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!

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!

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!

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!  

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!

Home

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”.