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!

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!

Suffering

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
indestructible.

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

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!

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!