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!