Monday, November 25, 2013

Rolling, rolling

The hills are rolling, rolling,
and forces on that gypsy
a sway and tilt, an upheaval,
she’d rather not endure.

Tied firmly as she is
to the seat of mortal life
she’s moving but not dancing
from morn until midnight.

And then there are the hours
when mind escapes the sway
and she wonders if she cries
sad or happy tears.

The hills are rolling, rolling,
and that gypsy gal is moving
until finally all is still
and she sleeps the sleep
of the well and truly dead!

Thursday, November 21, 2013


It wasn’t in the month of May
that life became a devil thing
and I know that well for here I am
held prisoner by November.

Soon, soon, soon, release will come
and I’ll step into December
but I know from then until today
devils follow angels.

But when behind they’re building strength
to one day overtake and trip
the good and innocent
and how silently they grow and grow
seeking always, wishing for,
acknowledgment and praise.

So sad the tale of those in need
that only through an evil deed
can make their presence known
but never in their life and times
gain an ounce of praise.

So be it then; devils follow angels
working hard, so very hard,
for praise that never comes!

Friday, November 15, 2013

That gypsy

That gypsy well known for the movement of soul
that opened a portal to the knowing of more
rests now in the shade of memories
and goes through the motions without the emotion.

Once caught in the web of need and desire
she knows to remain content in repose
and she watches the sun rise up every day
in the very same way as yesterday. 

Sometimes she longs for the thrill of good love
but she sighs of course as gypsies do
for time has stolen the meaningful
and buried it deep in the long lost past.

She wanders back sometimes mindfully
and too sometimes accidentally
but always forever returns again
to the trail that leads into the unknown.

It could be a place, it could be a state,
or plain and simply the end of it all
but she trundles along with  burdens and song
wrapped up in her memories of you!

Thursday, October 17, 2013

Bubble of love

 Now that bubble of love has no door
yet easy, so easy, to walk right in,
unpack our bags, put up our feet,
and make ourselves comfortable.

As so as a welcome guest we sit;
no need to clean, cook, serve,
or repair the old, broken or cracked,
or preserve the beautiful.

We shift the furniture, move ornaments,
and change carpets, curtains, linen,
to suit our own peculiarities
as if it’s our given right.

Now that bubble of love patient and kind
observes these machinations
and wonders how long it can bear the brunt
of mankind’s twisted perceptions.

One day that bubble will build a door
to close on the undeserving
and how would it be with nowhere to go
to make ourselves comfortable?

Clean, cook, serve, repair, protect,
and maybe, just maybe, maybe …

Saturday, October 12, 2013

Morning has broken

Morning has broken the still of the night
and brought in the pain, anguish, and strife
wrapped in a parcel of gorgeous sunlight
and bound with the string of merry bird songs.

And that gypsy well known for lonely vigils
invites them all in for friendly debate
in attempts to discern the merit and worth
of this strange and peculiar phenomenon. 

She serves up her best from stores of wisdom
and lays small-talk on a china platter
but greeted by silence that gypsy resolves
to not ever again be a hostess of note.

She can’t entertain a group of strangers
that simply have nothing in common
but after the chore of clearing away
she’s left with a beautiful day –
and she’ll do it again and again, again,  
because the effort is worth the outcome!

Saturday, September 21, 2013

The round-about

Painted vibrant red;
is there passion for the dead
and a forgiveness cup
from which to drink and know
all was fair in love and war?

Are there sparkling diamonds
in the suffering endured
that glows with enlightenment
and gold and silver tinsel
blowing in the breeze
of all we hoped would be?

So goes the round-about
turning, turning, turning,
but eventually the disembark
and how dizzy are the living
who cannot find their balance.

‘tis a wobble and a sway
before the mind levels out
and takes that well-worn path
away from contemplation.

Happy and at ease
but that round-about waits patiently
because it knows, of course it knows,
one spin deserves another –
and another and another!

Monday, August 5, 2013


Amongst the many bales of human betrayal
there lie small pockets of true faithfulness
but buried by the large and extremely overpowering
they disappear and be as if they never were.

