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!

Not a sunset

Not a sunset but a fire
with the devil's eyes
searing through the landscape
of inherent nature
and the turn from this to that
a complete and utter disregard
for the beautiful.

And we were beautiful
before the heat of fear
and before the breathing in
of smoke ridden atmospheres
but now to ash the glorious
and once glamorous.

And ash unharnessed moves unbound
in the wind of circumstance
like lovers seeking solace
in the arms of many "girls".

So the beautiful now scattered, spread,
no longer empowered
breaks and severs spirit pacts
like they themselves were broken up
and togetherness a thing unknown
for the duration of a life.

But sometimes, just sometimes,
wind circles back again
and deposits all the scattered bits
one upon each other
and that pile of ash becomes again...
the beautiful.

I feel as if I'm beautiful but cannot ere be sure
because not a sunset but a fire
with the devil's eyes
happened before my time!

Allowance

Allowance asks a heavy price
from disapproval
for the bank has been depleted
o'er the years of knowing best
and the earn of points to let it be
a most difficult endeavour
in this economic climate.

But disapproval works its way
through a forest of insight
and rests beneath an aged tree
to re-asses the feel
till finally the move begins
towards another state.

And that state is one of willingness
to drape allowance like a cloak
o'er the knowing best
and to simply allow
the humanness of humankind
to flourish or flounder
according to the programme.

‘tis only when the programme fails
and minds begin to stir
that the knowing best emerges
from a lifelong cocoon
and I'm there in the flutter
touching, whispering,
and begging, pleading, needing,
your complete escape.

But I know to just allow
until time begets another time
and butterflies are butterflies!