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 fa├žade
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!