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!

Helen / 7 September 2009