Sunday, December 18, 2011


Yes, oh, yes, I’m halfway there
and, really, really, it’s okay
to be stuck and nearly buried
neither here nor there.

But my place isn’t yours
and I can’t tell you how it looks
and it may be hot or may be cold
dependent on a point of view.

I’m halfway to the promised land,
halfway to loving you,
and halfway to creating
my beautiful reality.

I simply am halfway
and I think it’s fine, indeed I do,
to be neither here nor there
because, oh, yes, indeed because
one day, one day, one day …

Tuesday, December 6, 2011

Leave them

Distant is the star I used to wish upon
and further distant is the feel
of wishes coming true
in a world of silent lovers
amidst the din of noisy haters.

It’s not really that they hate;
they’re simply empty, cold,
and feelings neither good nor bad
can live in dark dank places.

And I can’t touch them, no, I can’t,
for the chill that creeps within
and tries to take control
of my essential grace.

So I leave them there as you should do
to grovel in their own petard
and wonder every day and night
why all their noisy frenzies
hurt them instead of me!

Tuesday, November 29, 2011

I would say

The leaves have fallen now to ground
in Seattle’s wonderland
and the clouds in mourning I would say
for what once was beautiful.

There was a reach and stretch
outward from the deep within
toward the unattainable
not perceived as such.

It was thought perhaps or maybe felt
the worthwhile surely couldn’t stay
far beyond love’s full display
of leaves on every tree.

But there was no meeting half-way
                and the leaves had nowhere else to go
but down, down, down, onto the land
to lie as dead, dead, dead.

They are dead!  They are dead
and the people simply walk on by
unmindful of that reach and stretch
that folded in upon itself.

So when the leaves lie on the ground
don’t look above for cloud support
because they cry, oh, how they cry
in mourning I would say!

Sunday, November 27, 2011


The rain is gentle o’er this land
that awaits in silent solitude
the overturn of what was once
accepted without grace.

Love is grand; oh, yes it is
but it’s like it must be made anew
and fashioned to remain in vogue
longer than I can foretell.

It’s the stitch of grace within the seams
and the knowledge that it’s there
that grants the words of “I love you”
their glow of permanence.

Grace, yes, grace - how beautiful
is love inlaid with grace!

Tuesday, November 22, 2011

A spell or more

Time, time, and again, my eyes are pulled
off centre from my focused view
and they’re held there for a spell or more
to make me think of not going back.

The message is clear; don’t look where you will
but see how the world really is
for that spell or more that you are held
where you’d rather not be.

So I look for a spell and sometimes the more
and you could  say I stare mindlessly
into the caverns of space  
but I’m in a space of mindlessness
in order to find my way back
from the world as it really is!

Thursday, November 17, 2011


When the point of truth comes crashing down
into the light of day
the hole it leaves is greater than
one could ere believe.

Truth grows, you see, according to
the spin I put on it
and the angle I view it from
when it first appears.

And then of course I dress it down,
make it what it’s not,
and dress it up to transform it
into something grand.

‘tis circumstance, I bet it is,
that decrees dressed up or down
but to be free I much prefer
casual with no tie.

Casual truth?  Yes, casual truth
sits easy on the back
and allows for my comfort
from yesterday into today!

Tuesday, November 8, 2011


The quick brown fox jumped over the lazy dog and ran to the shade of an old oak tree.  There he lay down and looked at the clouds like a gazer into other lands and he was still that time beneath all that lay above. 

What did he see?  I asked, I asked, but the quick brown fox was also lazy and nothing could stir his complacency there in his comfort zone.  I stood on my head, I did, I did, and this brought the ghost of a smile because the ghost, you see, of who he really is, paid a visit that time down to earth.  I didn’t know then that he wasn’t the truth but a harbourer of someone else that he neither knew nor cared to greet in the land of the far down under.

So the quick brown fox now grown lazy waited his time to be plucked from there beneath an old oak tree and transported down to the sea but everyone knows, they do, they do, that the sea doesn’t beckon the lazy.  One must be awake and energized to dare look on that awesome sight and be open and welcoming of its energy so the now very lazy brown fox looked around for further options.

Lo and behold, no drop-down box or fairies in the glen, or angels sitting on clouds, or poets speaking out loud and, indeed, there simply was nothing and no-one keeping company with one very lazy brown fox.  I thought it a shame but then, but then, the fox chose to rest beneath trees and who are the angels, fairies, the poets, and pre-programmed drop-down boxes to come between foxes and trees?

You’ll see the fox there, today, today, but as for the ghost of a smile I guess you’ll see it now in the tears flowing unbidden out of his eyes because, because, the quick brown fox jumped over and then became lazy!

Saturday, November 5, 2011

The past

Like a model on a catwalk
the past meandered by
and, oh, it was an awesome sight
dressed as it was
in many memories.

It moved and swayed and sparkled
like a diamond in the rough
and caught my reflection
in each and every shimmer.

And as it disappeared
behind the drapes of present times
I mourned no more its leaving
and cried no tears of loss.

And so when the past
walks down the catwalk
‘tis just a time to clap and cheer
then leave the auditorium!

Thursday, October 27, 2011


Rain came and left some puddles
here, there, and everywhere
like a catchment area
for light to dance upon.

The wind rose up to make it be
alive and energized
and I watched it move like I would
in the arms of my adored.

I knew soon it would be gone
but there’s beauty in a memory
if filed within a safe place
protected from abuse.

But I can and know I do
abuse my memories
with the  tears of one dismayed
that all things fade away.

And then there comes a time
when I love my memories
and I rock them like a baby
held in a mother’s arms.

Rock/goodbye, rock/goodbye.
how strange to be loved/abused,
and yet it happens, yes, it does.
until … puddles stay forever!

Tuesday, October 25, 2011

From out the dust

The sun sets gently so
o’er a land that from the dust
rose up and took control
of mankind’s innate traits.

