Saturday, December 29, 2012

The sea and shore

The sea woke to more than before
for sleep her only succour
in all the days of her life
entrapped within the harbour
waiting for ships to set sail.

Slowly, slowly, one by one
they sailed off in their own directions
to leave the sea free at last
to explore with a sense of adventure
new and untested shores.

Sea looks to horizons of gold
maybe soon to make themselves known
and charters a course within a dream
to make of her life a settled state.

But the sea being sea doesn’t believe
in embracing the new and untried
for deep in her psyche the knowledge of years
always leads to that one and only.

Perhaps one day she’ll touch on that shore
sweet and gently like love does
or maybe she’ll thrash in anger
and land on the shore like a woman ignored.

But the sea like me grown weary with age
simply waits for the call of time
to prepare her own personal sails
for that journey of a lifetime.

Will the sea stay, will the sea go?
No one can know what time will bring
as we enter the year two thousand thirteen! 

Wednesday, December 26, 2012

The correction stick

Now that gypsy lady sits upon
the rock of her Gibraltar
and from her vantage point can see
the pompous and inflated,
the calm and sweet serene,
and how the harsh aggressive
bend the best of them.

No more she vows again to be
one of those upon their knees
and so she turns her eyes upon
her very own and unique
manner of being.

Not perfect for no one can be
when blessed with only half a brain
but she knows the right and wrong of thought
and wields her correction stick.

Not always with desired results
for such is life to sway intent
and so she works upon her strength
at holding and directing
her oft used correction stick.

If you look today you’ll see her there
not ashamed to stand up straight
and practice, practice, day and night
until she knows with all her might
to throw that damn correction stick
into the sea of neglect.

Neglected, yes, but will still be
a tool to use when blown off course
from how she knows to think, love, be,
but, oh, the wind blows constantly
in this land of human beings!

Sunday, December 16, 2012


Not right and yet it is so
evil lives to rule the world
and creeps around the corners, bends,
of the pure and innocent.

Unaware they welcome it
and lay a bed for it to grow
until of age it sallies forth
and makes its presence known.

How can it be and yet ‘tis so
for every thought against the one
without compassion, honour, love,
feeds evil’s so large appetite.

I’m guilty for I can’t abide
the grin of evil in a smile
meant to deceive and pacify
the pure and innocent.

But in the fullness of all time
I’ll know the pain from evil’s strike
was meant to modify my mind
from judgment to acceptance mode.

Until that time, until, until,
may love too sally forth
and make its presence known!

Friday, November 30, 2012

A woman in oil

The marks of a woman in essential oil, love,
attest to her presence in a new wonderland
but gone is her essence, her being, her name,
washed into life she sinks, disappears.

Bubbles rise forth as she battles to breathe,
a frog she could be or an undersea ghoul,
rising and falling, her heart, body, all,
in reality drowns, she’s a memory gone sour.

Love floats her right in, hate takes her right out,
she’s bobbing about unanchored no doubt,
but high on a dream she’s a terrible queen
of hidden reserves and untrained discipline.

She goes with the flow like an old shabby clock
ready to stop any minute, day, year,
or maybe a broom sweeping dust from the floor
ready to can it or throw it out on the wind.

And then there is life riding high on a wave
pushing her forward into arms of her death.
A rock in her path and she’s batted and bruised
but would you believe she’s nobody’s fool?

When she is dry she might start over again,
be a woman well versed in the essence of wine,
and then she can drown in full-bodied red
or trip through daisies of pure sparkling white.

Still there are bubbles, she’s alive, she survived.
Her mark?  I don’t know.  Perhaps it’s grown old,
merged into bubbles from half drunk champagne
or somewhere in oil frying potatoes and meat.

Such is the story, tale, exposé,
of a woman in oil, essential oil, love!

Monday, November 19, 2012


Not ever, ere, has heartache been
a deep and fiery devil “thing”
that leaves the soft and gentle
prone on the floor of death.

But the soft and gentle rise again
to view the floor with different eyes
and run, oh, yes, as best they can
from the dastardly.

It’s in that run that happenstance
leads them on and into
a wild and ferocious jungle
that harbours memories.

No run can ever beat the times
when heartache tripped the fleet of foot
who by the grace of mind states
had missed the hazardous.

Though risen from the floor of death
and adept at fighting jungles
now searches all the gentle, soft,
for joy that one day disappeared.

