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

Denial

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

Tears

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

Martyr

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

Rooted

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 fa├žade 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!


Yes/no?