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?

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!

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!

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!

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?