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!

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!

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!

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!

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

Contentment

‘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!

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!

Energized

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.

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!