Wednesday, December 29, 2010

The storehouse

The world is filled with grandiose things
like birds and trees and love
but unless they mix and mingle
and reach across the great divide
the clouds come in and threaten
to wash the goodness out.

Not everyone is like a vine
to wind within the meaningful
and wrap it, pack it, seal it up,
without the touch, taste, smell,
and so of them not so endowed
they become as travelling minstrels
gathering and harvesting
from intuitive insight.

There is no limit, none at all,
to how much the soul can store
when at a thought inbuilt reserves
discard the trivial
each day, each minute, second,
as the wagon trundles on.

It is the roll on rough terrain
that tests the mechanism
of how we act, react,
to make of the storehouse
a good place to dig and ferret.

I’m building such a place
but each day, each minute, second,
I’m conscious of a mystic glow
From an, oh, so empty space.

Inbuilt reserves?  Oh, yes, indeed.
They simply cannot move
a glow so intangible
as to not be there at all!

Tuesday, December 28, 2010

Round the mountain

She’s going round the mountain
the only way she knows
because to climb straight on up
not in her thought processes.

It’s the long way round that ne’er brings in
the full spectrum of belief
in all her dreams and wondrous things
waiting to be claimed.

But she fights through the underbrush
because she knows, has always known,
there are treasures on the round-about
that first must be collected.

They weigh her down, indeed they do,
but once the creep under skin
finally complete
she can become … a flying acrobat.

And then and then once on top
she’ll know she claimed the lot
and the slide back down to ground
no hardship to her crown.

She’s going round the mountain
day by day, step by step.
See her there in mud and slush
and ask if it’s worthwhile.

Sunday, December 12, 2010

The flow

When the flow of what is meant to be
comes up against a wall
it stands there quite bemused
for at least a million years.

It studies every straight and curve,
every crack, bump, hole, and split
but none sufficient for a pass
and it prays for transformation.

Let it be as water so to seep
slowly, steadily,
through the seemingly impassable
and reach its destination.

But water? No, no, no,
It’s still of weight and measure
and a million years turns into two
while the flow thinks what to be.

So after two or maybe more
prayer discarded turns to slush
and sullies every new attempt
at change and transformation.

It’s just the way it goes
when the flow can’t see the way
so for me I pray for floods
to rise the flow above ~
and it does; it rises, up, up, up,
and like a dream supersedes
this reality!

Friday, December 10, 2010

The deep within

The mountain didn’t ask to be
a container for earth’s righteous soul
but it was calm and undisturbed
until the plea from deep within
“Please open up a crack or two
so I can see what mountains do.”

The mountain pleasantly obliged
but ‘twas a dangerous journey
as the deep within clawed its way
onward, onward, onward,
towards a higher up perspective.

Finally it celebrated
and on the peak stood happily
determined there to balance
all it saw and felt.

First one foot then the other
but the two together didn’t work
so the deep within slid back again
to ponder, assimilate, and justify.

It churned within but at a loss
it merely boiled it all together
and pumped it like a geyser up,
up, up and further up,
till out the mountain flowed the feel
of how mankind behaves.

Hot like lava, yes, it was,
to bury all the lies, deceit,
and burn the trail of footsteps
that forces on the innocent
a mindless follow-on.

The mountain argued reasonably
that humans are a race of greed
born and bred to first believe
truth doesn’t fill the coffers.

So the deep within took pity on
all the lowly folk just like me
and after a mere token of
its deep upset and heartbreak
thought to let the people be.

But of the deep within
how can it now be calm, composed,
when in the know and aware
that it must one day rise fully up
to change the way humans behave!

Wednesday, December 8, 2010

Love in the dirt

Love came upon a dusty trail
trodden on by many minds
and at the crossroads saw a sign
that left it quite bemused.

It wavered there for quite a spell
but no spell of insight came
to make it move right or left
or carry on ahead.

Finally it turned around
and went back the way it came
for far behind it knew to find
the point of no departure.

And that point of no departure
it’s very own true essence
still clean and untainted
by life’s so dusty trail.

But sad to say there’s no water
to wash the dust away
and that point of no departure
sent it back onto the trail.

But trails aren’t laid down roads
with no options at the crossroads
and that is why today you’ll find
love sitting in the dirt.

It simply doesn’t know
which option best to clean, refresh, renew,
and befit if for a welcome back
to that point of no departure.

One day love will walk again
but for now it merely sits
head bent and waiting for …
a little spell of insight!

The air

I won’t remember the air;
it’s a featureless entity
silently hanging like a prayer
when it’s not disturbing my hair.

It’s the keeper of pure energy
that neither can hold my hand
nor walk me to paradise
one beautiful step at a time.

There are no separate parts
like love/love me not petals
on flowers prepared to be stripped
down to the essential core.

And though I stare like one enthralled
I don’t see the face of the one I adore
nor the witch and the wizard of magic
dressed and adorned as I once was.

It’s air, only air, featureless air,
with a punch that keeps me aware
when I breathe and again breathe in
what it decides is befitting for me.

And so of the air, that featureless air,
I sacrificed so much to feel
it really is now and forever will be
a great disappointment to me!


(Don’t ask me – I’m just the writer)

Saturday, December 4, 2010


Upon the mountain way up high
no bells ring out an order
for one and all to gather there
and build a bonfire of delight.

Delight can burn, it surely does,
but not up there on mountain tops
that forces on a burdened flock
a climb beyond ability.

It burns where ere it’s called to be
and fuels itself with true intent
passed from the soul to me, to you,
as a forever Christmas gift.

Time passes though and gifts grow old,
styles change to modern ways,
and fashion statements then decree
we all dress up the same.

You’d think delight would follow suit
but, no, it stays as once was made
old fashioned in its coloured robe
left now to trail behind the times.

It’s not a problem, really not,
be thankful that it trails at all
for easily could give up the chase
and stay back in the past.

Delight is there, always there,
waiting for the call to be
a fire that burns no matter life
that douses true reality!

Monday, November 29, 2010

Projected faith

And with the dawning of the facts
the bubble of my own faith
explodes and spreads like shards of glass
across each path I choose to tread.

The cuts and scrapes, blood and pain,
not ever seen in my belief
yet force upon the wondrous “me”
a coming down to artful earth.

But the land itself is innocent
forced to endure just like me
and shines the glass heavenward
like a signalled S.O.S.

Sometimes it misses, shines at me;
can it be I’m dubbed the saviour
and the one and only skilled enough
to repair a bubble?

The wondrous “me”; how can it be
my body’s pierced with glass
and I stand as one in ignorance
of projected faith?

Shine on, shine on, shine on me,
oh, glass and master of dis-ease,
because projected faith
always outweighs reflections!

Sunday, November 28, 2010

Gust of sadness

It’s just a gust of sadness
that passes o’er the land
like travellers in the desert
seek out an oasis.

It zigzags o’er the same terrain
like the lost and lonely do
and blows in mindless circles
unbroken by intent.

Uncertain whether here or there
it simply settles everywhere
seeking so to hedge its bets
and come out on the plus side.

And so I close the windows,
the doors are ne’er ajar,
but nothing’s ever airtight
in this land of imperfection.

It’s just a gust of sadness
and an uninvited guest
due a measure of respect
before it’s ushered out.

And so of doors and windows
let them be as you desire
for life is such to always be
the force behind a gust!

Saturday, November 27, 2010

The abandoned

The dial of time turns slowly round
like the abandoned turn again
to face the world of men
as warriors and labourers,
peacemakers, lovers, friends,
and stand upon a pedestal
as beautiful dream makers.

It’s always the abandoned
that must carve a better end
and create the new improved
to overlay the old.

And the abandoned dream
of the better and the best
and thereby expunge
the, oh, so plaintiff cries
of the now ill-fated.

Dream on, I say, like I do
for all dreams are fashioned, made,
to set down grooves and channels
for the holding and directing
of life-force energies.

And who’s the fairest of them all,
the seedy, sleazy, strings
of the same old, same old,
or the boundless potential
of the forever beautiful
dream makers of the world?

Thursday, November 25, 2010

The fires of hope

It’s always hope that keeps alive
the will to survive
but in the delve and ferret
I see no wood or coal
beneath the fires of hope.

Ash, more ash, upon the ground,
the dirty, dusty, ground,
where humans tramp in circles
cold without a fire.