It turned them this way, that,
and moulded them according to
some strange and indeed foreign
shape and manner, form.

Today they fit quite snug and warm
and I can’t say what was before
and yet, and yet, sometimes I think
I can’t contain what now just is.

I do, of course, like you and you
but how the sense of what was once
stirs within a deep heartache
that ne’er will dissipate.

So in this land from out the dust
I try but cannot disengage
until, until, love comes again
as it knows to surely do.

But right is not this way of life
and heartache doesn’t dissipate!

Monday, October 24, 2011


From the vantage point of sky
clouds silently glide by
forming as they go
impressions of the ground.

And from a distance they can see
the seemingly haphazard
connecting lines and circles
that join, break, join again.

But clouds are not perturbed;
they know of man’s ignorance
and how the haze of cause/effect
hangs o’er all living things.

So if on ground the cause unknown
why suffers so the one I know
the effect of what glides quietly by
like clouds in our blue sky?

Ignorant, I’m ignorant, but who can teach
what they don’t know
except, except, of course, the one
I never ere can know!

Saturday, October 22, 2011

Eternal heart

The sky of forever sits starkly blue
above the head of my common life
and I searched, you know, like I’m prone to do
for your eternal heart.

Not there, not there - it sunk to earth
there to be buried in human norms
and be as most other hearts
completely and utterly dead

I thought I’d cry but I turned away
with a shrug that pierced like a knife
through the aura of my love for you
designed to be impenetrable.

Not that it matters, you know, you know,
for hearts that are dead can’t feel anything
but in the corners of who I really am
there are tears with nowhere to go.

And so of those tears with nowhere to go
they’re absorbed by that sky of forever
and there they sit ready to drown
the remains of my memory.

Happy days, happy days! There’ll be happy days
when hearts have forgotten they once were dead
and auras completely intact
protect and safeguard for ever and ever
the eternal heart!

Monday, October 17, 2011

I wonder

‘tis just the hopes of long ago
that lie like sand beneath my feet
and I wonder why it takes so long
for wind to lift them up
and fling them out and round about
like discarded winter leaves.

It’s like they’re glued in place
with determined stubbornness
that refuses to release
what’s not meant to be.

And ‘tis a weight that breaks the heart
again, again, again,
and I wonder why it takes so long
for understanding to appear
and remove useless attachments.

It’s like the mind in mourning stills
and loses its ability
to sign up for the programme
that generates new hopes.

And it’s quite alright, you know,
because where on earth’s the dotted line
the bears our willingness
to forego the past and start again.

But there’s a programme, yes, there is
and indeed a dotted line
and all we have to do
is find out where they are!


Sunday, September 25, 2011


Stitched indeed firmly so
within the hem of silence
that sways with your gait
and slumbers with your soul
I call your name three times and more
into infinity.

But infinity’s a thing unknown
here in time’s shortened lifespan
and voices in the silence
a certain unreality
that turns the ears outward
into life’s cacophony.

It’s a din of this and that and “stuff”
designed as a distraction
from the meaningful
and all who listen slip and fall
into ignorance.

And of ignorance it clings and sucks
the lifeblood from a soul
until it shrivels up and dies
there in that hem of silence.

And when silence is indeed silent
we know we’ve crossed the line
from the living into dead
and what a life, yes, what a life
that ordains us all to be
unmindful of the silence?

Wednesday, September 21, 2011


I thought the rain would fall today
to facilitate renewal
but thoughts go only just so far
and can’t complete the journey.

It tells me they are powerless
when coming from a place
beyond the borders far away
from original blueprints.

And I sought amongst the theories
of how to change the plan
and how to make the static move
from the old into the new.

And I moved from here to there
and from there to there and back to here
pending then another move
to the foreign and the new ~
yet still I’m bound within the sphere
of all I’m thinking of.

I will complete my journey
in the year two thousand twelve
but of thoughts they’ll go meandering
again, again, again,
in spite, oh, yes, indeed in spite
of knowing they are useless!

Saturday, September 10, 2011

The time has come

The time has come the woman said
to speak of many things
like how she loved you in the days
before you turned away.

But speak she will not ever, ere
for there are many miles to go
before the end time’s nigh
and mind prepares to die.

It’s not a death that can be said
is for ever and a day
because maybe it will resurrect
into another world.

Sometime perhaps it maybe will
and she’ll remember you
but likely not because mind died
and dead is dead, dead, dead.

But there’s a saviour this she knows
and when the night comes full alive
with the noise of frogs et al
she sends a silent prayer up there
where the saviour dwells.

 It’s not a prayer of facts, figures,
or sure knowledge of the world at large
but she prays perhaps as all should do
for the saving of a soul!

Tuesday, August 30, 2011

Paying homage

I pay today humble homage
to a voice from out the silence
that assured me, yes, he can do it
but left it there at that.

There’s mystery in the ether
and puzzle pieces everywhere
floating there just waiting,
waiting, waiting, waiting.

It’s a wait perhaps for you and me
to set the mind to zero
and so enable a free flow
of what we need to know.

And so I know but half, just half,
but it said my name, you know,
and that’s good enough for me
to reach out to the silence.

Saturday, August 27, 2011

Yet and yet

From out the wild they came today
three monkeys in a row
hungry, yes, perhaps they were
like the love deprived.

Yet the hand-out they received
not sufficient unto sustenance
forced a then intrusion
into my private space.

And it’s that little bit of love
as well not sufficient
that turns contentment upside down
and alters all our norms.

Yet, and yet, norms did us well
and the little yet sufficient
if only, if only,
we’d not ventured into grace.

Monkeys climb the trees,
come down to feed with me,
and return back to the wild
the same as when they left.

Yet, and yet, humans are beset
by that little not enough
and one day when I’m wiser …
I think I’ll be a monkey!

Monday, August 22, 2011


It’s just a bit of stuff
and a bit of nonsense
that keeps one on the back foot
unable to go forwards.

