Saturday, December 26, 2009

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

Tuesday, December 22, 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

Friday, December 18, 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?