of the night.

‘tis in this gap of destiny
that gamblers stand uncloaked
and listen to the sweet refrains
of the plain and simple nothing.

The plain and simple nothing
no prelude to a ball
but gamblers know to listen
until thought bursts forth and motivates
a new mind reality!

Bedtime story

Mist swirls as if propelled to be
a lifelong living entity
but creation writes the story
and makes of mist a seasonal
and passing happenstance.

In comes in low and stealthily
with the mind of a criminal
intent on stealing love
and ransacking true insight
and then it disappears
as fate decrees it must
to allow the “Seek and Find”
its chance to be around.

Seek sticks close to ground
and ferrets in the dirt
for what was lost when mist was here
and it travels like a bloodhound
sniffing, sniffing, sniffing,
and listening, listening, listening,
for “Find’s” time of exultation
to pierce the air and echo
through time immortally.

And all is still and silent;
mist was trained overseas
or maybe in the bowels
of the deep underground
and it’s a perfectionist
when it comes to stealth and stealing.

Seek and Find, poor Seek and Find,
the story gives them arms and legs
a torso, head and feet,
a mind for facts and figures
and a heart for pumping blood
but of a soul that knows all things
a treasure far too rare
to be shown and made known.

But there’s mystery in all stories,
twists and turns in every plot
and that’s why we have… toes!

And so...

The grass is green and “squishy” soft
under one and two and many more
footsteps placed just so
and, oh, just so to satisfy
the need of easy passage
to where're the journey ends.

Little is known of the “far ahead”
perceived as just a dream
but when the grass turns brown
and the ground a hardened mass
footsteps falter, pause, then stop
at the point of contemplation.

And so of crossing the divide
between the easy and the hard
I wonder if my bag of tricks
holds a carpet full plush pile
to soft land me on hardened ground
but, lo behold, no one can look
when unaware of change.

To suddenly be “there”
and know there’s no retreat
like a mission aborted
stabs at strength and fortitude
unrelentingly.

And so of walking on, on, on,
across the barren and the hard
I wonder if, I wonder if,
I wonder if I should,
but then I remember,
remember the dream!

Love

Love is unable and cannot, will not,
bind man to land for eternity
but rather allows a soul to evolve
beyond the confines of human existence.

Immortality is the promise of love,
pretenders will not be granted entry,
but how do we qualify, what must we do,
to receive and enjoy such a wonderful gift?

Some have limits to how much they give,
some are scared of a deep commitment,
and some so sufficient unto themselves
refuse to believe in the power of love.

So too does wisdom have a limited scan
with foresight hindered by earthly demands
but avowal of love to a woman, a man,
sets mankind up on the ladder to more.

The ladder is long and turns around corners,
even snaps in the middle to see how we fall,
but the worst test of all is together no more
with the catalyst who allowed love to be.

A catalyst, intermediary, a go-between, agent,
and how sadly we grieve the parting of hands
but love is the victor still faithful and true
to the promise of our immortality.

But to love and remain as an island alone
trapped in a net of passing priorities
forms a deep channel back onto land
to start the journey all over again.

So sayeth the humbled by love's awesome power!

The will to live - Final

The weather has changed;
the sky is dull and grey
and unseasonal rain
falls softly, tenderly,
on that wandering soul
of the will to live.

Yet still the scene is beautiful
in a morbid sort of way
and the will intrigued sets out
to experience the fullness
of a life away from home.

And then there's a pause,
nothing changes overall,
and a flicker of regret
shivers through that wayward one
to make of further travels
an unsound endeavour.

The soul of the will to live
ashamed turns homeward bound
to unite with its other half
still stoking up the fire
and the change in the weather
no coincidence
but love working magic
in its own peculiar way!

The will to live - Part 2

So the will to live split mind and soul
and sent the former home again
to act as temporary stand-in
for the real thing.

The soul released travelled on
through human conflict, tears, and woe
seeking in that density
true and abiding meaning.

The days were hard and taxing
for the soul knows love's awaiting
when night descends and blankets so
human protective measures
that come in guises real but false.

Many times through hardship, trials,
it thought that home's the place to be
yet sometime, anytime, must be
a call from home that stirs its bones
to make the long trip back again.

The call can't be a plaintive moan
or one that merely seeks no pain
but one that that's gone to hell and back
and knows of true humility.

The will to live now broken, split,
can't in part be worth a damn
and this it knows but still it moves
knowing that its other half
will keep the home fires burning.

The scribe I am thinks now what if
summer comes and there's no fire!

The will to live - part 1

The brain shuts down when pain decides
to squeeze like a steel vice
and draw each drop of happiness
from one imprisoned so.