It weighs a ton; sometimes it does
and almost seems magnetic
when time, time again,
it pulls me back and holds.

It’s history really; that is so
yet chases with the vim of youth
and jumps with great agility
over present views.

But of history I think
it’s just a mental construct
easily dismantled
when the will to move appears.

And that will is like a beacon;
fail to see and one suffers
in silence mostly like the dead
barred from the thrill of life.

I’m guilty, yes, indeed I am
of closing eyes and standing still
but slowly, slowly, comes the strength
to take that first step forward -
and it’s exhilarating
like the release from slavery.

One step, two steps, three steps, more
and suddenly we’re breathing
the clean and fresh exciting
after years of suffocation!

Tuesday, August 16, 2011

The magic of self

The magic of self
when known can be seen
as something completely unreal
when viewed with an eye
attuned to the times.

And like all magic
it confuses and baffles the mind
but to know it is there
can start the process
of an amazing performance.

Practice, oh, practice,
it needs practice,
but how like this life
to keep us distracted
and on the same old path.

I dream sometimes but not enough
of a reality out of this world
and lose it on my way back
lost like the glorious past.

But I dream again, again, again!
Never stop dreaming, my friend,
for in the times when time’s undone
there’ll be time to … cash in on dreams.

The trick is to not be caught
in a limited view
that ends the dream before it’s begun
but how like us all impatient at best
to want what we want right now.

And I want, you know, I certainly want
but I dream again, again, again,
because there’s magic in a dream
and one day I’ll bring it back!

Monday, August 8, 2011

Cold winds

Cold winds blow the dust away
like love that scampers from a mind
into the present day denials
forced upon all humankind.

It’s not to say that love is dead
but rather that it’s changed its style
from humble to aggressive mode
bedecked in selfishness.

I grow sometimes so very tired
of the “I” that permeates the times
and the dangling, swinging, swaggering,
egotistical boasting.

But perhaps the worst is yet to come
as love descends each day some more
into dark and dingy caverns
hidden from the light.

Bur who can know it’s on its way
when the “I love you” said every day
falls from mouths unconsciously
just to appease and to deceive?

Words alone can’t change the times
but love in deed I do believe
raises love at least heart high
to easily then move up to mind!

Sunday, July 31, 2011


She woke up in the morning
blanketed with memories
of a place long lost and gone
from all of her five senses.

But in her heart she knew it still
and revelled in its majesty
for a spell, yes, just a spell
until it disappeared again
into her subconscious.

She calls it up sometimes at will
to pretend but yet she knows
memories are punishments
that leave one, oh, so low.

So she looks out the window,
ventures out to stand upon
ground she doesn’t know,
and beats a hasty retreat
from the feel that creeps within.

And when it seems one shutters out
the place where we are at
it’s only for a moment
to gather up the manner, means,
of beating memories to pulp.

Pulp?  Oh, yes, indeed, just pulp
that swirls and swishes in/around
to make of mind not worth dime
in life’s economy.

But in the currency of heart
some memories pay and pay again
when viewed as not a punishment
but as antiques worth a million!

Thursday, July 28, 2011

Simple thing called "Love"

Though well ensconced and settled in
a period of change
it seems the mind can still rebel
when losing sight and awareness
of the bigger picture.

But little minds can’t ere access
what’s not yet here designed
to allow continuous viewing
beyond these present times.

There are times when my little mind
drives me up the wall
and out the roof into the air
to see what’s lurking there
and when I find you there
I’m awed and overcome
by that simple thing called “Love”.

It’s the journey back from air, roof, walls,
that lands me like a wounded bird
back into daily life
and from there it’s many miles to go
to arrive at acceptance.

But we face the challenge - we all do
of living life and breathing air
not suited to our core
and it’s best in the overall
to not escape the times.

And when life is sometimes seen to be
a devil thing incarnate
we all can know like I do
that somewhere far and yet so near
there’s that simple thing called “Love”!

Sunday, July 24, 2011

The clouds

The clouds have come to cry
o’er this land, South Africa,
like the grief that overspills
one who cannot sleep.

It’s a drip and drop that ne’er will cease
until the past is broken up
and scattered on the winds of time
like dust of no significance.

But dust, you know, the dust of life,
the foundation of the masses,
builds and grows, accumulates,
to turn nothing into something.

Not a rock but a storehouse
of grief and pain, heartache, loss,
all the joys childbirth can bring,
and love in all its many forms.

Sad to say there ne’er can be
a storehouse broken down and lost
but I and you can build anew
based on a different view ~
as soon as, as soon as,
we push the clouds away!

Tuesday, July 19, 2011


Angry words and insults
overfull between the walls
erupt and cover bystanders
with a shower out of hell ~
and I ask, and I ask,
“What’s love got to do with it?”

But love retreated long ago
to where it first came from
deep within the psyche
where no man can erode
its essential grace.

It lives there in a bubble
divorced from reality
and I feel for love so well confined
beautiful in lifelessness.

But in this world, oh, yes, this world,
love prefers its solitude
for like me it has no wish to be
a bystander under showers.

I live, you live, they live,
carrying bubbles everywhere
but light they are, so very light,
we don’t know they exist.

So burst a bubble, why not, why not,
because surely now, by now it’s time
to stand beneath and glory in
showers of a different kind!

Thursday, July 14, 2011

Oh, yes, indeed!

Ordered to perfection;
some say, oh, yes, indeed,
this universe of sun and moon,
of stars and planet earth.

Like clockwork comes the autumn,
the winter, spring, summer,
and yet of life it falls and dips
to no known calendar.

It’s a flow I do not understand
for it veers from my decisions
and departs from all routines
instilled as my support.

Not quite a puppet yet it seems
someone is pulling strings
and at the end I move and sway
to a beat I cannot hear.

Life, oh, life, oh, yes indeed,
you tax the minds of minions
yet leave us free and clear to say,
“Never to say never”.