How many possessed of the muscle tone and strength
to lift and carry bales to the end of the world
and force upon them there the same destiny
as those little pockets small and delicate?

So in this life and times of the weak and feeble
human betrayal simply never disappears
but lives to grow and procreate
a bigger and better form of itself. 

Suppose, suppose, mankind could be
faithful to the truth of soul
and not puffed up and overfilled
with the undesirable
but not to be; it seems to me
we’ll have to wait with love and grace
until the end of the world!  

Monday, July 29, 2013

Fluidity and grace

She tried to cross the river
with fluidity and grace
but way beyond her knowing
human currents of disgrace
were building and growing.

Her destination nearly reached
before the force upturned her grace,
tensed what should be loose,
and pushed her far off course.

There came a stillness finally
and she emerged bedraggled, wet,
at a place she couldn’t understand
and one that terrified.

She followed then a path
illuminated by the norms
and existed scantily
amidst the then unknown.

She learnt the ways of humankind
but the river, the river!  Where is the river
and how to retrace her steps
when fluidity and grace
lost in the past?

But in her dreams she feels again
how it used to be
and she smiles into the ether
because she knows, you see,
she knows!

Monday, June 17, 2013

A dip and glide

The book is open today at insight
as the birds claim the glory of sky
and seem to be forcing a look out there
as a turn-away from the knowing.

Yet the knowing follows the need to see
how they dip and glide gloriously free
in the vastness of no limitations
or rules as to how they must be.

Slowly it dawns like day after night
that I too must soar like the birds
un-weighted by the burden of sight
that penetrates all falsities.

And when it is known that a dip and glide
is a personal saving grace
can I say I’m a bird gifted by verse
in claim of the glorious sky?

No, cannot be; we’re all land bound
manipulated sometimes unknowingly
by falsity dressed up as truth
as a means of clipping our wings! 

Tuesday, June 4, 2013

Original music

For something different and free follow the link below to some original music by Devin Howell.

Monday, May 27, 2013

As gypsies do

That gypsy looked as gypsies do
into the heart of silence
hoping there to see
golden threads of happiness
purported to be real.

Lo/behold, a mass of many colours
starting bold and vibrant
and ending pastel, dull
and she started to unravel
still hoping as all gypsies do.

Not here, not there, but somewhere, yes?
And she looked again as gypsies do
way beyond the pale
and there in quiet repose
cross-legged on the seat of time
sat pure happiness.

What time, what time, she didn’t know
there was no day, month, year
and she returned to move again
from here to there like gypsies do
unfettered and uncluttered.

No golden thread can be entwined
with the bold that turns to pale
but it is there waiting, waiting,
for the sure permanence
of all things combined!

Thursday, May 16, 2013

The 16th May

There’s nothing wrong with the 16th of May
for it did in the past birth a special resolve
but wrapped it up in flesh and bone
before sending it into the world.

There it lived for a number of years
with inklings of the absolute truth
and a sense of all the mystery realms
that intruded into the physical world.

There were times when resolve was strong
but settled back into weak states
seeking there to be like the rest
unknowing, unthinking, unfeeling.

Its façade was broken one day, one day,
but it held on for the lives of them
and pushed against love with all its might
like the drowning would look for air.

So drowns now resolve that sought to be strong
and with flesh and bone weakened by age
it cannot now rise and be counted
as one who bowed to the call.

But not yet dead resolve still lives
in a fantasy world of next time around
seeking solace and comfort in an uncertainty
in attempts to make everything right. 

Oh dear, oh dear, right won’t come again
when wrong has ruled a lifetime!

Monday, May 13, 2013


And those times of hoping, hoping,
too fluid to remain within
compartments of the mind
trickle down to ground
there to be trodden on
by life’s sheer disdain.

But it is the month of May;
there’ll be no rain today
and consciousness degrees
a time of watering
from now until the summer
brings in the clouds and rain
to flood our hope filled fields
and make them be as if were not.

And if we pack and carry hope
there’ll be a weakening
and down to ground it will fall
and again be no more.