Now joy’s akin to devil “things”
that plays all day catch if can
and taunts and goads the innocent
into a game that never ends.

There they go, here they come,
searching for what can’t be found
because heartache burns the best of life
and throws ash into the winds of time!

Sunday, November 11, 2012

The tape

Images of past rewind in a mind
but suddenly an unprecedented error
and the tape splits and breaks
at the point of love.

Now in this new world order
there’s no manner and means
of joining again the damaged
that once reigned supreme.

But there’s a glitter and shine
on the road to the future
that neither holds a promise
nor the gift of life.

Yet walk we do one and all
proud of having so advanced
beyond the meaningful
and into the unknown.

How brave the multitudes
who sacrifice unknowingly
in their forgetfulness and disregard
of the seemingly outdated.

I’m not brave; I cannot be
when knowing that the point of love
is the place to stop, feel, see,
there’s no future without “you”!

Saturday, October 27, 2012

To be ...

To be of life and all its ways
a chore only for the brave
standing on a precipice
far from a saviour’s reach.

And how the hardship of the climb
can deplete all human reserves
and leave one vulnerable
to the elements of nature.

It was in her nature, yes, you know
to look below and beneath
and yet the surface of a life
rises up to asphyxiate.     

She teeters on the edge of breath
sure that the last is bound to be
but in the manner of this life
air infiltrates and motivates.

And in the retrace she will find
not agony but clarity
and she will know, as you do too,
all things will cease to be ~

but the cliff, oh, yes, it’s still there
so all who climb will one day know
to simply walk back down again
without a shudder or a doubt!

Friday, October 12, 2012

Down at the sea

Down at the sea where the wind blows free
and the clouds inflate and deflate
mind opens for just a moment or two
to remember what now is lost.

And one who stands so well immersed
like a statue immovable
for, oh, those glorious yesterdays
deserve undivided attention.

Finally though in waves, in waves,
this reality reaches the shore
and she can no longer mourn as before
in the face of her present times.

She turns, you know, as everyone does
the extraordinary into the commonplace
as a means of dismissing the full import
of those days so long ago now.

She musters a smile from hidden reserves
and arms herself with spirit filled love
because she knows; you know she knows,
the past is embedded in soul!

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

What is love? (repost)

The gifted, the wise, the pastors, the wives,
the noblemen, preachers, and poor humble beings,
turn feelings to words in attempts to describe
the emotion of love, if there such a thing be.

Not gifted or wise, no longer a wife,
I stumble through love with the pen of my mind.

It’s lacking in substance and cannot be seen
yet in the market it barters a give and take fee
but the fee is a feeling exchanged for free
so it could be construed as an invalid deal.

Too it is given with no earthly reward
so the gold in our hearts must be ill gotten gains
and the castles it builds are made out of air
so, therefore, love’s castles are not meant to be.

It doesn’t have legs to cross the divide
between mother earth and heavenly sky
so it’s surely not love when we think we see stars.

If love is the greatest, who taught it to play
sweet lilting music to which we all sway?

Its mission I’ll say, but then won’t deny it,
is to find a “something” that’s missing inside us
but whichever, however, it destructs if ignored
and, therefore, must be as if it was not.

What is love? It’s a thought, an idea, a wishing to be,
a prayer, a hope, and the longing in me,
but if one day it knocked, would I even know?
Would you?

Monday, September 24, 2012

In the genes

Love left her there, love left her here,
and so she travels place to place
to test this usual norm
but love’s desertion so entrenched
she knows it’s in the genes.

Not in her genes, oh, no, no, no,
but in the one who cannot love
or will not love not ever, ere,
for fear invaded and conquered
the blueprint of his soul.

And there’s no magic here today
to fix the torn and tattered
and so into the after-life
goes the now ill-fated. 

To wander there not as before
forever searching for the lost
must surely be a bad outcome
for one first made intact. 

But I just sigh, again, again,
for what the world has torn apart
remains to be forever more
and follows like a shadow does
in the light of knowing more!

Monday, September 10, 2012

In the field

And there in the field of her own consciousness
she drapes a veil o’er heart, mind, soul,
seeking so protection from
her inner view of life.

But there’s this thing between the three
that intertwines and bubbles up
into her clear blue eyes
and she can see, oh, God help her,
the lie behind a smile.

She tries to do a sideways shift
but that’s no way to know the truth
and somewhere in that intertwine
the need of truth abides.

She wonders sometimes why the lie,
why sometimes it can fool the wise,
and why it swings so fast and free
to confuse the best truth seeker.