I never would, I never could,
I’ll never do this/that,
and the master at the end of strings ~
well, I wonder, do you think
he/she/it will die one day laughing?

But masters do not ever die.
They simply rule from far away
and suffer so the sure results
that laughter always brings!

Saturday, July 9, 2011

Personal matters

So the journey began not fully aware
of the route, the scenery, me,
but in the meander I finally came
to the heart of all personal matters.

I found some amazing and wonderful things
and some things not befitting a queen
and I thought maybe it was alright
because I surely am not a queen.

I went there, yes, I did.  I did that, yes, I did.
I thought this/that, yes, I did
and I loved you, yes, I surely did,
down there in the heart of all matters.

So the meander continues,
heart takes in and grows,
and love, heartache, happiness, grief,
expands at a daily rate.

Be happy!  It’s good to know all things
but of love it really should float above
all of those things down there, down there,
in the heart of all personal matters!

Friday, July 1, 2011

The lady and the wishing well

She didn’t look blankly about
but focused threw her penny down
the most amazing wishing well
a mind could ere perceive.

She watched it pause a moment, two,
at the point of human love
before it disappeared within
a void the dreamers know.

Perhaps she was a dreamer, yes?
Perhaps she knew the scene by heart
and smiled the smile a woman does
when knowing all’s not lost?

But the penny certainly was lost
for ne’er again would it rise up
and sit within her palm of hand
in search of yet another well.

The one she chose was good enough
but of choice I think she wasn’t blessed
for are we not at love’s behest
in all we think and do?

Perhaps not so for who can know
why pennies disappear in wells
and not remain at human love
co-joined with one another.

So she turned and left that awesome well
that claimed her earthly riches
and poorer walked along the path
that surely led towards demise.

Don’t wait, don’t wait; she will be lost
like pennies thrown into a well
and sometimes, yes, I cry for her
but then I smile like women do!

Saturday, June 25, 2011


It’s not that my eyes are weak and unused
or my future sight barred by the present
but rather the love in deep inside
that causes a near over-flow.

Gone are the times of freedom to fall
when amidst the most understanding
because life has brought forth the norm
of complete and utter containment.

But when is the time, where the place,
for love’s heart to be made visible
when empathy no longer exists
and the most understanding have left?

The place is inside where the well of all things
grows deeper and wider than ever before
but of the time it is decreed
by the movements within love’s sphere..

But we do, if we wish, have a well
or we could maybe choose denial
or simply send love on its way
with the most understanding.

I think I’ll just cry and keep my well dry
so it doesn’t, you know, start to rust!


Thursday, June 23, 2011


Supposing one day there came a big hole
in the blue, blue, sky up above
and from there emanated all lies and evil
mankind o’er the years has sent up.

Supposing it came thick and heavy like sludge
and forced a forever confinement
behind the doors locked and bolted
of personality constructs.

Supposing no one cleared the roads
with a machine called eternal love
to enable a walk to the sea
or a meander down avenues.

Supposing, supposing, but rest assured
it’s not likely to ever happen
but how would it be, really, really,
if there came a big hole in the sky?

Sunday, June 19, 2011


One moment grows to hours
and the hours to weeks, months, years,
in the waiting for a happening
that doesn’t ere occur.

How and when does one believe
it’s just not meant to be
and put it in the archives
destined for the fire?

But not as when the poets were
gifted with wisdom, insight,
I find my mind and fingers numb
here in this air I breathe.

One day, one day, perhaps today
all who wait will close the door
and simply breathe without belief
that something waits beyond ~
and then, and then, what then?

It’s simply so that nothing’s there
so open up the door and breathe,
just breathe, that’s all, just breathe ~
and be!


Monday, June 13, 2011


I can’t see where I’m going to
if I keep on looking back
and counting losses one by one
though they profited not.

It’s just a list of this and that
that grew till my departure
from the empty and the barren
that froze a fulsome heart.

So the leaving from the past
just a thawing into grace
and an in and unto freedom
from the long ago outgrown.

But how grows a woman/man
from that which twisted humankind
into the warped and saddened
from the pure and gentle loving?

Simply perhaps the willingness
to be released and re-directed
brings events and happenings
into life and consciousness ~
and once aware don’t ere despair
because growth spurts always hurt
until, of course, they don’t!

Wednesday, June 8, 2011

Bits and bobs

When all the saints have marched right out
and when the sun no longer shines
the clouds will rule like despots
and the rain their bidding do.

It will fall and spread o’er all the world
collecting history in its wake
and scatter bits and bobs about
like hand-outs to the poor.

And after turmoil, strife, and woe
silence will reign again
and all who made the loudest noise
will humbly kneel and beg.

But silence holds no grudges ere
towards the tongues of men
who like the rain inflict the pain
as if a faithful servant.

The tongues of men; will they rebel
and seek to serve through quiet repose
before that certain downpour
in the darkness after light?

No, not ere for made to speak
the mind has settled down to sleep
and will not, cannot, wake to be
the carrier of thoughts to you.

Yet still I think my bits and bobs
and scatter them not to the poor
but to the rich in mindfulness
who use their wealth to good effect.

Can you hear me?  No, I think not ere
because, because, mind sleeps, you see,
when the tongues of men prattle on
and do not reap the crop
of silent mindfulness!

Saturday, June 4, 2011

Please remember

I thought to raise up from the past
the words of love created last
for life finds me now silent, still,
in fear of what tomorrow brings.

‘twas a voice that hit the notes on cue
and gave to love its fulsome due
and I think sometimes you listened
in between your life’s ambitions.

But in the silence of love’s heart
there beats remembrances of past
and I find sometimes I tap-tap-tap
to a melody I cannot hear.

One day again like back then
you’ll hear me sing again
for nothing started ere can cease
because of life’s artful design.

Until, until, I sing again
remember, please remember!


Friday, May 27, 2011

New ideas

The rain falls softly down today
but I hear the pitter-patter
like the landing of new ideas
from out the ether of my dreams.