But, lo behold, there comes at last
the new and clean untainted
to light again another fire
until that too burns out
and lies as one with old.

So the new, unused, and tested, tried,
mingle in the dust of time
and blow towards heaven’s gate
like those seeking redemption.

Sad to say ash simply goes
way beyond the entrance gates
and settles o’er the hand of fate
that again, again, and again,
lights, burns, kills, every flame
in the fires of hope.

Circles, circles, round and round,
hope’s not a thing to ere be found
forever burning bright
and yet, and yet, those times of fire
so beautifully enflame
the will to survive!

Sunday, November 21, 2010

Am I ...?

Of course I know how amazing it is
that life should believe I’m a frog
able to jump with effortless ease
over the hurdles placed on my track.

How, oh how, to arise like a frog
and land back like a human being
sends an electrical pulse
to the working part of a brain.

Go to the light – oh, mammoth delight,
the large and all-encompassing,
but what makes you think I’m in the dark
perceived as fiendishly evil?

It doesn’t make sense to birth a “me”
and expect I transmute to a frog
when I simply have to stay as I am,
the light in my darkest sky.

I am the light out there on the track
over, beneath, and around
so move the hurdles, yes, just try
and I’m still over, beneath, around.

Am I a frog, a “me”, hurdle,
or am I plain and simply
that all-encompassing light
and a truly mammoth delight?

Friday, November 19, 2010

Heart lines

The heart has corners, yes, it does
wherein to stuff the lies and such
but there are no bars and wrought iron gates
to prevent their daily walk-abouts.

They meander in my forest, glens,
to taint the beautiful
and touch upon my friendly tears
to turn them into angry ones.

They even pull on strands of hair
and the pain bursts full and free
in a head that once thought love
above/beyond all things.

So I took a scalpel, yes, I did
in hands that knew to scrape and smooth
the heart into a perfect line
like that between the soul and mind.

There is no tool to bend and swirl
what’s come to pass to how it was
and of a heart now in a line
it remains until my sure demise.

It’s in the stars or in the palm
that heart lines must eventually be
a slip and slide for lies and such
so they can’t attack en masse!

Tuesday, November 16, 2010

Pot of bliss

I moved my pot of bliss
further, further, away
so it could grow and prosper
isolated from dis-ease.

I fussed and fretted anxiously
as I’m prone to do
and nourished from a distance
with innate energy.

It didn’t work; the bliss has died
and the pot no longer shines
out there beneath a fulsome tree
meant to protect the feel.

But trees aren’t me; they cannot be
concerned with potted bliss
when busy sinking roots
into impermanence.

And once bliss disowned
it’s like a jilted lover
standing firm in its avowals
of no second chances.

It’s all a challenge right or wrong
this cajoling, begging, pleading,
when I could simply pick it up
and bring it back inside ~
but there are no muscles now
to uplift and reinstate.

And the moral of the story ~

when bliss has grown don’t let it go!

Monday, November 15, 2010


Morning breaks the spell of night
like the quiet approach of death
but there is peace upon the land
before the jolt awake.

It is a jolt to mind, heart, soul,
when the return from sleep
lands one in the deep end
of life’s cauldron of desire.

Desire bubbles on the earthly plane
beneath a calm façade
and beneath the choices made
that render us immobile.

Sometimes desire tickles me
with its outrageous needs
until laughter brings the tears
that propagate dismay.

Desire, you see, no bedfellow
to the happiness in me
because it always pulls the covers off
and leaves me shivering.

“Hello, Desire” and desire merely smiles
the wicked smile of one who knows
it’s programmed not to leave
until the spell of night
settles in to daylight hours!

Saturday, November 13, 2010

Stay as made

Before the time of other lands
there were flowers, rivers, streams,
and the glorious unseen
on the side-lines of a life.

They didn’t shout out “Look at me”
or beat the drum of self-image
but merely did their level best
to stay as they were made.

But for all who live in other lands
it’s impossible to stay as made
amidst the shouting, beating drums,
and the cacophony of money
that deafens the awakened.

The flowers bloom and die,
the streams and rivers flow elsewhere,
and of the glorious unseen
they bow their heads in shame
because they were once like you and me
encased within a false veneer.

We still have flowers, rivers, streams,
and the glorious unseen
but they bubble now like cauldrons do
and soon will overflow the brim
of quiet forbearance.

There’s a trickle now of that
in the bosom of this other land
and when death outweighs the baby boom
we’ll know the scales of justice
are doing their level best
to stay as they were made!

Thursday, November 11, 2010

Story of a rock

There once was a rock sunken down deep
in the sand of old mother earth
and as the grains shifted and moved
it tried to reach out and hold them close
as it had done before.

But a rock doesn’t have arms, you know,
or legs and feet to follow footsteps
so it stayed to suffer the agony
of a slow and insidious chip-away
at its strength and courage.

There were many more grains round about
wherein to hide the light of insight
which dawned in recurring dreams
of how life is supposed to be
but dreams aren’t real or so it believed.

The many more grains in time moved on
into the sphere of their very own lives
and the rock alone in the sand bowed down
to the pressure from up above.

The burn from the heat of no release,
the cold of the nightmarish nights,
and the pounding rain that never washed out
the implanted need of true love.

It’s only a rock perceived to be
the same as it was before
but always there are the unseen winds
that change the contours of rocks.

Today, every day, it looks up at the sky
and wishes to be a bird
free to fly to its very own life
known to be just a dream
waiting to be believed!

Tuesday, November 9, 2010

I think of the heart

The master of all experience
has warned the heart not to flutter
because the reverting to its natural gait
will force it onto the battlefield
to face the monster, denial.

That monster denial from the land of mind,
an ogre to not be viewed,
waits to pounce on the innocent
around each corner and bend
and I think of the heart and how it must be
a courageous “fellow” indeed.

It steps into the fray time, time again
and emerges all battered and bruised
but does it desist? No, it’s unschooled
in the manner and means of falsehoods.

It’s not like the cost of tutoring heart
was a mere splash in the ocean
to be flicked to the side and ignored
for the rest of its natural life
and I think of the heart and how it must be
a very slow learner indeed.

The spectator, me, from the outside believes
the fight will never be done
until earth erupts in a shower of dust
and floats in the ether unformed.

There heart and mind are intrinsically twined
and step, flutter, dance, in unison
and, oh, it’s a sight to behold
for those equipped with better eyesight
or simply a touch of insight.

Meanwhile the battle ~ heart, ogre, mind,
and me on the outside appalled
and the stupidity of it all!

Saturday, November 6, 2010

Double or quits

Love gives me something solid, true,
then jackhammers it to pulp
and sometimes builds monuments
to precipitate implosions.

It holds my hand and gently leads
then swings me hither/thither
just to see me wobble
as I try to regain land.

It strokes my body beautiful
then cuts right to the core
with mighty slashes of distaste
that I lived at all.

It surely is the best of all
master of disguise
and fools the most discerning
with loving tenderness.

It’s made of dust, you see,
the dust of fantasy,
preordained to blow away
and surpass all understanding.

It’s like a coin two-sided
but once the worst side known
only the brave would play …
double or quits!

Sunday, October 31, 2010

The half-way stage

The stairs are steep that challenge me
to climb the highest peak
and stand upon the pinnacle
a woman loving you.

I’m not at the bottom nor at the top
but stuck at the half-way stage
where the table is set with crumbs and snippets
sent from the ether to land.

And as I imbibe new reality checks
my hunger increases then dips
because the whole package
refuses to land in my lap.

When hunger dips down it’s okay to frown
and cry like the abandoned
and cutting the hunger to suit the times
makes of crumbs a nourishing meal.

Still and all, we always need more
to fill up the will to climb
and who can survive on a crumb
when the appetite wants only love?

Thursday, October 28, 2010

The unused

So there it sits on the plate of unused
somewhat stale and rather mouldy
but not yet abhorrent or disgusting
to one who believes in innate goodness.

It lives near the bin of my discarded
rather full with the advent of knowledge
that never enhanced my trust or belief
in what was play-acted out.

There must be a means of moving the old
even though there is goodness within
to a place unseen and not visited
by the consciousness that is a “me”.

So when love can’t come to the party
let it lie for a while undisturbed
for slowly the world and the manner of life
will destroy from the outside in.