Yet and yet hope can’t be
a discarded entity
and it clings ever steadfastly
to all of the hopeful
until they too fall to ground
and be as if were not.

How stupid, how senseless,
but who can say hope does not
while alive fight to survive?

Tuesday, April 9, 2013

The lines

In that pit of no-man’s land
he lay as one unconscious of
the hand of love that gentle traced
the lines of bad experiences.

They twisted this way/that
and went beneath the surface of
the certainly most transitory
to disappear and be absorbed
by the real and permanent.

And yet she sought to draw them out
and lay them end to end
so they could shrivel up and die
before the last goodbye.

But the hand of love stopped midway;
only one who lies in that dark pit
can delve and ferret deep, deep, down
for all the lines not suited to
the one beneath the flesh.

So the hand of love off to the side
merely waits with downcast eyes
and one could say she’s praying
and wishing, hoping, needing,
to see before her one fine day
the clean and clear countenance
of one who knew in good time
to make a bonfire of those lines!

Friday, March 29, 2013

Love story?

A thought comes stealthily to mind
not like a thief to steal
but to leave a package bound and wrapped
with remembrances
and a card to say write today
the words of a love story.

And I search the archives of that mind
from the start until today
looking for a grain of truth
to weave the plot around.

I find instead impressions
where once the grains did lie
and know that in the world today
truth has gone awry.

The grains of truth blow o’er the earth
but sometimes, yes, they stop to rest
and show their colours openly
to those who wish to know.

And they can see within that truth
how love can truly be
but before pen’s put to paper
the wind blows yet again.

So of that thought I’m sad to say
its efforts are to no avail
when truth and love caught every day
in the gales of life’s disdain!  

Friday, March 1, 2013


Where once the bright and glorious
now only embers lie
and flicker ever slightly so
as if to say they know
they once were a fire.

The moon’s not sad when cut in half,
the sun sets with a smile,
and winter trees do not mourn
the loss of summer’s beauty.

As all that once was dies and lies
in the archives of good memory
they are the embers of my life
continually flickering. 

I douse them with the present times
and term them natural cycles
and yet there’s that flickering
on and on and on.

So when we turn the corner
from the then unto today
how can we still not love the fire
and know winter turns to summer?

I love the fire that once was you
but of those embers still alive
they’ll flicker in my heart always ~
because, simply because, because
you once were the fire
that chased the cold away!

Saturday, February 23, 2013

That gypsy sat

So that gypsy sat and pondered some
on the form of human love
and saw what should be straight and true
was convoluted, bent.

She scratched the surface, looked inside,
and, lo/behold, a once bright gem
was covered thick and densely with
the moss of an agenda.

How it got there still unknown
but on her travels round about
she knew the ground beneath her feet
had hardened over time.

No longer could she softly tread
and feel the sand between her toes
because there is no give between
the layers of agendas. 

Now agendas lie in tandem with
the silence of a lie
and smile their satisfaction
at their invisibility.

Agendas, agendas!  There is no magic wand
that clears the underbrush with the flick of a wrist
and who will take the time to find
the unadulterated hard to hold    
purity of soul?

It’s only purity that loosens up the base
to enable easy access to that intolerable moss
but being like love not puffed up
it requires a guiding hand to find its hiding place.

“Take my hand!” that gypsy cries
but of her feet, oh, no, no, no,
they hurt each day and suffer more
than ere can be believed.

No longer pondering that gypsy now must wander
so she packs her wisdom deep inside,
her love off to the side,
and trundles over hardened ground
until her sure demise!

Thursday, February 14, 2013

The truly meaningful

When I decide to leave this place
it would be, I know, to enter grace
and be who I have always been
when serving at the feet of love.

It’s not a love this world can know
when hormones always steal the show
and eyes attuned to light upon
the façade of skin and bone.

I think to pack up all my life
but still so much comes daily back
for me to see, touch, and assess
what fits into my travel bag.

I think I’ll leave you here, you know,
because you knew yet still remained
distant and too far apart
from the truly meaningful.