It’s a life-saving landing
that helps the mind to grow
and extend towards and beyond
the borders of possibility.

Beyond the borders, yes, indeed
where new ideas are birthed
an attraction and magnet
for a mind in stagnant mode.

And I feel the pull, the mighty pull,
from that land of all things new
but I hold on to the safe, secure,
as if death a better option.

Let go, let go, let mind grow
and I do sometimes because
over there, way over there,
lies the most grandiose scheme
a mind can ere perceive.

And I feel the thrill, the mighty thrill,
as if the new were real
but soon, too soon, it settles down
beneath the covers of “if only”.

Pity so all new ideas
that die before their time
to leave a woman/man

Wednesday, May 11, 2011

Story of a "she"

‘twas just the mist of days gone by
that made her lose her way
and the river of her longing
that pulled her in and down.

She stayed there for the longest time
no breath, you understand,
but humans are the weirdest things
to swim when they should drown

So she swam to the bank of pain,
gulped the feeling down,
and thrashed amidst the reeds of time
on her way to solid ground.

Solid ground, solid ground?
there’s no such thing she found
because where ere she stands she leans
first this way then the next.

She’s a leaning woman now
and you’ll see her on the ground
siding with the poor, veering towards the rich,
and swaying twixt her heart and mind.

She bends and turns round this and that
and only ever upright stands
when in the ether of her dreams
she lands in paradise.

It’s a land of all things grand
where eyes meet and understand
and once you’ve been there, yes, indeed,
you’ll surely wish to drown!

Wednesday, May 4, 2011


Like a thunderbolt the silence came
from out the sky to deafen me
to turmoil, strife, and clash of swords
between the enemies of peace.

Amidst the air that stuck within
I savoured so the feel of it
and felt it slowly, surely, peel
the air from lungs that couldn’t breathe.

But muscles taut refused the call
to sink into oblivion
and held their stance like the stalwart
until the break of dawn.

Dawn broke, it did; it surely does
and ‘tis the creep of sun’s good rays
that infiltrates the night’s foray
with brand new hopefulness.

Hopefulness?  Oh, yes, indeed;
it’s a gift open, unwrapped,
to place upon my mantle-piece
from this day forward until death!


Sunday, May 1, 2011

Totally accepting

Winter blasted o’er the land
for one day, two at most,
and then it’s like the devil’s hands
brought the fire down.

One or two like you and me
thought to change the climes
but ordinary people
can’t change what has to be.

I disagree, oh, yes, I do
I’m more than I appear to be
but restricted so by body mass
I’m like a leaf at wind’s behest.

And how like leaves to be full green
vibrant, healthy, on the trees
until, until, that artful time
when off they go into the world.

They litter then the ground,
are pushed around and trodden on,
and just like me they come to be …
totally accepting!



Wednesday, April 27, 2011

Wishes, needs, desires

I kept an eye some time ago
on wishes, needs, desires,
and watched them disappear
like mist into the sun.

I called them back into the fold
but too much “pity me, oh, please”
filled the nooks and crannies
where once they dwelt content.

They wandered then the ether
dispossessed of power
and floated round and round about
the core from whence they came.

Occasionally a buzz, a shiver and a feel
but gone before mind could react
and reach out determinedly
to grasp what disappeared.

Wishes, needs, desires;
oh, yes, they disappear
but not to say they ever die
in that air of no disease!




Sunday, April 24, 2011


Time drags its feet towards the hour
but patient is the love in me
that sits beneath a willow tree
united with its silent weep.

And how it sweeps across the land
as if my presence disavowed
but should I cease to wait and weep
what of that silent Willow tree?

Will it stand up with righteousness,
be puffed up with morality,
or will it bend with sweep and weep
lonely for the love in me?

To loneliness, my friend, indeed
‘tis so before the hour is struck
and all who thought to wait and weep
have left for pasture new ~
or perhaps upon a cloud they’ll float
lonely too without you.

Clouds or trees; should I believe
it matters where I choose to be
until, until, time finally
settles on the hour?



Friday, April 22, 2011

The price

The price of oil and fuel goes up
yet love’s value so diminished
and the warlords prosper more
than ere they’ve done before.

It’s a world beset by trials
that suffer so the earth to burst
and the sea to vent its anger

And in amongst this spiral
the energy of you and I
comes in second to the norms
established by the unaware.

Not today, tomorrow, or
next week, next month, year,
will energy en mass rise up ~
but energy is such to be
unseen, unheard, unknown,
until the most amazing shock
changes what we know.

Wide awake, hair singed and burnt,
and who will care of oil and fuel
when the price of love has risen high
and our coffers empty, spent?

Thursday, April 21, 2011

Morning breaks

Morning breaks the spell of past
with fists like lightning bolts
piercing through the mood
of a dark and sombre mind.

Birds and butterflies and me
fly in conscious formation
round and round and round again
the strength of one to overcome.

Willing now to be released
mind welcomes in the draft
cool and soft; a mother’s kiss
on the forehead of a child.

Thus released and free
and glory be the feel
that loosens sides and bottom, top,
of compressed despondency.

And as the overcoming gels
and hardens into good self-love
there’s yet a spot for lightning bolts
to break it into … loving me!

Another day has dawned
on all those dawned before
but of the round and round again
what of, what of, the round again?


Monday, April 18, 2011

The beyond

There’s nothing twixt the air and land
and so I stay quite unaware
and though the clouds purport to be
something solid, tangible,
I know they’re simply wake-up calls
calling, calling, calling,
“look up, look up, look at me”.

Perhaps they’re vain and simply are
in need of my admiring stare
but perhaps they’re like an opening
into what lies beyond.

They disappear sometimes to be
cheerleaders on the side-lines
but no participants appear
and of spectators there are none.

So the beyond remains alone
saddened by my absence
and builds up tension deep within
the sphere of immortal love.