Then it has moved, you see, you see,
with no denial or wilful intent
to partake in the ritual of a sacrifice
to this, oh, so transient life.

But there are the tears silent and grave
and the sad refrains of a witness to death
floating around in the atmosphere
like a shroud o’er the whole countryside.

The rivers become polluted, you see,
and the trees wilt in situ,
when men and woman like you and me
leave love to suffer on plates of unused!

Tuesday, October 26, 2010


I’m fanning the air around wishes, needs,
to circulate what I put out
but how stupid is that when mind’s intact
and works with no electricity.

It’s not solar powered but yet needs fuel
brought up from the depths of desire
but you must understand life pollutes all
and makes wishes/needs ineffectual.

It’s not like life’s evil or bad
but simply slow to desist
from dropping my every wish
into the dirt of its own agenda.

But one day, one day, life will believe
everything dropped must be picked up
so if I don’t fuel the fires of desire
my wishes and needs are disempowered.

And who would have thought a woman like me
would end up a stoker of fires
but it’s okay, you see, because I believe
one day that one day will come.

Saturday, October 23, 2010

If ...

If I walked within lavender fields
I’d come out believing in you
and the beauty I saw will live evermore
somewhere in the folds of time.

Time folds itself around the good
and despatches it into the future
to lie unseen within gene pools
until restlessness overcomes peace.

The good has a feel not ever to leave
so if you’re thinking to fool me, don’t
and next time when you take my hand
don’t pretend it’s a new experience.

But you will pretend, I will pretend,
and we’ll both choose a different field
violet for me, green for you,
but in the field where good lives free …
everyone’s colour blind.

Nothing good ever dies but it procreates lies
when life splits the flowers from leaves!

Thursday, October 21, 2010

China cups

There is a place where love is found
somewhere above this artful ground
but too below my imprint here
the karmic fields of the diseased.

It’s a disease we all know well
because whole or part we twisted from
a straight and honest love vessel
to a distorted pottery mug.

And as a mug I cannot be
placed amidst fine china cups
that have a base to stabilize
the sway of all uncertainty.

But what to be, believe, and do
like balls within a juggler’s air
sometimes caught, sometimes dropped,
but always put in motion.

There is no knowing yet must be
belief, faith, trust that mugs and me
will end up where we have to be
to transform into the beautiful.

It’s in the need and want to be
the finest of all china cups
that causes waves of circumstance
to alter what we thought would be!

Tuesday, October 19, 2010


I remember the ire of a violent downpour
as it pounded upon my own little parade
and how the shock o’er laid my body
to make of the living a deadly phantom.

It’s phantoms that walk the halls and malls,
the coffee shops, restaurants, bars,
seeking the means to cut the cloth
wound tight around happiness.

I see them and know there’s no where to go
but back to that little parade
where the rain washed everything out
and they floundered in mush and slush.

If they’re like me they don’t like to be
in a place of no escape
but the way to be free is to feel again
the full force and effect of downpours.

Best do it from a safe house
where laughter’s the best medicine
because everyone laughs after the fact
that threatened but didn’t kill.

It will rain again and I’ll feel again
but next time perhaps no parades
but rather a stroll undaunted
out there in the pounding rain!

Monday, October 18, 2010


I dropped the broom; bang, clatter, crash,
at the edge of my despair
unwilling to sweep it away
and pretend another day.

So there I sat with hands on lap
amidst a pile of dirt
mulling over possibilities
and the effort needed.

But I was tired, you know, that day
when dirt appeared alive
and mocked my willingness inside
to ignore its artful ways.

So I cried the tears of one endowed
with an immense pile of dirt
just there beyond the reach
of my strength of mind.

But, lo, the wind of trust rose up
like an angel flapping wings
and I thought of brooms and how they are
useless to believers.

To trust the process good or bad
like magic sweeps the dirt away
but when the pile’s beyond belief,
simply ask the angels!

Saturday, October 16, 2010

The break

The unruly and seemingly out of control
blooms today in the garden of soul
as evidence of a freedom wish
kept secret for many a year.

Not really a secret but rather a need
hidden well in the pocket of life
self-stitched above the original
to take whatever’s dished out.

So the pocket of life gets fuller, too full,
and breaks from the seams of what seems to be
and brings forward into the light of day
a previously unknown you and me.

No introductions normal or formal
precede the process of integration
but flashes of insight appear/disappear
to make of the chore a tiresome one.

Tiresome chores; God save us all
from unearthing what should have been known
and make of pockets adornments perhaps
stitched closed to prevent the intake.

Life always forever puts in too much
but pockets don’t break unless overfilled
and it behoves us to know that the break
vital to shepherding wanderers
back into the fold of themselves!

Wednesday, October 13, 2010


An insidious weed creeps through my lawn
with intent to kill the beautiful
and I watch somewhat amused
at its amazing audacity.

How dare it take on the power of one?
How dare it have no regard
for the smooth and unwrinkled façade
of the essentially stunning?

Time is a weed unstoppable
with a despicably twisted mind
and my body bears good testimony
to its evil designs.

It’s no good preening and creaming,
it’s no use denying the fact,
and so I accept time’s awfulness
with a decidedly bad attitude.

But in the fullness of what’s still to be
an attitude procreates fact
so I know to remain somewhat amused
while waiting for the last laugh!

Tuesday, October 12, 2010

Quick as a flash

Quick as a flash the rose opened flat;
where was the core that bespoke of the more
that should have been and could have been
if more time had been spent on the planning.

I wish I had planned and not simply fell
into the need of love
because it’s not needed, not really, you know,
when a stand-in for the genuine.

The genuine hides like the core of a rose
and refuses to build from the start up
because it knows the ground not prepared
to support and nourish its immense growth.

Pink is the rose that opened flat
right next to the fully formed white
and maybe they will cross-breed one day
and be as love unconditional.

I still feed that rose from the place I’m at
because I know what’s growing nearby
but if I didn’t know, that rose would be me
dreary, lifeless, and flat!

Friday, October 8, 2010

"Not me"

Free and flying singing birds
rise and dip like dolphins do
and it matters not the air or sea
commonality abides.

‘tis just the land that draws a line
between your needs and mine
and maims or kills the spirit
of the perceived “not me”.

And it’s into that damn awful mix
that love must come to heal the sick
and raise from out those killing fields
the attackers and the dead?

But I think of love it’s just a “thing”
that sits on sidelines of the fray
waiting for each one to be
conscious of its awesome feel.

Love’s not “pushy” like you are
and toothless it can’t bite the hand
that feeds it garbage from the can
of egos wrapped it selfishness.

Yet in the breath of living things
love’s silent hope beds down
and it knows to be half comatose
until the wake up call.

Tread carefully lest you wake it up
before the time is right
for somehow it’s like you and me
unproductive without sleep.

Love needs to sleep and breathe in deep
yet still perceived as a “not me”!

Thursday, October 7, 2010

From out the blue

So the drip and drop from out the blue
not under my control
burst forth and sprayed the ground
with the hidden and denied.

It pains to know the feel of such
unaltered from the start
and to know that earth’s capacity
too shallow for downpours.

I send it up; I do, I do,
from whence it surely came
and the brim loses conformity
in the act of obligation.

Yes, the blue, is karma clad.
What it gives it must receive
and suffer if it must
the construction of reservoirs.

‘tis just a building game, you know,
until, until, life calls time
and despatches blue behind the flow
of uncontrolled rainfalls.

My eyes are blue; how strange to be
in sync with the most far away
and yet I’m glad my knowledge base
tells me the blue will come again!

Friday, October 1, 2010

Boxed affair

It doesn’t matter what the shape
life is still a boxed affair
confined in cupboards overfilled
and covered with the dust of time.

It’s just a box like moments are
and the light today draws me in
to where they sit in quiet repose
waiting for an airing.

To air a moment that was once
a chore unlikely to dismiss
the impact good or otherwise
on the viewer of collectables.

But I look at them with misty eyes,
smiles that turn to laughter loud,
and sometimes there are downturned lips
with furrows on a woman’s brow.

Each one and all as time decides
they frolic in the air I breathe
until finally when dusted, done,
they’re consigned again to dormancy.

Little boxes, little boxes,
little boxes everywhere,
there’s no place to keep you good as new
where I’m going to!

