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?