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 in to 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!

Helen / 11 May 2009

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!

Helen / 8 May 2009

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!

Helen / 7 May 2009

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!

Helen / 5 May 2009