And with each drop the will to live
is lost and wanders far
until in sleep the mind shouts out
"Come, please come home"
but the will now free uncertain
stands immobile for a while.

In this stance it thinks to be
a carefree travelling gypsy
and enjoy the forest greenery
until called to other pastures
but too it knows that home's a place
where its peculiarities
are welcomed and adored.

Like love it thinks until sunrise
and waits for the sunset
to form within the way to go
but always in the ears
the mind's so plaintiff cry
echo's and re-echo's
throughout  the duration.

The will to live; how far it roams
when pain decides to hold
and I, the scribe, wait patiently
to document part 2.

Intention

Nothing yet but not to say
the mail man's gone away
but rather that the sender
went one day on a bender
and forgot to put in motion
the package of intention.

But the package of intention
large, heavy, in retention
sinks quickly to the bottom
of the cumbersome
and lies like a thing ignored
in a lifetime's bottom drawer.

It cannot wiggle toes
or dance to the tune of woes
and as it haunts the halls of time
sad and sorrowful the eyes
that ne'er can see the sun
or a deed, completed, done!

Denial

When there's no enthusiasm
for the bed and sheets, pillows,
love like a restless bird
has flown right out the window.

Too late to close the window;
what's meant to be has been
but not too sure returns a one
unto the forgotten.

And then the forgotten
returns slowly ever sure
into the realms
of absolute denial
until denial like the thing it is
brings the truth a-tumbling in
through windows, doors and air vents,
until it simply fades away
through too much oxygen.

Denial is allergic to
the air of simple truth
and pity so a one who keeps
denial as a bed fellow
in avoidance of
a shift in consciousness
to a higher mind.

The higher mind can't abide
so very many lies
made and promulgated
as the order of a life
but it knows to let it be
until suffers one to see
denial no means to happiness
in the now and ever after!

Dust from stone

When the "Universe" thinks it's time to reveal
what really cannot be seen
it catches a woman humbled by love
and imprisons her in the know.

For a time that knowing a suffering
simply too hard to bear
and she crumbles like stone into dust
in the confines of physical form.

That dust within not easily seen
waits for the wind to blow
or a wave to rise and wash away
an imprisoned imprint.

But wind and waves have their own place
and the waiting no means to be free
so there follows an inner resolve
to formulate an attitude.

An attitude, all attitudes, belie the absolute truth
but attitudes, all attitudes, the key that unlocks,
for better or worse, a fortified prison cell.

And in the time, the longest time,
between the start of the know
and a rightly designed attitude
that dust from stone remains dust!

The past

There's a place in the middle of humankind
that's like a vortex of sorts
and it holds the past with an iron fist
not destined to ever erode.

It's clever and sly in it's will to abide
by the manufacturer's guarantee
but the fist doesn't know
the unbound power of one
a force to be reckoned with.

So when of a mind the force rises up
and slays at that iron fist
until what it holds is released
and simply allowed to go free.

But the force not happy chases to ground
that now desperate fleeing past
and with the magic it has
thinks the thought of destruction
in the knowing that thoughts are things.

The power of one when of a mind
births, holds, kills, life's happenings
but in the silent spaces
still mourns the untimely death
of extraordinary love!

A smile

It talks to me, sings to me,
though it never utters a word,
It lifts me up, up, up,
though it doesn't have any arms
and makes the unseen spin inside
always and ever to music
I never ever can hear.

Without any hands it touches
my, oh, so tender spot
and  wipes away a tear
I thought to forever ignore
and there are secrets, yes indeed,
that I feel but don't really know
hiding somewhere behind the curve.

It's only a smile, a beguiling smile,
and so very wicked and "nice"
but one day it shuffled its feet
and moved to the far other side
of my inherent insight
and it did all that without any legs.

A smile, a smile, amazing smiles,
they're magicians in their own right!

Unholy matrimony

A tapestry of love's desire
stitched and weaved with memories
unravels in two hearts apart
and lays bare the needs of soul.

But threads of past intensity
unrelenting stay attached
like spirit hands in devil lands
won't leave well enough alone.

In this unholy matrimony
a mind entwined can't disengage
from the snap and crackle, pop,
of sparks growing into flames.

‘tis love or not this feel of ... you
or the glory be divine
but drip, drip - flick the tears
into a watering hole
where bulls quench hindsight thirst
in the twilight of regret.

And this preordained affair
like a dream to disappear
when the sun in love with other moons
sinks beneath potential
and lies static like an honour wreath
placed upon a grave.

