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'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!

 

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!

 

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!

 

Fantasy!

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!

 

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!

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!