And then there’s time that may decide
to change your state of mind
but of grace a constant who can know
the cut-off time for choice?

You and I and them and they
will take our choices to the grave
so just in case, yes, just in case,
choose wisely now or simply stay
a wanderer too far from grace
to hear and feel the full import
of the truly meaningful!

Sunday, February 10, 2013

Is there ...

Is there a club for the love deprived
beyond the reach of the human mind
or do they meander the galaxies
lost and abandoned in loneliness?

Is there a club for the truth seeker
where gems are unearthed, cut, polished, strung, 
or do they merely adorn themselves
with whatever it is they can perceive?

Is there a club for the evil deceivers
where gloating and boasting their agenda
or are they banished to another time
to make amends as karma decides?

But there are no clubs for the guilty as charged
when one day lost, then dressed up, gloating,
for who has the price for clubs willy-nilly
when the soul penniless in the afterlife?

So what can we do but choose, choose,
and pay, pay, and pay again now
for a club of the mind that surely awaits
the up to date subscription payers. 

I don’t know, don’t really, really, know
but I pay, have paid, and will pay
for loving in spite of life’s artful design
that keeps me in each and every 
imaginable club!

Sunday, February 3, 2013

No denial

I’ve changed my mind; there’s no denial
what was no longer can be
when love remains forever hidden
in nights that stretch to infinity.

And now too far from a land
that thrilled from the ground up
the reins that once tethered my heart
have slipped into life’s intolerable lies. 

Alone I cannot untangle the knots
that one upon each other all day
grow to keep me so well confined
within the realms of old comfort zones.

There is no comfort in endless nights
that hide the beauty of eyes
and render a smile as non-existent
between walls that have nothing to say.

I give up!  I’m ready to move
from a life too hard for the sensitive
into the beautiful, beautiful,
now perceived afterlife ~
but there’s no denial;
I can change my mind!

Friday, February 1, 2013


I once was open to the mystery
of how and why life happened to be
and then came love to make me then see
life’s just a game everyone plays.

There are no rules that govern me
but still the small print, free-will, you see
and I throw the dice, gather the chips,
and bet I can overthrow my destiny.

But trust your heart, I surely think not
for heart is a-skewed by love’s honesty
that not now or ever will fit
into that box marked “self-centeredness”.

It is my life, it is, it is,
and yet without love it’s a travesty
of life’s ever abiding deep mystery
I came to know when open, you know.

But you don’t know, you’re closed to “the know”
when ensconced in that damn awful box
but it’s not your fault; you’re a child, yes, a child
of this great and expansive deep mystery
termed, of course, the Universe!

Thursday, January 24, 2013

Soon, soon?

The years come and go;
still so much to know
but like the sea deposits wares
on the stubborn shore
so knowledge makes its encroach
into consciousness.

But like the shore I’m set beneath
life’s prevailing norms
and there comes a dig and bury
of life’s mystery.

The shore, you see, can’t understand
why the wares no longer new
appear as brand new treasures
when used and then abused
by this life and times.

And the shore cannot roll aside
but instead must suffer every day
the deposits by the sea
brought forward from the depths.

Still so much to know; the years come and go
but soon perhaps the shore will be
a complete and true composite
of treasures from the deep
to make of every grain of sand
a rare and sparkling entity.

Soon, soon?  How soon before the shore
changes from the same, same old,
and becomes like my adored
treasured for the depths
hidden beneath the flesh?

Wednesday, January 23, 2013


Unseen but mindfully enlarged
a picture perfect thus emerged
and walked the path of wishes, hopes,
as comfort for the now deprived.

It strutted, preened, and then enticed
with wares from deep within the soul
and the discard of skin and bone
opened the door to love.

But followed then the rise of sun
on a world unchanged by night’s foray
and I knew not thunder but the bang
of that door once opened wide.

The noise reverberates through time
and dislodges all the moments, years,
from where they’re meant to be
to the floor beneath our feet.

We walk that floor quite unaware
that pressure from our body mass
hurts and wounds love’s essence
and it lingers there close to death.