Oh, grave, but ‘twas a maiden fair
who wore garlands in her hair
that now must hold the dead weight
of a lover turned to servant
of this transitory phase
deemed a human life
in the parlance of the wise.

Dust to dust but spirit lust
in love's unacknowledged fire
snaps and crackles, pops,
from midnight to daylight
until the world tilts sideways
and ... we all come tumbling down!

The Perimeter

A sadness o'er lays the glory of days
and nights become darker than dark
in the knowing that love's energy
remains confined and restricted
to only the perimeter
of skin, fat, muscle, bone.

It cannot creep into the mind of men
or into the heart of women
unless its presence is made known
in the most strangest of ways.

It can't ever be part of the norm
for we've made a norm out of ego
and made our beds the same as the rest
in a world devoid of intent
to love in a manner befitting
that attendant energy.

I teeter so on the borders of hate
for this so fickle human state
that hides intelligence in ignorance
and shutters the mind and heart
against the breeze
of the unseen.

Love will always be the unseen
on the perimeter of you and me
for a "he" makes the shutters,
a "she" closes them,
and the norm anointed as king
rules every living "thing".

So says Peter, Paul, Mary,
and all sentient beings
confined and restricted by "us"
to that unseen perimeter!

Things!

When it comes time to do something
it seems that things multiply
and suddenly another thing
cries, "Me, me, me, me, me"
and you look at that thing wondering
if that thing fits other things
or whether it's just a thing
creeping into other things
where nothing belongs.

So come all things, those merry things,
into life's Pandora's box
where they commune with other things
and intertwine their very own things
with one rare and special thing
to make of that thing a mishmash
of all and everything.

Things and things and things
and they all band together
though hardly in tune or melodic
in the circumstance of other things
all trying at once
to be more important things.

But in the way of hierarchy
there's always a thing above
and a thing above, above, above,
all of life's so merry things
banded together and intertwined
in Pandora's box.

The box, the box, ‘tis just a thing
of the nothing, something, everything,
that dresses up in layers
to expand and multiply
one plain and simple, ordinary,
unimportant thing!

Maybe this or that

I do not have to shop for magic wands and fairy spells
because the store is closed to believers just like me
and yet I stop to think that maybe this or that
could magically transform my dreams into real.

Dream catchers are for fools content to only dream,
bones and stones can't break the window of a soul,
and angel cards in both our hands foretell of ecstasy
before a used tarot deck maintains I've yet to grow.

And a foresighted man in solemn read of palm
can only be a best friend from a past or future life
telling me again that love's around the corner
just to get a bear hug for his, oh, so thoughtful lie.

But wait - a crystal ball sketches pictures in a mind
and hangs them on a wall of which I'm not possessed
and from my ring or watch a most believable epistle
that never in a million years ever goes to press.

Rather sit with me and we'll breathe together, see
and then you can pay me for sleeping in my chair
but, my dear, if you want more I'll fan your appetite
with the promise of a double dose of ordinary air!

The gypsy

The gypsy's fire has burnt to ash
and she has now retired
from passion's inspiration
to dance so mindfully
to the tune of all she feels.

The rain has started falling;
pitter-patter, pit-pat-pat,
and there's a momentary pause
before the rain is allowed
to mingle with her tears
and make them be as not.

The pause is the time between
what was and what must be
to appear a gypsy happy
around a pile of ash.

I can't see her but I know
her head is bent to low
and she hunches like a crone
on her shuffle back to home.

I think she's somewhat lost
in the dense and physical
and I would say she seems to be
directionally challenged
because it's this way then it's that,
it's forward then it's back,
and not to mention left or right
according to the track.

A gypsy is meant to dance
and a fire is meant to burn
but what is meant can never be ...
when a gypsy has retired!

Upside down!

When breathing in the breath of pain
it's like the mind turns upside down
to catch the bit that's left behind
the rise of hot air agony.

Upside down means not alright
to view the future glow of light
that hovers close, so very close,
to absorb that agony
and dissipate the impact
on those who will eventually
merge into the light.

It's happening beyond my view;
this I know for I've been told
and yet an upturned mind is such
to view the process morbidly
and sink into the gloom.

Gloom is sticky marshy "stuff"
that drags a body down, down, down,
but for a time a saviour's town
where inhabitants can meet, cry, frown,
and map out an escape route.

There are walls and doors, formalities,
and difficulty beyond compare
but in the cracks a tunnel hides
for belief, trust, love, to open wide
the access point to freedom.

Freedom, yes, ‘tis freedom's mind
that decides an end to agony
be it here to suffer more
or simply go into love's hold!