Tuesday, September 28, 2010


I chanced upon a hiccup
on my way across the plains
and it rose and dipped according to
the way hiccups always do.

It came as a complete surprise;
could hiccups be the way of life
which like a bomb distracts the mind
from the good essential?

I thought the plains a solid base
not an undulated mess
that tests the front, sideways, back,
of how I present myself ~
but now I know they simply are
a place where hiccups lie in wait
to pounce upon the loving.

And hiccups are like cereal
vitamin enriched, of course,
to energize distractions from
and distortions of the truth.

I once was still on “them there” plains
before the advent of hiccups
that wear the guise and act like life
to turn believers doubtful.

To myself and those who love,
a hiccup's just a hiccup
 armed to chase us from the plains
if we ourselves run scared!

Sunday, September 26, 2010

I am also from

I am also from the womb
of creative intent
and from the contrariness
of one who journeys mindfully.

I am also from the motherhood,
the sisterhood, et al,
of the blue of sky and oceans wide
that captures the best of me.

I am also from the knowing
of corners, bends, and curves
formed each into an obstacle
that tests my flexibility.

I am also from the thoughts
of the you, the them and they
loving, indifferent, hateful,
imbibed collectively.

But I’m also from the heart
of angelic realms divine
who stitched in my unhappiness
an eternal pressure valve.

And I’m also from the love
that surpasses understanding
but how loving can love be
when it severs me from you?

Saturday, September 25, 2010

I am from ...

I am from the slide of sun
into the place where lovers meet
and the glow of moon
that makes me know it’s true.

I am from silver linings
of the dark and menacing
and the dew that overlays
landscapes of betrayal.

I am from the song of birds
joyous in the morning light
and the silence of the lambs
overcome by stormy weather.

I am from the crust of earth
that stabilizes fear
and her own inner turmoil
that upsets what I hold dear.

I am from the question mark
of not understanding
and the exclamation mark
of acceptable conclusions.

I am from the trail of hands
that contoured soul to fit
all the many styles and shapes
of diverse circumstances ~
but most of all without a doubt
I am from loving you!

Saturday, September 11, 2010

Let it be known

To be awake but not awakened
and, oh, this is a merry life
that keeps one in the mire
of reality’s conspiracy.

And then there is the light
but no enlightenment
and knowledge but no wisdom
and love but no loving.

Peace is there somewhere
but no peacefulness
because it cuddles up to joy
and hides in discontent.

Let it be known I know
how great we are to live this farce
and play-act with intensity
the simulated genuine.

But of the genuine who knows
if ere upon a dusty shore
if will rise in true force, effect,
and stand as one triumphant?

Let it be known I don’t know
but maybe in a future time
there’ll be a misfit speck of past
that shows I should have known.

The awake, enlightened, wise,
the peaceful and the joyous,
all specks within the folds of time
that one day will make a … whole!

Monday, September 6, 2010

There can be ...

There can be a moment of happiness, joy,
and faith so strong it breaks my own will
and there can be a moment of sadness, despair,
that breaks what lies beyond awareness.

There can be the lightness of wishes in air,
the heaviness of no one who cares,
the gentle hold of loving you so
and the open arms of letting you go.

There can be the tears of the lost and lonely
and those joined with mirth and laughter
and there can be the pain in body and mind
that loosens my hold on these present times.

There can be the sinking of feet into earth
and the wiping it off because it’s just dirt
but dirt always sticks no matter the holes
life has made be in everyone’s soul.

There can be, there was, but what’s yet to be
a matter, I think, simply up to me!

Sunday, September 5, 2010

The middle part

Not as bad as death row,
not as good as paradise,
and yet an island visited
to stand on solid ground.

It’s the middle part before the sway
and a place no one can stay
for like the sea it rises, sinks,
and the sand moves underfoot.

What’s good, what’s bad?
No mind can know
when like an island buffeted
or calmed by passing fancy.

And so that “try, try again”
for constancy, stability,
a never ending flex, relax,
until all the facts are known.

But facts are like graphs and charts
drawn by own perceptions
and that island’s just a place I go
to experience the flow ~
until paradise found and known
to be here on my death row!

Monday, August 30, 2010

The shuffle and deal

From out Pandora’s box there flew
the questions, answers, thoughts, feelings,
and I gathered them like woman do
within the confines of review.

Laid start to end they made no sense
so I shuffled them like cards, you know,
and fanned them round as if to deal
the truth into mind’s memory.

But soon the truth became o’er laid
with my opponents cards from hell
and who can find the absolute
when past perceptions resolute?

So I tried to stack them neatly so
back into where they should remain
but once let out an unmatched pile
exceeds the boundaries of mind.

Today they walk in single file
in the ether of what’s still to be
bearing all and getting more
until ne’er again a “once before”.

But what of mind that can’t discard
the deal of life’s most hellish cards?

Friday, August 27, 2010

Snapping sound

‘tis just a gentle snapping sound
like a small branch underfoot
that halts the stride of one endowed
with a sense of urgency.

And in the pause pure silence falls
to weight the muscles with dismay
till unable to regain the will
nothing happens, zero, naught.

The pose is most undignified,
no directions left to read,
but who can read from left to right
when stuck in nothing happening?

That moment stretches into years
until brain functions re-engage
and rev towards awakening
a too long dormant will.

Oh, will, the will of mighty men
breaks the silence, moves the feet,
but of that snapping, snapping, sound
in lurks unseen in spaces weak.

‘tis just a weak space, nothing more,
and sounds don’t really hurt at all
so crush those branches happily
on the way towards a happening!

Wednesday, August 25, 2010

From this to that

When light shines forth upon the world
and all in awe bow down
there’ll be a fluttering of fear
within the bowels of earth.

She’s come to know, you see,
the footsteps, sadness, tears,
so long in residence upon
the outskirts of her life.

She’ll murmur softly, gently,
and tremble slightly so
unknowing that her fear of loss
will beget more suffering.

And when she knows she’ll strike a pose
of feigned indifference
and proceed undaunted with the chore
of birthing happiness.

But such is happiness to be
something that dances temporarily
and those in empathy with earth
will again light up the sky.

From this to that and back again
and earth each time gets closer to
a state of fearlessness
at losing what she’s come to know!

Thursday, August 19, 2010

Let it be

I understand where it came from,
where it’s gone to a deep mystery,
but I’m not inclined to delve and pry
or not trust the process of love.

But still the missing of corners and bends
perturbs a traveller on roads to the end
for always they should lead into straights
that allow a return unto love.

I guess love is there beneath the flesh
but I’m not inclined to try a pin-prick
to test the depths of its safe retreat
and upturn its current condition.

Let love lie deep down inside
if that’s where it’s chosen to hide
or let it glide un-tethered and free
if it’s not meant to be.

Let it be, let it be, but let it not be
the reason for you and me and them
to not ever again in this lifetime
find those missing corners and bends!

Helen / 20 August 2010

Saturday, August 7, 2010

Dig or let lie?

From beneath the surface of burial grounds
can be heard the sounds of restlessness
and it’s like the sand moves underfoot
and topples the stance of permanence.

I buried the past deep down underground
and thought it would lie forever as dead
so I kept a fair distance from the rumble
like one in protection of sanity.

Now far from that initial event
and totally firm in stubborn denial
I listen unnerved and wait perturbed
for an eruption that’s bound to occur.

It’s a question of time; how long can one vow
to remain untouched by past happenings
before the eyes rising and deafening ears
with the cries of needful acknowledgement?

But soon, too soon, the “now” creeps up
and the past sinks back into the sand
not dead but silent and mournfully still
like one on the sidelines of happiness.

And I, the one with shovel and spade,
ponder the merits of unearthing the past
when the past with a will of its own
so adept at moving unaided.

But only a movement and nothing to fear
when the “now” more forceful and overpowering
yet the tremble is felt and footsteps falter
with re-avowals of stubborn denial.

Dig or let lie?

Monday, August 2, 2010

An "it"

I thought I caught it one day
from that special river of soul
where honesty forms a channel
and truth a solid base.

Lo and behold, an about-face
and the choice for a time of the mighty sea
until, as would happen, it became snared
on the line of the world’s many lies.

It landed then and sought to be free
until it knew that would never be
and so it travelled back, further back,
in search of a woman like me.