But as the sun rises up, higher up,
she bows to life’s state of affairs
and sews every day beads of ignorance
to make of her veil a more solid safeguard.

She sews and wonders each/every day
how many beads she’ll need till demise
and if her supply should ever run out
what then will she do to survive!

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Turn, turn around

After the whirlwind stillness abides
and the heart remains passive inside
and does just enough to survive
for the remainder of mortal life.

Come day, come night, and the breath in/out
no longer soars above ground
but slinks in the shadows that always abound
on the earth’s ever turn, turn around.

And that sense of movement passes one by
when the mind on memory alights
and settles around a roaring camp fire
deep into each and every night.

But always there are fierce thunder storms
and cloud bursts that shatter this norm
to leave a survivor not as before
come the calm after the storm.

And so with the earth we turn, turn around,
until no longer seen on the ground! 

Saturday, August 25, 2012

So ...

So love arrests development
and the bridges it once built
are washed away by all the rain
falling o’er the earth’s terrain.

So we think to re-enact the scene
and build again the past
but the weariness and wariness
like winter halts all growth.

So caught in this outrageous state
time marches on sans music
and musicians of the heart banished
into the realms of silence.

So we think to call them back again
but time spent has stolen skills
and instruments have rusted
in the void of nought to do.

So then, what then?  I’ve no idea
how growth can come again
when arrested all are we
by love not meant to be!

Saturday, August 18, 2012

The game

So when the blood pumps up and down
It’s like a see-saw deep within
and this I play on all alone
in the confines of my home.

It’s the yes or no, the go or stay,
the will or won’t, the do or don’t,
that keeps the mind in constant play
on the stage of mortal life.

And then there are the clouds of course
that drop their rain on my parade
and in this drip, drop, splatter, splash,
action sinks into the grave.

Like mourners all the me, you, them,
who play this game most every day!

Saturday, August 11, 2012

The mist

From the land of the lost
the mist rises up
and there on the spot hesitates
debating, I bet, the merits or not
of knocking before entering
that once protected sanctum
deemed the core of my heart.

But unaware I can’t know how long
that spot was so occupied
before the sneak and creep
through all the gaps and black holes
created by the … creator.

I only know the shiver and chill
and how my view of all things grand
fades away and disappears
to not ere be seen again.

And oh, that overlay of mist
bears the grin of wickedness
and with its arms like tentacles
squeezes and suffocates
one who needs to breathe. 

So in the mist, the mist of the lost,
walk the scared and afraid
but how stupid is that;
mist eats the dead
and everything else has faded away!

Saturday, August 4, 2012

That gypsy lady

So that gypsy lady broke up her camp
and braved the mountain of love’s attributes
and she overcame all obstacles
on her way to that far away peak.

She planted herself for a moment or two
in the soil of emotion and knowledge
to feel the wind of celebration
blow happily through her hair.

Of course she knew as everyone does
that peaks are and will always be
opposed to life’s dictates
that decree an abode on flat level ground.

But for that one moment or two
how glorious it was to be free
and speak the words of love’s honesty
even if unto the deaf.

Step by step she retraced her steps
with more baggage than ever before
until at the midway stage she stopped
to dispense with the feel and knowing.

But the wind had followed her every move
waiting to pick up her discards
and push them along behind her
to make light weight of her memory.

And how like the wind to pick up speed
and deposit it all at her feet
to trip her up, again, again,
on her journey to flat level ground.

She’s not there yet; she loiters in caves
in attempts to escape the wind
that whirls and swirls her discards
at her one and only exit point.

Unless before time she escapes
that gypsy lady will be as dust
and blow with the wind and her discards
into the land of “The End” …
but time, yes, time; what is time
that never forever has stilled the wind?

Tuesday, July 24, 2012


As the temperature rises I know it is time
to revel again in anticipation
and how soothing it is to again project
all dreams into the everyday.

Perhaps it is fruitless some would say
for history attests to no dreams today
but, oh, when the birds sing strident and clear
I can’t help but picture you here.

But the picture is hazy for now I see
light blue from the chocolate brown
and I find there’s a subtle but definite twist
in my long held belief in the truth.

But mind, my mind, embedded in life
has succumbed to the strange and bizarre
and covers the heart with its reasoning
in attempts to still the beat.

And quietly I sit in anticipatory mode
listening with fine-tuned heart ears
and I know the beat’s deep, deep, down
too weak now to rise from the covers.