It lingers, yes, it lingers there,
waiting to rise again
but will it, can it, should it,
when all who tread upon the floor
remain forever unaware?

Wednesday, January 16, 2013


Disturbed by the wind that rustles my hair
like life that upsets soul’s goal to the end
there still is a whisper amidst the turmoil
that speaks of a peace before the night falls.

Disturbed by a love that came and then went
like a risen up hope foiled by events
there yet remains the recall of it all
to sustain in the times of despondency.  

Disturbed by the rain that cautions my step
like pain that takes too long to be gone
there still is a pause to contemplate
where next on earth I am destined for.

Disturbed, disturbed; why am I disturbed
when the day becomes night and life becomes death
if not for the fact that mind deep in thought
may cause the repeat of … disturbances.

I can stand in the wind, stand in the rain,
remember that love and all of my hopes
but I must not forget to climb the mountain
that leaves level ground behind my back.

I know, I know, but how can I climb
when I plain and simply haven’t learnt how?

Monday, January 14, 2013

No reason

I have no reason to restructure
my now manner of being
when gone are the times
of toeing the line
laid by responsibility.

It wasn’t a chore; I loved them all
but now time to reign in the line
and wind it around my form
like a scarf that adorns,
a hair clip that holds,
and jewellery that sparkles and shines.

I do not wear scarves, clips, jewellery,
when all that I am must stand adorned
by only the essence of “me”
visible to the eyes that can see.

I sometimes think, “Why not, why not?”
and scrimmage amongst the unused
but the heat rises up to make me believe
I’m like the guilty accused
of hiding behind the transitory. 

But you can’t see, you will not see,
and in my lifetime not ever believe
that the one unadorned
loves you more!

Sunday, January 13, 2013

One day, one day

One day, one day, into your eyes
she’ll smile like a heavenly bride
at life’s so feeble attempts
at breaking eternal vows.

But not yet dead she cries;
hurt lingers long after the deed
that kills the heart before time
and leaves just the mind to survive.

And mind in its manner and form
makes of love a crippled affair
that wanders the paths of memory
with no earthly place to call home.

And I think on these things;
will one day that bride
smile into your eyes
or will the effect of life’s evilness
and ignorance of the alive
leave just the mind to survive?

Mind without heart like sky without blue,
a vacuum of devil’s delight,
and she lives now in that nothingness
until her ordained demise.

But I, the writer of love’s permanence,
leave on the sidewalk my views and reviews
for the garbage man to collect
because I know, and she knows I know,
love died when you said goodbye!

(but that’s it – I’m done)

Tuesday, January 8, 2013

In the wilderness

Now that gypsy lady’s still out there
in the wilderness
and instead of thinking this and that
stares into the blue.

The rays of sun and love
bear fiercely down
on her loneliness
but they cannot penetrate
her protection shield.

She knows they’re there, feels them near,
but even she cannot break
her life-built armour plate
and allow free access
to the depths of her heart.

But when the sun sets and her guard relaxed
she goes inside to wander in
the realms of loving you
to feel again and know
love doesn’t go away.

But as would be sun rises up
and the truth of love disappears
to leave her once again
not thinking this and that.

She simply stares into the blue
as if to lend energy
to the question of her heart
which asks, always asks, 
if ere again she will be
openly in love with you ~
and then the sun sets
and night comes again!

Friday, January 4, 2013

Sun clings

Sun clings to skin as if it would be
a lover not ever to leave
and impales mind, body and soul
onto a deep and intense lethargy.

It’s in this state that no one can say
whether alive or dead
but there is a shift of consciousness
that brings relief from the heat.

Rise up, rise up, and so she does
divested of lovers and sun
to stand as a woman alone
in the shade of this mortal life.

Upright awake yet she would be
back in the arms of glorious sleep
where the world a thing of the past
and a lover’s touch cool waters.

Not to be, not to be, but let her not be
forever impaled by lethargy
that floats her on a beautiful dream
then crashes her on to reality’s rocks.

Sun clings to skin but only for now
because like love and a true lover
it will leave the mind, body, soul,
alone in this mortal life!