But I was gone from that river of soul
because no honesty in an about-face
that leaves the base dry and o’er laid
with layers and layers of falsities.

It happens that way when we turn away
from one who fishes in rivers of soul
but pity the “it” now joined and entwined
with the world’s unaccountable lies.

If asked today I’d certainly say,
“Don’t fish in the rivers of soul
because sooner or later all you will catch
is an infectious virus of lies!"

Thursday, July 29, 2010

The point of the matter

The point of the matter a will-o’-the-wisp
to disappear like dew in the day
and take to the trails of fanciful schemes
laid like a road towards definite goals.

I left at seven suitably armed
to restrain that point of the matter
but it wiggled and squirmed out of my grasp
and got lost in the forest of dreams.

And in that forest of numerous dreams
there’s no place for practical matters
and for a time I thought maybe to be
a sidekick to all possibilities.

I dozed in the shade of how life could be
if dreams met on the road towards goals
and walked hand in hand like lovers
to find that proverbial pot of gold.

I awoke with a start; how time deceives
one who projects into lifetimes not yet
and I saw the dew again creeping in
to overlay the point of the matter.

And so the actual point of the matter
too fleeting to make an impression
bemoans its fate time, time again,
like a beautiful woman ignored!

Saturday, July 24, 2010

The pulse of agony

How amazing is the heart
to break and break again
and not ere be done with
the pulse of agony.

Slow running stitches
stabilize the tear
but when the thread runs out
a revealing stare results.

And that stare like a laser beam
cuts right to the core
and in situ cauterizes
the advance of agony.

But who can stand and stare
at a tear that runs amok
when the pulse of agony
beats vehemently?

So I make those running stitches
time and time again
because strange I am to not believe
revealing stares are laser beams!

Friday, July 23, 2010

The sun and the meaningful

The sun rises quietly like a peeping tom
and sneaks an intrusive look
through open windows of the mind
made so to be visible by innate honesty.

It’s a moment of joy and sorrow combined
that forces on the sun a hasty rise above
for to move and hide the view
a time to tabulate all discrepancies.

Yet even with the plus/minus,
pros and cons, maybe this, maybe that,
laid in order down the page
the sun still sits bewildered.

The problem in the manner of
one who can discern the truth
is how to navigate through junk
and settle for the meaningful.

And in the time it takes to make
a table that enhances love
and disregards the human force
chaos reigns down on the ground.

Not me, you see, but ‘tis the sun
that dilly dallies far above
until the sink brings in sleep
and night completes the table.

But, lo, the sun must rise again
on a day not as the one before
and must like you and me and them
rework through junk to enhance love.

The sun, the sun; I pity one
that can’t from sleep remain at peace
and un-bewildered hold in hands
the night’s tabulated meaningful!

Friday, July 16, 2010

Thinking love

Thinking love and why it is
the heart no longer moves
into a bed of roses
where buds are known to bloom
into their eternal truth.

It’s like a winter all year round
where all is covered on the ground
to prevent the coming out
of love’s amazing grace.

Perhaps the summer harsh and stark
caused a retreat into the dark
where hearts can stay as icicles
and not thaw into their truth.

But so it is from now till when
dead the roots in ego beds
and hearts are free to move again
unfettered by the false.

The false, the false, how true it is
when hearts interned as frozen buds
for fear of blooming visibly
into a world not ready yet.

You aren’t ready, that is true,
and so the world will never be!

Thursday, July 15, 2010

Makers and Creators!

Not with pen and paper,
not with imagination,
but with a lifetime review
comes the definite knowledge
of failed experiments.

‘tis the makers and creators
that exceed their boundaries
and plan according to
a dream not meant to be
and I, the innocent,
bear the weight of failure.

And when that weight is lifted
there’ll be no golden trophy
or congratulatory smiles
for the experiment of “me”
made to give and receive
the impossible.

Try again, oh, try again,
but, no, not ere to be
for experiments are prone to weep
at repetitive failures
that sink the soul into dismay
time and time again.

And in the stand-off there will be
machinations beyond belief
and manipulative tactics
to lure again the innocent
into life’s experiment
but too there’ll be rejection
and no intake or uptake
of yet another lie.

Makers and creators!
There’s more to making life
than the wild and fanciful
concocted in the ether
absent and divorced from
a hard and unyielding
physical reality!

Helen / 16 July 2010

Sunday, July 11, 2010


‘tis not to say the sun this morn
warns of mayhem and dismay
and yet the rays that filter in
burn holes within contentment.

Small at first it’s like they are
merely there to pattern life
because each hole can easily be
hidden with a bauble, bead.

But woe the one who thought to be
unfettered by those sparkling beads
that were not needed yesterday
and found their way into the past.

Best to be if I had known
still possessed of baubles, beads,
that in the manner of belief
can be adjusted and renewed.

And so of holes the learning curve
decrees I shop the malls of mind
and spend the effort for rewards
of re-adorned contentment!

Wednesday, July 7, 2010

Emotive vibes

The pendulum unable to swing
jumps hither/thither entwined
with the strings of emotive vibes
dangling free from the mental plane.

Up/down/around like lightening in sky
and joyous the crowds down below
but suddenly a thunderous return
shatters surface composure.

And in the longing for a gentle swing
detachment seeks to be known
and as it steps out from the shadows
I pull it closer and in.

How amazing it is like a cape to be worn
and a blanket of intricate weave
but when it coils like a snake deep within
I know freedom is soon to be.

And that snake is fed with intent
to witness but not be entwined
with those strings of emotive vibes
dangling free from the mental plane!

Friday, July 2, 2010


It’s a lazy sun that rises now
as if passion dead and gone
and the sky that once inspired
no longer energized.

I talk as if I can be heard
like hope whispers in the night
and think of good and better days
as if they’ll come again.

But today I watch the inter-play
and the bounce of blame
and how the clouds gather in
both sides of every game.

And then the breeze of grace
brushes tenderly my face
and I know to humbly bow
to all that is and must be.

All that must be now for then
and so crumbles every dream
amidst the tears we all must cry
until passion again energized.

Thursday, July 1, 2010

Glory be!

The shed of one’s true glory
into the happenstance of life
a prerequisite to forgetfulness
yet the bough from which it came
sways in the breeze of time
and taps on window panes
draped with essential veils.

The veils are made to last
and they keep the truth at bay
like clouds on summer days
and they’re heavy like the price we pay
to be participants.

I stand like one distanced from
my own damn window pane
held so by veils ordained to be
there for no good reason
but to keep me ignorant.

Oh, glory be, oh, glory be
but not ever in my lifetime
because boughs tap to no avail
when soundproofed is the mind
by impenetrable veils.

Boughs and veils and window panes
and the whispers of “Oh, glory be”
bounce back like useless tender
into my human stock-pile
there to lie as dormant
through the happenstance of life!

Tuesday, June 29, 2010

Spirit will

Old days, old times, old faces, smiles,
revolve in tandem in the mind
and this at night when all is still
except the drone of spirit will.

I listen to that drone at night;
‘tis silent when the brain takes flight
into the mix and blend of days
that begat both pleasure and the pain.

And the drone is overcome by this
like trees within a swirl of mist
and lies invisibly forlorn
by all that went before.

Yet still I hear the wish, the need,
for mind to repel useless scenes
and pattern a new vision quest
for when the mind’s at rest.

Sleep, oh, sleep, amazing sleep,
and spirit will acquires a beat
that moves the mind and heart of one
towards the shade of other suns.

That shade’s a place where all must go
and they say it’s deep within the soul!

Saturday, June 26, 2010

The road of dreams

The road of dreams twists and turns,
climbs mountains then down again,
and sometimes hugs with all its might
the grand and glorious sea.

There are no signs along the way
to warn of humps and bumps
or potholes that wait with evil intent
or dead ends and circular routes.

So I travel and travel like one unnerved
by the stress of the unexpected
but this remains an unconscious event
until by chance I drive over a cliff
and know I’ve come at last
to the end of a beautiful dream.

But dreams create and recreate roads
again, again, and again,
and insert sneakily magnetic strips
that attract the dreamers, you see.

Attracted then by the dream I am dreaming
I remain forever and ever
a beautiful dream traveller!

Tuesday, June 15, 2010


Today I am within this time
where space is violated
by crates of limitation
stacked one upon the other
in and around
mind’s innocence.