How sad when mind steps in to conduct  
the music of heart’s true rhythm
to make of the calm and harmonic
a blaring and off-key cacophony!

Sunday, July 22, 2012

To and fro

The news of the day repeats, repeats,
until instilled in my brain
and grows and grows to overspill
into the chamber of grief.

Now this chamber of grief is overfull
from the years of love’s desertion
and so it becomes a slow seep and creep
into my now life force.

This force must fight to the death
to retain its true attributes
and I wonder from whence comes strength
that fortifies the weak.

And so in the midst of this battle
I stand a woman unsure
as to where to place my bet
in these times of diverse theories.

And so it goes; a to and fro
until the force withdraws from the fray
and life grins wickedly
at its next innocent victim!

Tuesday, July 17, 2012

Beasts of burden

Though miles have been accumulated
on my journey to demise
I’m granted no advantage
on subsequent travels.

It’s an advertising gimmick
made to catch the unaware
and force upon the trusting
the burden of cynicism.

Weighted so we walk the trail
for surely in the backpack
there must be memories
of that once-upon-a-time.

But busy, busy, I can’t look
for sustenance not made whole
in this world that doesn’t honour
a traveller’s many miles.

And there’s no flexibility
or willingness to bend
the unwritten rules
that govern everyone.

So this is life, a tyrannical dictator,
that like an evil wizard
slowly, slowly, turns the young
into beasts of burden!

Sunday, July 15, 2012

Final goodbye

The final goodbye creeps sneakily sly
like a snake in the wilderness does
and stalks the edges of innocence
until it is time to strike.

Patient are snakes and final goodbyes
because the strike must be deadly true
to reach the unprotected core
when it is least expected.

Strike and I'm dead; I don’t exist
like an extraordinary mystical vision
seen and then lost in preposterous life
always present like traffic lights.

Now traffic lights can’t assimilate loss
or empathize with the deprived
so those who should proceed onward
stand immobilized on the line.

They don’t hold up traffic, oh, no. no. no,
because people like me and you and them
are plain and simply mystical visions
seen and then, of course, lost!

Saturday, July 7, 2012

The last waltz

When the last waltz has stopped
long before the lights have dimmed
no cash, down-payment or card
can reclaim its extraordinary magic.

And yet the cry goes out; dance, dance again,
until the clouds take to the hills
hoping there to find deaf ears
and rest happily in ignorance.

Peace reigns for a time and half a time
but then a thought begins to grow
in the, oh, so white and fluffy
to turn them dark and sombre.

How long it takes for clouds to think
remains for me a mystery
but finally thought turns into action
and they return again.

No one can hear their silent creep
because noise would make of their eavesdrop
a complete and utter waste of time
for those with work to do.

And then they listen; yes, they hear
the same old cry as once before
and that’s the reason why we have
quick and sudden cloudbursts.

Clouds, you see, must blanket cries
with all at their disposal 
to not make of their return
an unwise decision.

And how like humans to take to the hills
and bury their heads in the clouds! 

Thursday, July 5, 2012

I want to know

I want to know what it’s like
to have extreme heart control
and keep love’s basic attributes
imprisoned behind bars.

Is there a fight for breath,
a decided lack of exercise,
and nourishment not suited for
eternal growth?

And when the nightmares come
is there a cry for comfort
and can the eyes dismiss
the downward fall of tears?

Is there a reach and stretch
beyond the physical
seeking there a reason
for imprisonment?

Or does love simply die 
and stripped of memory interned 
deep within the psyche
to not ever rise again?

Before I buy, beg, borrow, steal,
please tell me what it’s like
and most important definitely
does it work for you?

Saturday, June 30, 2012

My story

There’s a story in my African sky
clearly seen and understood
when the clouds have passed on by
and winter says it’s arrived.

I could read it word for word out loud
and change my tone according to
the feeling of the times
if you asked me to.

No one asks; of course, they don’t
because history isn’t captivating
in a world that moves now double-pace
towards annihilation.

But my story never disappears
caught as it is in heaven’s blue
and when I look up, up, up,
I can see love smiling down.

That’s all it does; just smile, smile, smile,
to make me think my story is
completely acceptable
so why then be so woe betide?

I wrote you in, you see, in my forever story
but then the clouds rolled on it
and left a void where should have been
a truly meaningful conclusion.

When what we write has been erased
and love still smiles down, down, down,
what can we do but smile right back
because … one smile deserves another!

