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 fa├žade
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!