I cry sometimes for that beyond
and I cry for me
unwilling now to ere believe
but I hear them still;
they sing to me
of hope’s sure company.

I can close my eyes, not look above,
can still the hope within
but I can’t and simply cannot
ever close my ears!


Sunday, April 17, 2011


I went from the simplicity
of simply loving you
into the highly convoluted
magic and mystique
of love’s birthing place.

I came back overladen
with triangles, squares, rectangles,
all entwined and entangled
within overlapping circles.

Circles roll and bounce around
an unenlightened mind
and roll down the mountain side
of no understanding.

They’re pretty in their own way
all aglow with this and that
in the twilight time
of a life in repose
but grant no gratification
to any onlooker.

I had to be in it
rolling, feeling, touching,
love’s origins
before the true meaning
of the “I love you”
could be known and understood.

Do I know and understand?
Yes, I surely do,
but I was in while you were out
and though we might nor ere entwine,
I hope you’re in it now!

Wednesday, April 13, 2011

The stars decided

The stars decided, this is it,
it’s time to chase the clouds away
and show the world the glory of
resuscitated passion.

The moon in agreement
shrugged off despondency
and glowed with remembrances
of a time long past and gone.

The wind was still in honour of
time’s amazing grace
that brings to all who stand and wait
the chance to start again.

And I stood beneath this canopy
immobile with the drop of cares
and fear for love’s survival
piled up around my feet.

I might have glowed somewhere within,
I might have remembered you,
but with all my might I surely did
chase the clouds away!

Saturday, April 9, 2011

Brick on brick

I have two piles of bricks
called He Knew and Didn’t Do
and I think to fashion them
into a fortress round my soul.

No drawbridge ‘cause I know
foundations laid on ego beds
will soon one day collapse
and let the loving in.

Still and all, I think to be
the architect of stubbornness
and engineer of righteousness
here on my pedestal.

Brick on brick, brick on brick,
how useless building what will fall
yet build I do with no drawbridge
to my own off-centre plans.

Only when I’m balanced
twixt this world and the next
can I rest beside still waters
and suffer your meanderings ~
but I have two piles of bricks!




Thursday, April 7, 2011

The voice of a poet

The voice of a poet soft and dulcet in its tone
or harsh, abrasive, cutting, and reaching to the core,
moves freely like the wind, touching, circulating,
and speaking only and always to those who wish to hear.

Ideology, philosophy, wishful thinking, memories,
unsubstantiated dreams, hopes, wishes, needs, desires,
woven like a tapestry too soon to be out-dated
and discarded like a heap of old and musty books.

In a fire of these times volumes and manuscripts
will burn and be forgotten like bodies of the dead
and cynics will grow to outnumber those who know
till all and everything disappears into the air.

How pointless, how degrading, how useless is intent
to expose to the already wise the wisdom of the old
or shine like a star in the path of a blind man
in the knowledge that he has no eyes to see.

Too numerous the setbacks and too far away the moon
to highlight a soul within the shell of flesh
and the voice of a poet disappears into the dust
to be trodden on and crushed by life’s intolerance.

The air once thin, sustaining, grows thick and thicker now
with the absorption of … simply all and everything!


Tuesday, April 5, 2011

Wishes and needs

Birds fly together straight to the tree
standing high above the lowly one, me
sure of its beauty, its majesty,
and its indomitable will.

Sunk in the sand for many a year
it’s a tree to harvest adoring stares
and gather the wishes and needs
of each and every sightseer.

No wonder it grows tall, taller than me,
it’s full of the most delightful things
because I know of my wishes and needs
they are outstandingly grand.

I don’t worry that trees hold my needs
but I wonder sometimes how they will appear
after the decreed and inevitable
biodegradable process.

Who will know that they’re mine?


Monday, April 4, 2011


I looked in the distance
and, lo and behold,
there was no horizon beckoning
like a lover’s ardent plea
to follow where he leads.

Perhaps I was mistaken.
Horizons must exist
or else the same old, same old,
gains a foothold in the door
and overpowers me.

So I cleared my eyes of fantasy
and looked again long and hard
till finally there it was
where it has always been.

So my horizon looms
next to yours and his and hers
in the distance far away
calling softly, softly,
“Please come to me”.

What? What? The deaf cannot hear
and so the shimmer of horizons
merely the tears it cries
mournfully, heartbreakingly,
throughout each live long day.

Horizons? Yes, they’re beautiful
but lonely without you!




Wednesday, March 30, 2011

Only thoughts

There amidst what’s gone to seed
grows a paw-paw tree
tall and straight and strong
and I breathed within the sense of it
as a force to fight my tears.

So the tree o’er laid and confined
every single tear
but heavy, oh, so heavy,
is that which can’t escape.

Beneath that pile of garbage lies
the root of all despair
and it thrives on every watery tear
in its push-up from the dirt.

Freedom, freedom, freedom for
every tear that needs to flow
because then the very root of all
stays buried as before.

And yet, and yet, the source must die
but I know, you know, we all know,
the essence of a paw-paw tree
grows what’s already there.

So I’ll try an Oak or Yellow Wood,
a Maple, Baobab,
until I know, you know, we know,
it’s only thoughts that grow!


Sunday, March 27, 2011

Sunday's story

Clumped and bunched like cotton wool
clouds o’er lay the land
as if to stem the flow
of mankind’s fickleness.

Meanwhile the sun is setting
drawing, drawing, blood
from the gaping wounds
of every unloved lover.

Unperturbed the mountain stands
because it’s seen it all before
and felt the tread of footsteps
that belie the truth.

And the sea, well, it’s like me
rolling with the punch of vibes
and coming in and going out
from the meaningful.

Now that time has passed,
stars twinkle like my heart
in a dark and deadly vacuum
that blankets my desire.

But tomorrow there’ll be butterflies
and I’ll once again extend a hand
hoping, willing, them to land
and speak of grace and gratitude!