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

Morning breaks

Morning breaks a lonely heart
but not the part that mourns
and so it stands eternally
a monument to pain.

Not of stone - no, no, no,
but like a locket round the neck
to not ere drift apart 
from the main attraction.     

But the main attraction broken now
no longer stands on centre stage
and holds the gaze of one who loves
unblinking and steadfast.

Broken hearts and mourning parts
so near yet far apart
seek but never find
the element that binds.

But when it’s time at last, at last,
for the final bow
perhaps there’ll be a clap and cheer
for the drama of a life
that grants us all the breath of life
until the curtain drops.

Perhaps, perhaps!

Saturday, June 23, 2012

The closet

When the heart makes its escape
from the closet of its life
it leaves no jacket, hat, or shoes
to speak of its existence.

The door now stands ajar
like a challenge to the brave
to step over the threshold
into that empty space.

And they stand like you and I
uncertain what to do
because the dark of the unknown
always terrifies.

But not to worry, no, no, no,
‘tis just a closet empty, dark,
with nothing left behind to speak
as the heart once surely did.

And the brave, yes, the brave
venture nearer, nearer, in
and suddenly the door bangs closed
and keeps them there confined.

When the brave in darkness terrified
‘tis just a moment, year, lifetime,
before heart again opens doors
and the brave, yes, the brave
must simply wait and be
patient in the closet
of life without a heart!

Monday, June 18, 2012

The dream

Sleep comes again to settle
the state of one who weeps
but again the dream comes marching
through the veils of consciousness.

Stirred awake it’s not to say
she no longer weeps
but her focus now enlarged
encompasses this “double-up”.

Weighted she’s a woman, maybe you, maybe me,
rationalizing, justifying, and trying to explain
how dreams intrude and supersede
yesterday’s dismay.

But finally and indubitably one deep breath
and shrug of shoulders, flick of head,
blows all the puzzle pieces
out the doors and windows.

She doesn’t rush to gather them
because she knows like I do
dreams are simply nature’s way
of mixing up realities.

Armed now with breath, head/shoulders straight
and un-weighted with that dream 
she turns to face the rising sun
sure again that dreams aren’t real!  

Thursday, June 14, 2012

Gypsy unseen

That gypsy unseen opened her heart
and for a moment thought she could fly
but no wings appeared to lift her up
into the sky of her only desire.

She studied her wagon and how it swayed
weighted down with her goods and chattels
and how the power that pulled her along
seemed no longer interested.

Still she moved going nowhere slowly
not ever stopping to look and to feel
and made her way to the river bank
intent on reaching the sea.

She’s still there today camped in dismay
and there within the pervading silence
she asks for the strength to pray
for those ever elusive wings.

But the trees had nothing to say
and the river still wends its way
down to the sea beyond the reach
of gypsies who cannot fly.

Sad to say the tale ends that way
but in the movement of rivers to sea
you’ll hear the prayers of that gypsy unseen
and you’ll know she’s stronger today!

Saturday, June 9, 2012


Like a lover missing me
the place I once called home
enacts its vibrational pull
and there’s a backward twist
to my forward gait.

It stands in a mist that never disappears,
in the clouds joined one unto the other,
or beneath the earth in a glorious cavern
or just somewhere unimaginable.

I cannot draw the outlines
or sketch the inner chambers
but there’s a bearing down  
of truth and happiness.   

But truth, yes, truth,  so intermingled 
with this land of signs and wonders
remains for you and me and them
completely unattainable.

So like a lover missing me
home waits until the time is right
to say finally and truthfully
 “Come unto me and I will give you rest”.

Thursday, May 31, 2012

Winter's tunnel

Birds perch upon the highest bough
not scared to slip and fall
in this life stripped bare and devoid
of the meaningful.

How firm their faith in love
that through grace allows true flight
to acquire and imbibe
lasting sustenance.

And through winter’s tunnel they’ll arrive
into the glorious
and their song though never silenced
will more strident pierce denial.

But, but, but, and, oh, another but
there are lands where birds don’t go
and mankind that will not grasp
how faith always provides.

It’s not to say that idle hands
must rest content in uselessness
because always in the physical
we’re called to honour life.

Yet and yet, and, oh, another yet
how to honour the stripped bare
and effortlessly glide through
winter’s deadly tunnel?

Through faith, of course, simple faith
so easy but made difficult
to acquire and imbibe
until summer comes again!