‘tis the crates that keep the mind
well and truly confined
and there is no disgrace
until the moment comes
for clearing out the store
of the implanted.

Sometimes it’s done, the floor is swept,
mind becomes an adult,
and choice stands large and regal
in the silence of a void.

To the side the aid of ignorance
stands tempting in the shadows
but it’s called in simple parlance
a survival tool
in a world where crates are comforters
and stagnant air a crutch.

And so of adults ignorant
who choose the side again, again,
beware the large and regal
because it’s mass an awesome force
until the floor is cleared again
and ne’er again is littered
with crates of limitation!

Saturday, June 12, 2010

Everybody's tears

The sea waits with open arms
for the release and the giving
of everybody’s tears
but now the shore the keeper
because what if, what if,
the tears of love not manifest
ne’er can ever cease
and the capacity of sea
merely an illusion?

The land will become
unstable for my feet
and I will float like debris
on waves of hysteria
until the inevitable
sink into oblivion.

It will be the end of my world
and ‘tis not to say imagination
not a prophet or a seer
and so the shore holds tears,
stretches them from you to me,
and weaves them all together
to not pressure the sea
into an overspill.

But overspills have been, will be,
because the sea not distant and apart
from burdens placed on the shore
so give your precious tears,
give them to …
an illusion!

Thursday, June 10, 2010


Flags wave in the breeze
and I wonder if they feel
the air cruel and sinister
around their happiness.

It’s a movement from all sides
not intended ere to be
but it forces a crossover
from the upright and determined
to a wayward vagabond.

Unable to remain at peace
that vagabond is me
manoeuvred like a fool
into a foreign mode
by the air that circulates
demonic energy.

So I plant my flag again, again,
from where it was to where should be
and this exercise seems futile
when nothing can be seen
but the bend and stretch,
mental intent,
the saviour of all flags, you see,
that wave haphazard in a breeze!

Wednesday, June 9, 2010


They tell me there are islands
basking like the carefree
somewhere beneath the sun
but maybe they are fantasies
grown meaningful by need
or a dream past the midnight hour
that disappears at dawn.

And is that island lonely
for the rise and collapse
of peace and tranquillity
or does it level out itself
and remain in constant harmony
with its surroundings?

But I know of no island
not surrounded by the sea
that changes from a state of grace
to one of righteous anger
and so of islands they must be
plain and simply just like me!

Monday, June 7, 2010


I know I made a vow
sometime before the lie
but of vows they disappear
when the circumstance of life
overtakes and suffocates
what was meant to be
and substitutes a fallacy.

I cannot say they’re fickle
or simply do not care
but rather that they’re fluid
and seep between the gaps
of determined ignorance
in attempts to be known
and made meaningful.

I look sometimes across the lie
but the ignorant can see no gap
and cannot gather drips and drops
of what they cannot see
and so of vows they lie as dead
from this life until the next ~
but between the two, yes, it’s true,
there’s most certainly a gap
and I await the gathering
while preparing my epistle
in defence of ignorance!

Saturday, May 29, 2010

The "I love you"

So when the “I love you” breaks free
there’s no earthquake or upheaval
of what has always been
but it’s like the air is cleaner
and the sky celebrates
the advent of honesty.

It dances on the spot
like a gypsy dressed in blue
and swirls the clouds round about
its own form of happiness
far above my lowly understanding.

The sun not prone to ever leave
trembles within the confines
of its own fiery passion
and shines approval down
like an adoring parent
onto a new born babe.

The “I love you”, you see,
overrides the state of man
and births over and over again
the new and wondrous ~
and who could ask for more
except the you and me
who labour under need
to freely join the party
with feet on the ground.

And feet on the ground?
Oh, merely the bars and walls
that imprison word and deed
until the end of time!

Wednesday, May 26, 2010

The journey

And as the plane prepared to land
at the magic isle of yesterday
the mind rebelled and tried to
unshackle memory.

For a moment free it looked around;
there was nowhere else to go
but still the twist and turn
and the need of an escape route
because it knew the climate there
heartbreakingly severe.

But the plane had been boarded
and the journey pushed by spirit will
carried all the passengers
back into the arms
of the long lost past.

They alighted one by one
into the sun of clarity
and blinked despairingly
at dreams and wishes, needs,
sitting on the tarmac
grinning sheepishly.

And the passengers each one and all
knew always they’d be there
as a draw-card for the brave
who seek again and again
to validate
dreams and wishes, needs!

Sunday, May 23, 2010


I chanced upon a little thing
called suffering by some
not boxed and well confined
but free and liberated
and ambidextrous that’s for sure
because it dishes out both left and right
equal amounts of self.

Sometimes it flutters quickly by
but sometimes nests within
and builds a fortress thought to be

And that little thing called suffering
makes me think the damndest things
and sets me to bemoaning
the supposedly unbreakable
time and time again
until powerless becomes the norm.

But there’s nothing yet and will not be
a break-down of abilities
to rise above, dictate the rules,
and reign as one superior
to life’s very many little things ~
but until, until, always until,
I know how small they are
I remain forever faithful
and in close proximity
to my own suffering!

Helen / 24 May 2010

Wednesday, May 19, 2010

Death Row

Not many are sitting on Death Row
for draining the life force of soul
because invisible crimes today, always,
are simply swept under the mat.

The mat has bumps here, there, everywhere,
but we walk as if nothing exists
until sleep overcomes the day
and soul has a chance to pray.

Maybe it prays for harmony,
and molehills to not be mountains,
or maybe it prays for compassion
for those who have no empathy.

Maybe it prays or maybe it moans
and asks for relief from the fray
like a babe in the throes of hunger
or a stray cat on my windowsill.

The mystery of soul and who really knows
whether puffed up with glee
or drowning in pools of humanity
as the days turn into weeks.

But the life force of soul not fragile
yet smiles and swims with the tide
and that’s why no one is sitting
behind the bars of Death Row!

Saturday, May 15, 2010

Field of consciousness

And so the saving grace for some
is pretending there is love
because in the manner of pretence
all things are possible.

I can pretend I am a warrior
with swords and fighting “things”
and do battle with opponents
that never can be seen ~ or
I can be a worker
in fields of consciousness
and grow the finest roses
blood red for loving you.

I can turn my face around
from a world that disregards
my wishes and my needs
but I cannot and I must not
expect my meaningful
to be plucked from a garden
planted by another.

But I have my own garden,
my thoughts, roses, love,
somewhere in the fields
of my own consciousness
with no essential border
or trespassers beware
affixed to nowhere.

You can come on in
anytime, my friend,
but I know we have this “thing”
for living between borders
and so there is no cake,
no boiling kettle, me,
waiting for visitors
in my field of consciousness!

Wednesday, May 12, 2010

In the grip

Here amidst the certainty of life’s amazing grace
there lives a species known as man
and that species known for fickleness
sways like leaves on trees
in the breeze of inconsistency.

Seemingly unable to grab and hold the wind
and remain as meant to be
that species known as man
contorts the mind, dismisses heart,
and turns cartwheels on the ground.

Of course they end up dizzy
as naturally would be
when spinning on the ground
like leaves do in a breeze
and so that species known as man
becomes permanently and completely
in the grip of inconsistency.

First it’s this and then it’s that,
first we love and then we don’t,
because we don’t think to hold the wind
from the beginning to the end.

It’s fun, I think; sometimes it’s fun
to be dizzy on the ground
but when the wind is still
and nothing dictates the spin
I wonder, I wonder,
about that species known as man!

Saturday, May 8, 2010

Just a trickle

It’s just a trickle not a flood
that courses down the cheeks of one
when sadness overwhelms the day
and empathy takes precedence.

The reach and stretch to disengage
loses force and lies dismayed
within the heart and mind, the soul,
of one bound up in love.

And how to cut the strings of love
and not fall into the ego
bothers some till midnight comes
and they sleep away the grief.

But daybreak heralds in again
more trickles down the cheeks
and a prayer is heard within the air,
“May the force be with you”.

And the prayer is magnified within
for the force of love to untie strings
and dissipate the dire effects
of connectedness.

But like all prayers they suffer so
the slowness of an aged one
in getting to the point of love
un-laden and detached.

But pray I do till midnight comes
because in the time before daybreak
someone counsels those aggrieved
until trickles dry on cheeks!