The memory of love

They're back again upon the bough
that once tall, vibrant, proud,
portrayed a greatness way beyond
my simple understanding.

I reached upward in need and awe;
how can it be they do not leave
that which now stands so forlorn
unadorned, un-beautified?

And so it is that naturally
seasons offer grief and grace
and all who stay the manner, means,
of inciting memory.

"Remember, remember!"
Birds aren't silent things
to not inspire through life's desire
to recuperate
and return again more beautiful
than the time before.

I understand that simply so
trees procreate more growth in rest
and they aren't silent things
to not speak of fortitude
in their season of frailty.

I hear the trees somewhere inside
but the birds are loud and clear
and I remember, remember,
a touch that once incited
the memory of love!

In between the agony

In between the agony
lies a blessing I can't see
but it pulses like a thing alive
waiting to be believed.

But blessings are like confetti
not able to withstand
the slightest breath of disregard
for their manner of being
and they hover momentarily
before simply flying away.

And so I know to wait;
blessings come dressed in disguise
but already I can feel between
the trappings of sheer agony
an unformed blessing embryo
waiting to be born
and yet, and yet, blessings must wait
for I too am dressed in disguise.

To clear the mind of agony
no easy task and yet must be
before the blessing can appear
and stand in its own worth
before the one who feels
but cannot know the shape and form
of what not yet is born!

From out the deep

From out the deep she rose to be
not a mermaid from the sea
but a woman of full faculty
giving back what was received.

Like a natural spring it bubbled
and overflowed the banks
of all that she believed
was the better way to be
and she knew in the equation
a minus stood where plus should be.

It was back then and is today
a calculated risk
to allow the inner out
but the one who "does" the numbers
prone not to ere consult
the one who must fulfil
the demands of a budget.

Except, except, ‘tis known by some
how budgets, sums, plus, minus, works
to bring about a new lifestyle
better suited to the "in" not "out".

Repeat, repeat, and, yes, I did
to maybe wipe the blackboard clean
and start again the adding up
of more meaningful endeavours
to satisfy that "pie in sky"
some would call a soul!

The new month of May

I haven't turned the page
to the new month of May
as if April like my love of you
too hard to let go
but there's a picture waiting
full glossy spread, I bet
to capture and enclose my heart
in the folds of memory.

And those folds are like a chain
interlocked heavy steel
and it winds around the will to be
unaffected by and indifferent to
the walk and talk, the silence,
the smiles, tears, touch, sight, smell,
of what was in the long ago
a really big event.

Big, oh, big, and how the small
denotes more than I think
when multiplied by months and years
of abstinence
and the page awaits my turning;
every day it waits
for me to squash the big, so big,
into a china thimble
meant merely as adornment.

The past adorns me
though none would deign to see
something beyond the real!

An accident!

Love is just an accident
no surgery can fix
and medication merely numbs
its sheer intensity
and indeed I take my daily dose
like you, and you, and them
unknowingly to procreate
a flow of ignorance.

The flow is fast, invincible,
and unstoppable
and pummels at the truth
like a tsunami
designed and made to suit
individual temperaments.

My tsunami is my look away,
my turn on heel, my shrug,
and my immersion in
the vat of transience.

Delicious, so delectable,
the need and strive to be
plain and simply unworthy
of love's lift up and let down
into meadows of the beautiful.

But I will smell the flowers,
pick petals "love me/not"
and serenely smile at every tree,
every twig, leaf, memory,
for that in case you didn't know,
is the sure and undeniable ...
result of accidents!

Extraordinary bliss

In a moment of sheer and extraordinary bliss
I like to think the world doesn't exist
but the world is a constant; it never is not
and bliss fades into obscurity.

Hunched and bunched like the defeated
it haunts on all fours the chambers of mind
and gains sustenance from imaginative feasts
placed on a platter of memories.

But the platter once gold is dull, uninspired,
and bliss looks on with lack-lustre eyes
but it knows to eat from fantasy's store
to validate all that was long before.

Though gone is all that was long before
bliss cannot be amongst the ignored
so it rises up into attack mode
and gathers the minds of those so inclined
to believe in its mystical powers.

But this in sleep and I'm not aware
and, yes, I lie, because I'm of the world!

Courage!

So what is this courage that mostly lies fallow
to suddenly rise and open the door
when I heard not a knock, a tap nor a scrape
on the solidness of normality?

It let the wind in and the curtains drew back
and the force of a choice whistled in and then out
and I, the bedazzled, knew change was afoot
with determined intent to uproot and dislodge
the roots of a woman once firmly entrenched.

Too soon, too soon, but change doesn't care
to succumb to a mind's limited view
so it prods and propels courage to the door
of what surely was not ere thought before.

