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”!