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Strangest thing

To pull out stakes from heart
and watch the leak of energy
flow freely to the floor
was the strangest thing I’ve ever done.

‘twas just a mental pull and tug
with intent behind the force
that left a large and empty hole
where love was meant to be ~

and so then I believed
that stakes removed can bring about
love’s certain demise ~

but then I did not believe
because I saw love still alive
at the base of my belief.

It trickled this way/that
as if the floor tilted
in accordance with the times
but I know to wait till finally
all the parts come back together
and the winds of change are ready.

And so that’s the way it goes
a pull and tug, a flow,
a trickle this way/that,
and a wait for the return
of the true state of heart!

Tuesday, May 4, 2010

The lines

Then unto the anguished
there came a sense of peace
but I know it can be shattered
by misaligned perceptions
created by a human mind.

And that mind forward marches
the soul into despair
when the lines between the real/unreal
are frail and delicate.

I layer them; I do sometimes
when love is fulsome, free
with thread upon each thread
of unbreakable resolve
to enact upon the ground
the true intent of soul.

It’s the strengthening of lines
that finally will hold in place
all wayward human minds
and ‘tis the chore of those who love
to act as surrogates
for those too well immersed
in the times of their lives.

But until, yes, until
the agony of those who love
is put aside and nullified
they’re useless aids and helpers
in the strengthening process ~
and so I wake today
a woman only now equipped
to weave the threads myself!

Sunday, May 2, 2010

Love's punishment

So from a high and lofty perch
love tumbled to the ground
and broke its legs and wings and “things”
that made it free to be.

Dirt got in its eyes
and it lay as one half dead
thinking it would mend
and reclaim its rightful place.

It gagged on mud and slush
in the season of its tears
and burnt from the inner out
in the season of its fears.

And in the cold of loneliness
it knew to not believe
the next season would uplift
the pain and agony.

How long it suffered I can’t say
but it dried beneath the feet of time
and lived just long enough
to know the coming down to ground
was its punishment!

Friday, April 30, 2010

Moss and "stuff"

It’s life that gathers moss and “stuff”
and packs it all in plastic bags
not sure if now’s the time or not
to throw it all away.

They sit in cupboards, nooks, crannies,
and cause the overflow of past
to crowd and suffocate the new
like demons that askew the mind.

And it takes a mind of extra strength
to lift and hold aloft intent
to clear by any manner, means,
all that went before.

It’s a fearful thing to hold clean slates
but I hold the slate; I am the slate,
I hold the chalk; I am the chalk,
and while I think what thoughts to write
years pass with old creations.

Now is the time to write new thoughts
on slates wiped clean and sanitized
then just to settle in and wait
because creation’s not a speedy thing
to suddenly jump out complete
from all the moss and other “stuff”
that litters paths and bars advance.

I write of love and fortitude,
of patience, wisdom, peace,
and above all things my happiness
while I sit and wait!

Monday, April 26, 2010

I stand

Brown and distorted like old winter leaves
hopes, wishes, needs, litter the ground
where once dew drops foretold happiness
in their own unique glitter and shine.

Trees acquiesce to the chill of the times
and adopt a grave and sombre repose
as a way of convincing the inbred beautiful
to sleep away grief until born again.

The blue of the sky retreats hastily
to wait beyond the reach of all fears
and the clouds inflate with ominous grey
to prevent the advance of the untenable.

There in that dark and cold landscape
no birds can ever be heard or seen
and the wind refuses to usher in
a fresh breath of encouraging air.

I stand as a witness not distant, apart,
but one embroiled in the matters of heart
on fire and burning within where it hurts
and blackens the gold of belief.

I stand, yes, but do teeter so
when dispirited by the march of turmoil
that has no regard, no respect, no love,
for what was intended to be!

Saturday, April 24, 2010


Drum rolls play upon the mind
and this is not a sheer disgrace
for one who moves according to
the rhythms of denial.

Denial is fast and circles one
within the sphere of catchy beats
that tap the feet, hands, fingers, mind,
deep into thinking this is right.

But soon and sooner than is thought
denial leaves the man-made stage
and all is quiet where once the tone
of all I chose to see, believe.

It’s not easy then to tap alone
to beats that soul has now disowned
and so finally and faintly comes
the lilting and so sweet refrains
of one unheard above the rolls.

To tilt the head and listen then
perhaps too late but maybe not
for ‘tis decreed that lifetimes yield
a chance to tap to different beats.

And so it is sweet melodies
that capture mind when all is quiet
but in the time of living now
survival taps to loud drum rolls!

Thursday, April 22, 2010

An ordinary thing

It’s just an ordinary thing
but no standard weight and measure
to fit within the cabinet
of a lifetime’s memories.

It doesn’t have a brand name
according to my history
or a pseudonym to indicate
its not how it appears
and, in fact, it’s simply blank
like a page before a poet
has begun the connect.

It’s heavy in uniqueness
and soft beyond the crust,
like a pillar then a mouse
in corners scared, afraid,
and it is square but rounded,
fickle yet dependable,
and altogether strange
in the context of the known.

If I squash it into past
it falls down on the floor
and trips-up forward movement
oh, so happily.

If I keep it in the present
there’s no room for other things
and if I throw it into future
it will die before I’m there
and so I think it must be love
that doesn’t fit the keeper.

It can’t be sold and so must go
the way of fat/thin clothes
straight and determinedly
into the hands of … charity!

Monday, April 19, 2010

Sand is sand

The clouds hang low o’er shifting sand
that finds the will within the feel
to move from here to there
but sand is such it seems to be
content to shuffle slowly so
that progress ne’er is seen.

What difference grains of more or less;
it looks the same and no one tests
the depths of sand’s intense desire
to change what was to what must be.

I sometimes think I might bow down
to sand’s so quiet steadfastness
but then I think I might hurl rocks
and dance the jig of one enraged.

But sand is sand intractable
so best I just walk over it
again, again, again,
on my way to the forevermore
with my basket of delectable’s
held safe beyond its reach.

Sand never moves or so it seems
till dust o’er lays the scene
and then we know beyond our sight
there’s movement, progress, growth,
towards a new and settled state!

Thursday, April 15, 2010


When the tears have been dried
and the towels been thrown
into the depths of history
they sit in the heat of no relief
because once they're in there
and nobody cares
they're like all criminals jailed.

And towels aren’t dainty strips of silk
that tear at the slightest touch
or delicate fabrics that shrink
to less than their former selves
and so of a towel it’s made to be true
to whatever’s confined in its mass.

‘tis just a reason to think more than less
when it’s the season for tears
because when left to flow free
they sink into the earth
and become distant, apart,
from history contained within.

And we’re all possessed of towels
still true to implanted agony
but I think that maybe one day
in the winter of complete discontent
towels will become as ice
able to thaw and be not as before.

So then are we not complete idiots
to mop up what needs to flow free
and keep it within until winter begins?

Monday, April 12, 2010


When the heart’s in slow motion
and toes, fingers, numb
life and love come under spotlights
and so for a time I’m a martyr to heat
in suffering of intense betrayal.

But I know there’s a see-saw
somewhere close by
and my time at the bottom
a transitory phase
and yet, and yet, martyrs can’t quit
until the push-up
of a thought’s heavy weight.

Thoughts are lazy and inclined to be
inactive and slothful and, oh, so at ease
on the ground of supposed entitlement
to keep me in the heat.

So I give them their day of fun;
it’s the least I can do when numb,
and wait and wait until sleep overcomes
the burning heat of spotlights.

And then, and then, I can think again
and push that martyr right out of my sight!

Sunday, April 11, 2010

First moment of a day

It’s just a snatch and grab of sleep
these days when life abrasive, harsh,
that brings a sense of settled peace
with the moment of first wakefulness.

That moment sometimes long and deep
intrudes upon the loneliness
and wanders through the forests, glens,
like one who knows the way.

At other times a child at play;
peek-a-boo, I’m here then gone
but there is no giggle echoing
through the rest of the day.

But when it’s like a see-saw left
to suffer in the heat unused
slowly, slowly, comes the time
of total lack of usefulness.

What use the peace that crumbles so
when I don’t flick a backward glance
at first moments of a day
that bespeak the true value, worth,
of sleep’s most precious gift?