Thursday, March 24, 2011

The air is still

The air is still this morn
as if God forgot to breathe
the breath of life to living things
like me in my despair.

It’s silent too like hurt and fear
and worry that invades my faith
and, yes, it’s like my love of you
dispossessed of speech.

But there are birds a-twitter
in this air that doesn’t move
and they are made, you know they are,
to enliven the forgetful.

So here we are both God and me
breathing now in harmony
but I know we’re on a see-saw
taking turns at different views.

Forgetful, yes, forgetful,
we forget to breathe
when on a see-saw up and down
between despair and ecstasy!


Monday, March 14, 2011

Without any words

One day perhaps when love finds its voice
it will speak a language without any words
but all who stand by will well understand
each inflection and nuance and each syllable.

It’s a language renowned for simplicity,
for clarity and complete honesty
and it’s beautiful really in its own way
made up as it is quite naturally.

There’ll be no need for “I love you”
and only those who’ve crossed the line
back into the land of ego avowals
will beg and plead for three little words.

Love is a language we all know by heart
but to speak it – no, no, we never would dare
for our tongues are attached to the me, me, me,
and not ever released to simply just be.

But it’s not our fault; it never is ere
we’re a species designed for useless vocab
with fluttering eyes that ne’er can remain
steady enough to converse truthfully.

I love you, I do, hear it now, now, now
for soon, too soon, silence will descend
and I pity the tribes not versed in the vibes
of a language without any words!


Friday, March 11, 2011


She delved in the corners,
searched the blue sky,
dug holes in the dirt,
and surveyed the air
but there was no magic
in sparkling display
to draw from within
her innate fantasy.

She remembers it well
for she made it all up
from wishes and needs
and amazing dreams
then buried it deep
but not deep enough.

It arose one day and pounced
like a cat on a poor lowly mouse
and played the game all fantasies play
when realities intertwine.

Oh, love/love me not,
real or unreal,
could it be, was it ever,
just a fantasy?

“Yes indeed” said the one
no one can ere see
“Mind is the magic
that makes it all be”
and she looked, you know,
but, lo and behold,
there sat the biggest and grandest
vacuum she ever had seen.

Fantasy dies by the will of the mind
and ‘tis the exchange of energy
that makes of mind’s awesome magic
dead and dreary, miserable, spent,
unable to ever again
fantasize you into being
undeniably real!


Monday, March 7, 2011

A leftover

A leftover from a foreign land
drapes o’er my body so
and moves like one attached to
the beauty of true love.

It’s like I knew to save, protect,
and keep it pristine, new,
from the demons and the monsters
harboured in the mind.

When all is still and I’m of mind
I hear their frank rebukes
but it’s easy once, twice, three times,
to flick them to the side.

But they persist, persist,
and the flick grows weak and weaker
until claws and teeth are sunken in
the overlay of love.

It cries, you know, it surely does,
pain comes with each attack
and the monsters grow in stature
in the mind, just in the mind.

So it is and so will be
until the heart beats fulsome, free,
and walks forever proudly me
draped with my love of you!

Thursday, March 3, 2011

Little feather

Come closer little feather
if you are meant for me
and so it moved, I paid no heed,
because still too far from my belief.

Lo behold it moved again
right to my special place
to be lovingly retrieved
by the specialness in me.

It’s the flight of angels, don’t you know,
that drop their calling cards
at the feet of pain and anguish
like a panacea.

I have it now inside the mind
that angels know of life’s betrayal
and through the everyday mundane
bring comfort to the weak.

If nothing changes it must be
simply because I don’t believe!

Saturday, February 26, 2011

The silent meaningful

The wind in respect has retreated for a rest
to allow the birds and bees and me
a chance to freely fly
into the silent meaningful.

The sun burns its ardour down
like a conciliatory embrace
for it knows that in the silence
I’ll find my past mistakes.

I’ll also find how love can be
when wings aren’t clipped and tied
and the busy, busy, worker bee
that scattered can’t decide.

I’ll find the sons and daughters
born to enlighten me
and all the dress-up clothes
that hid my vulnerability.

And I’ll find you standing there
at ease in your belief
that mingled, meshed, and intertwined
with transitory life ~
and I will find I cannot find
the silence of your heart!

Thursday, February 24, 2011

It came to me

It came to me this morning, now,
and I studied it full face
as if watching stand-up comedy
awaiting the punch-line.

But silence issued from the lips,
the eyes were stark and staring,
and the pose like one uncaring
of me and you and them.

Like a statue, yes, indeed it was,
yet it followed my perceptions,
bowed down to my core belief,
and played out every thought.

Ah-ha! It’s life; you know it is!

Tuesday, February 22, 2011

She climbed

She climbed the stairs and counted
not a thousand but much less
yet still enough to take her up
to a vantage point
and she surveyed the landscape
dry-eyed like one unmoved.

In the distance there were mountains
blue, blue, it seemed to her
like love confined immobile
in a cage of self-destruction
and she brought the air in, in, in,
like a plea for love’s release.

She turned then and walked away
to where the grass was green
and where the water tumbled free
hot, hot, like passion, lust,
from within the bowels of earth.

She settled in that stream to be
self-contained and satisfied
that once a plea intoned
she simply had to be
distanced from the mountains blue
dry-eyed as she was then.

And then she went down, down, down,
into the depths of heart and soul
to arise a woman free and clear
from deep emotive love
but there in those watery depths
you’ll find the tears she cried.

Sunday, February 20, 2011

Frozen moments

A moment froze within its pose
and I captured it just so
for there are few and far between
that fit from edge to edge.
Too large and they’re a burden,
too small means something's missing,
but that edge to edge the manner, means,
of satiating me.

I thought then of you and love
under a cloudless sky
and of the birthing process
that leads to greater things.