And wind isn't stupid to come and then go
without dropping a shower of dust particles
to make of the old a no-go area
like a terrorist camp in the then Rhodesia.

There's a sparkle and gleam to new horizons
that attracts and repels simultaneously
and as the decisions sway back and forth
the voice of sheer courage calls all to order.

Courage rules, you know, while a woman weeps
and cuddles up close when she's fast asleep
but courage, dear courage, close the damn door!
I'm tired, so tired, of moving, moving!

Under construction

Under construction and junk everywhere
this incomplete business no happiness pill
but no one can breathe let alone swallow
a seemingly pointless attempt at renew.

It's okay and good to move the view
from here to another outlook
but there is no magic in junk everywhere
to simply implode at the touch of a thought.

Under construction and junk everywhere;
‘tis just the first and initial assault
on the queen of denial
who wears the crown of a fool
to safeguard security.

The incomplete will become complete
and junk everywhere a faint memory
when the queen bows to whatever must be
to effect a return unto love.

Meanwhile that queen is still a fool
under construction with junk everywhere!

The "pretty weird"

The "pretty weird" sits like a bloated frog
on a rock in the centre of town
surveying the scene as if it's a king
and ruler of lesser mortals.

It croaks from a platform above the norm
donned as it is in regal attire
and delivers its message forcefully
to those not yet in the know.

I listen like one determined to be
educated in the ways of its world
and the croak echoes day in, day out,
until I succumb to my perceptions.

I must tell you now that perceptions are based
on what I surely do not understand
because, as you know, frog language is meant
for frogs of the world and not me.

The "pretty weird" sits like a bloated frog
just to annoy the hell out of me
and has no agenda besides to confuse
and mix up my realities.

Don't listen to frogs; they're as weird as can be
and "pretty" can hardly apply
but beneath what seems quite gross and unreal
there must be something outstandingly grand.

I'll no doubt know more when I've... croaked!

A story, yes, but maybe not

Above where the stars twinkle and shine
lies the land of the now unseen
allowed to be free and loving
according to the dictates
passed through the ages to me.

It's a land of calm waters and torrents
that find their own place to be
and a land divided by thought and intent
that ensures no pollination
between the flowers and weeds
in the garden of all creation.

It births an abode of this versus that
and ‘tis the once disgraceful
who weed to no avail
and the once shameful
who drink the force of despair.

But already I am disgraceful
for how I despise the tether and tie
of my love to the wayward side
of one who knows but will not
rescue disaster's child.

And too I drink now the force of despair
and suffer unbound the raging waters
but history repeats unless, unless,
I mindfully loosen the strings
and tie them again to another.

Fingers and thumbs; what is this love
that refuses to be untied?

Golden orb

Like a golden orb of happiness
the setting sun doth shine
but the sun is moving all the time
here to there and then nowhere
and this movement like a lover
determined not to care.

The not to care an evil "thing"
that grabs me by the throat
and squeezes, squeezes, squeezes,
until I backtrack and retreat
into my withdrawal.

And withdrawal is a shady spot;
I recline there like a sloth
on all I hope and wish would be
until finally the moment comes
of the shine within
of a better, greater, grander orb
than ever seen before.

But too that orb is known to move
here to there and then nowhere
because I can't believe
orbs of happiness can be
independent of life's happenings!

The clouds

Formerly and prior to
the eventful
clouds of forgetfulness
o'er laid the land.

Oh, happy, happy, happy days

when unto men and women came

nimbus, stratus, cumulus,

as rulers of our kingdom

and dictators of our truth.

But time in its own time

and in the manner of a despot

chases all the clouds away

and leaves the happy naked

and shivering.

Then suddenly from out the blue

the clarity of mind

and the recall of other times

and I call the clouds, sometimes I do,

when naked in my love of you!

The weave!

‘tis not a spider web but the weave of one bemused
that twists and turns, overlaps, and tucks the corners in
to ensure a neat conformity and unruffled approach
to the nudge and prod of love
that demands acknowledgement.

No wind or rain dislodges same or hail dent the façade
for the weave of mind by one bemused
too solid and compacted
to allow a journey down into
the essential truth.

And that weave my goods and property,
my pension, comfort zone,
and my busy-ness and bustling
betwixt the non-essential
and the soon to dust.

So stands the one bemused in a swamp land
sinking, sinking, sinking,
and sinking, sinking, sinking,
until sinking kills the thinking
and heart released at last
rises up from the depths.

But no one braves a swamp land
to retrieve the risen up
unless, unless, they know
that heart is meant to last!