It’s like I’m schooled and tutored in
the manner, means, of disrespect
and in the, oh, so easy throw
of peace into the garbage can.

I could say it is involuntary
or just a something that must be
but I can’t, you see, because I know
I am the giver and receiver
of all I choose to feel
and all I choose to use, abusive,
or simply let lie fallow
in the sand of mortal time!

Thursday, April 8, 2010

The truth of love

The truth of love comes trip-trip, tripping
through the fields of turmoil and strife
searching for daisies amongst the weeds
and pebbles worn smooth by dedication.

The sun beats down the heat of fatigue
till night heralds in the shiver of fear
but in the downpour of all obstacles
the truth waits in a self-made shelter.

Immortal patience and trained fortitude,
a shelter for truth in the times of chaos
but it’s not unhappy confined so within
nor dismayed by the thunder of grief.

It’s simply like me content to just be
there where it’s safe and not fragmented
by the seemingly harsh current conditions
that force a retreat into silence.

And so truth is o’er laid and forgotten
for the time it takes for inclement weather
to pronounce a surrender and yield
to the forceful and dynamic.

Storms; there are storms, earthquakes and more,
theft, murder, crime, like outsized hail stones,
and the sea like disease rises up, up, up,
to move and remove those in its path.

When the heart’s in denial
and the world in upheaval
the truth of love merely smiles
and simply, you know, bides its time!

Wednesday, April 7, 2010


So from the prison of denial
the monster, love, escaped
and sat beneath a lonesome tree
in plot of plan of future moves.

This took a time, the longest time,
by standards set and known
by those who walked the trail
and laid down signs and symbols.

Perhaps they blew away or sunk into the sand
and I know they didn’t shout and scream
as a means of being heard
and so that lithe escapee
stayed rooted to the spot.

Love starved, you see, just like me
amidst blueprints, maps, and doodles
because every way it thought to go
led to the unknown.

The tree grew and prospered,
the escapee shrivelled, died,
and so be careful one and all …
don’t sit beneath a tree!

Monday, April 5, 2010

Mystique and Magic

When mystique and magic creeps through the door
the walls of the mind shiver and shake
for fearful they are that foundations will crack
and mind will be free to expand into more.

Oh, but they’re built to withstand the advance
of what surely is meant for the fairies, not me
but how strange the mind to give form and flight
to a smidgen and figment of imagination.

So I give to the fairies all the magic in me
and donate my mystique to empty air
and bend low, low, to stabilize walls
built high, high, to imprison the mind.

This is me and you, them, they,
born to be held like a prisoner, you see,
within the confines of reason and sense
hard and unyielding like bricks and mortar.

And I close for the sake of conformity
and lock against threats of vulnerability
because I know from the crumble and dust
love comes to fill up my … “lungs”!

Saturday, April 3, 2010

A candle unlit

I still have a candle unlit by love
in perfect and pristine condition
and it tempts me sometimes
to find what it takes
to destroy its manner of being.

Nothing, you see, should stand unlit
by love’s so enflamed desire
but it happens some times
when we choose not to touch
and know of the sizzle, snap, pop,
of the dead now come to life.

Maybe I will and maybe I won’t
because there’s beauty in the unused
standing still, silent, and waiting,
and waiting and waiting and waiting.

But even beauty needs to fulfil
its complete and utter potential
so perhaps it’s an act of cruelty
that denies a candle its flame.

More likely, I think, a lack of courage
for to despatch the perfect untouched
into the realms of memory
an act for only those who can know
memories of the sizzle, snap, pop,
live on for ever and ever.

I looked at that candle today
and I’ll look tomorrow again
in the hope that cruelty will one day beget
a courageous and honourable act!

Thursday, April 1, 2010

A way to survive

Heaven came down to visit today
and I tried to touch but couldn’t
for the seemingly near still too far
from the outreach of fleshy parts.

So in the time it took to know
of mind’s innate ability
the clouds hung low and ominous
over the land of my birth.

It’s an effortless glide to arrive
at the door where truth abides
but stay away, stay away,
truth’s a weapon
to wound if not kill perceptions
based on human facades.

The human façade is amazingly skilled
at draping itself over the truth
but come the wind of a seeker’s mind
and the drapes part like the Red Sea.

Sometimes the then made visible
banishes trust to where it’s unused
and it lies as if dead forever, amen,
in the mind of all seekers, you see?

And sometimes there rises unbidden to voice
the undeniable “I love you”
but always we come back to the times
of rule and reign by human facades.

There’s a reason heaven is way up there
and a reason for faith in facades
and faith is neither good nor bad
but just a way to survive!


Wednesday, March 31, 2010

Some days

Some days she forgets where the palette is kept
and when she remembers the paints are missing
and she wanders the halls lost and bereft
like a stranger in love’s diocese.

No one knows, you see, what to expect
in that place where “life” cannot intrude
and trespass beyond the boundaries imposed
by personal and private intent.

But she has the power to paint the scene
according to all she’s come to believe
and she returns with determined resolve
to find those damn missing tools.

Red, yellow, blue, but it matters not
what hue she decides to use
because to paint no act of a fool
but of one with talent and flair.

And so with the gift of talent and flair
everyone can paint a picture perfect
to hang in the halls of life’s agony
and keep it always in sight.

But we go out, you see, into the fray
of life’s so variable hand-outs
and forget that one day we painted
the blue, so beautiful blue,
into the so dastardly grey …
until, until, we remember!

Helen / 1 April 2010

Wednesday, March 24, 2010

A simple cry

When the line is unbroken between heart and eyes
there’s no getting away from a simple cry
but a cry’s not simple; it’s a spiked cocktail
where inputted love fights conditioning.

The fight rages for a second or more
like sea as it pounds on immovable rocks
until the waves rise, up, higher up,
and cover those giant intractable rocks.

So when the tears fall let no-one abhor
the heart’s so ardent wish to be known
for it suffered and toiled in the paddocks
of ridiculous conformity.

So now it is free and I think a red carpet
to honour its walk down the corridor, time,
for though a narrow and so confined space
it’s known that time always opens the door
to a beautiful and magnificent hall.

And in that hall ~ well, let’s wait and see
what awaits all those who set the heart free!

Monday, March 22, 2010

The price

On the street where I live
there’s no runaway deal
and the price rises up, up, up,
into the more not bargained for
with the knowing of worth and value.

Life takes the stuffing, the cherry on top,
half the filling out of the giving,
and bespeaks of learning to live
with less than ever before
but empty rooms know
how deep the soul goes
to bring up the asked for price.

Sometimes it loiters in memory
awaiting a smash and grab
but mostly the wanting of more
pays up with the bowing out.

Happily so it’s a seesaw in soul
always up when I need to pay
and I keep the rhythm so, just so,
to not ever a borrower be.

The want and the need of more
bows to the force of conformity
and pays a risen up price
for the living with less
than the heart knows is best!

Thursday, March 18, 2010

There was music

There was music once and melodies,
singers, dancers, props and spots,
and changing scenes from good to bad
until the curtain fell to ground.

It lay inert disguised as death
as heads in silence bowed respect.
The players gone, the exit shone,
and minds as one moved on again.

The play of life in coffins sealed,
the stage of now a ghostly grave
that haunts the dark of modern minds
and moves the air of evil will.

But overhead the music plays
far distant now yet still I hear
and there a star shines brilliantly
and sings the song of life anew.

It fills my heart but still I grieve,
it clears my mind but still I cry.
I seek to reach but cannot find
the face of love disguised as man.

Haunting is the melody
and chilling is the sound of fear
as dancing steps falter and end
upon the stage of all that's left.

But play again, my maestro friend,
let love not come to this sad end!

Sunday, March 14, 2010

Illusive love

Free and weightless floating there
lost thoughts in me like breathing air
dispatch desire and need to sky
and draw me up like smoke from fire.

Crushing blows and then dismay
turn nights to days in life's foray
but love, illusive love, lays down
its heart and soul into the ground.

It should fight and grow in might
and honour higher up delight
for like to like, the rule up there,
in strength can climb each living stair.

But weak and listless, disengaged,
it turns deaf ears and sleeps encaged
behind the bars known long ago
when earth became its fragile home.

Projected like a moving play
I watch enthralled its wish to stay
and sing in tune with my desire
for hands to lift the veil of time.

From there in air to here it calls
and flows through me its need of more.