And I thought of rain and thunderstorms,
of anguish and dismay,
and then I saw the edges
slowly, slowly curling up
and my frozen moment melted
into a puddle round my feet.
So I splashed a bit; ‘twas still good
for the time it took to know
frozen moments disappear
when mind turns up the heat!

Thursday, February 17, 2011

Twigs and me

It’s an evil wind that blows today
through nooks and crannies, hair,
and the mind is set to fluttering
here, there, and everywhere.

One moment settled in the now,
one moment looking back,
and the next searching o’er the land
for twigs to make a future nest.

But twigs are brittle, prone to break,
and move with wind like scuttling bugs
to rest upon a foreign shore
where again the wind will blow.

Twigs and me; we seem to be
flying creatures without wings
who flutter, flutter, aimlessly,
between past, present, future.

It’s an evil wind that blows today
until, until - there’s no “until”
because, because, it’s just because
minds flutter everywhere!

Tuesday, February 15, 2011

The land of "have-me-not"

In the circumstance of moving life
things break and need repair
and all that went to fuel it up
demands replenishment.

Then there’s the you and me
so well entwined therein
with no fix-it man in sight
and no pipeline to sustenance.

There’s no hand to hold or lift-me-up,
no shoulder or a “yes, I know”,
and no touch to still the tingle
that reverberates within.

It’s called in modern parlance
the land of “have-me-not”
where love in form does nothing,
not even feeds the feel.

But in that land there once were hills
that slowly, slowly, grew to be
large stand-alone mountains
imposing in their majesty.

Mountains ring the place I’m at
and how like love to simply be
above the circumstance of life
yet there for me to see!

Monday, February 7, 2011


There is no discount waiting for
he who pays to take a chance
or voucher, gift, refund cheque,
or a bar of chocolate.

We simply pay the asking price
of which we're unaware
but that chance so clothed in mystery
completely irresistible.

Pay, pay, pay, we paid back then
and today, tomorrow, on
until the chance we chose to take
bows to another one.

It's like climbing up a mountain
until on the peak we spy the sea
rolling chances to the shore
not awaiting our descent.

Yet slowly, surely, down we go.
There always is another chance
maybe perfect or not so
but we will, I know, pay again.

‘tis just an open mind, you see,
that knows to be where chances roll
and catch a wave that's outward bound
towards a new experience.

Let not the you or me ere be
stuck on mountains far from sea!

Saturday, January 29, 2011

The heart's not dead!

The heart’s not dead but yet is still
like air before the wind
has released the well confined
into a state of vibrancy.

And when released the once confined
won’t ere return again
to a place that brought the roof to ground
and the walls up to each other.

Of necessity it is a place
where nothing matches perfectly
but the gaps between sides, bottom/top,
allow no freedom march.

The heart must move to be believed
and run to where it’s needed
to make of a transient life
an everlasting one.

The heart’s not dead but yet is still;
can it be it’s simply energy
awaiting the wind of love
to spur it into action?

Saturday, January 15, 2011

She's a woman

Not yet upon the precipice
of floating free and clear
she’s a woman, maybe me,
with laboured breath and footsteps.

The perfect goal and end of all
weighs heavy in her hands
but she knows to carry carefully
to ensure her place of comfort.

There’s a clipboard on her back
like mindful awareness
of what she needs to do and be
to reach the finish line
together with her pen of ticks,
change of mind eraser,
and an over-sized cross-off bag
to hold her dreams and fantasies.

Thus weighted she’s a traveller
towards the now unknown
and though she’d love to drop the crumbs
for you to follow on
she knows your appetite
doesn’t lean towards her own.

She’s a woman on a journey
with no free hands to wring a thought
as to how to free herself
from a heavy cross-off bag!

Thursday, January 13, 2011

Wrap, pack, shift

Mind keeps the heart in safety mode
and holds the reins just so
to ensure a world not understood
can’t pass on the blind side.

This mind, this mind, this deepest mind,
incites the heart to wrap, pack, shift,
but heart mourns the once-upon-a-time
when mind caused not a ripple.

The way forward then did not exist;
heart was settled, quiet, still,
and there was nought for mind to do
but imagine more and sketch, doodle.

And so in time it came to pass
that all mind’s pictures came alive
and presented to a baffled heart
a course beset with obstacles.

Heart braved the valleys, mountains, dales;
there is no death and yet it died
each time it fell, each time it cried,
and each and every time you lied.

But mind, this mind, this deepest mind,
still holds the reins and blocks a pass
so heart can safely wrap, pack, shift,
from … one doodle to the next!

Saturday, January 8, 2011

The bandage

Soft breezes blow the trees and me
towards the now unknown
and stir the dust of obstacles
around my tender feet.

It’s just the grains of testing me
that graze and cut resolve
till the bandage of my life-force
drapes o’er the wounded parts.

Sometimes it stays to irritate,
sometimes it’s cool and soothing,
but I love it when it tickles
the absurdity of thought.

I thought one day of loving you,
of jumping hurdles one by one,
of flying, diving, cartwheeling,
and being a beauty queen.

And so of thought it's not a “thing”
to run the whole course mindfully
but bucks and jumps, shakes off the reins,
and meanders into fantasy.

The bandage of my life-force;
today it tickles, yes, it does,
and tomorrow it will no doubt
tickle, tickle, tickle!

Sunday, January 2, 2011

The hang and sway

Life is fraying a bit at the seams
not totally coming apart
like the sink after love unrequited
has severed a vital lifeline.

It’s not, however, the only line
that enables a hang and a sway
on life’s so merry round about
turning, turning, and turning again.

So we hang and we sway, turn in the day,
and give over our truth to the night
hoping to there see a ray of light
that encourages forward movement.

But then it is day, too soon, too soon,
and we’re hanging and swaying again
and the chicken next door is silent
because it knew when to walk away.

How brave is that chicken homeless now
to not hang and sway, turn in the day,
but simply to do a midnight flit
and not care about truth and light.

But we are who we are, have always been,
and I’m not a chicken, you see?