Saturday, December 20, 2014

Poor heart

I’m rolling and rolling down to the sea
where everything is just as it seems
because I want to know, indeed I do,
the truth is the truth and not a lie.

Tired, I’m tired, of feeling the lie
with no proof to sustain the view
until years down the line, this life line,
when time decides the time is right.

Not yet is it time and mind back and forth
from heart’s decree to its own confines
that hold it tight and securely in
its very own point of view. 

Mind must be right, you know, you know,
because facts are now and forever the truth
and heart, poor heart, simply knocks at the door
locked and bolted. alarmed, monitored.

No matter, no matter, mind knows there’s an end
to that insignificant knock, knock, knock,
because heart, poor heart, too weak and frail
to cut off mind’s security system.

Heart, poor heart, but you know what they say;
“You’re only as poor as you think you are”!

Friday, December 19, 2014

Pit of despair

That gypsy knows one step at a time
leads her out from the pit of despair
into the air to breathe, breathe in,
freedom from love’s sad malady.

How long, how long, she asks of no one
before she misses all the weak spots
that send her tumbling head over heels
down to the bottom again?

Time this time is not on her side
and she knows to rush to the top
but still there’s the fear weak spots will appear
in places and times beyond her foresight.

She ferrets somewhere for strength to endure
and for patience to be certain and sure
that where she treads is stable and set
to bear the burden she must dissipate.

There she goes!  She’s made it halfway
and tomorrow, tomorrow, perhaps tomorrow
she’ll finally, finally, emerge unscathed
from a pit that no longer exists!

Thursday, December 18, 2014


Eureka, eureka!  At last she knows.
the candle she holds is burning her soul
so she huffs and puffs to blow it right out
but magic, oh, magic, that candle, you know,
goes out for a time then lights up again.

And so to Plan “B” she makes all haste
but the pages are blank in her journal of schemes
and she knows, she does, to not ever dream,
so what, oh, what, is a gypsy to do?

She ponders and ponders the question at length
till finally, yes, she’ll tie up her mind
and pull and pull with all of her might
until time suffocates and everything dies.

But time, the devil, keeps marching on
so off to Plan “C” she makes her way
but the path is littered with sticks and stones
which don’t hurt soul as everyone knows.

Slowly, slowly, but gypsies must rest
and always, of course, hope for the best
but indeed she is most fearful to tread
on all those dastardly sticks and stones. 

One day, one day, she’ll fly overhead
when mind is released and everything’s dead!

Tuesday, December 16, 2014


I lost something along the way
and, indeed, it took so many days
to know at last it can’t be found
down here on this unholy land.

It was a search that sapped the heart
of all its good and precious parts
to leave it flat and lifeless
with no breath to pump it up.

And yet it breathes now just enough
to keep it mostly strong and tough
to bear the loss with fortitude
and all of its embedded grace.

It can’t forget, no, not at all
the times that put it so in awe
of love’s amazing sneak and creep
into life’s normality.

The sky is blue, today it’s blue
with no clouds to bar my view
of where it sits so far above
my stretch and reach of long ago.

I know it’s there and you should to;
true love is always faithful, true!

Thursday, October 16, 2014

The simple heart

Why, oh, why, do lovers sleep
between the sheets of sheer deceit
and twist them till no longer like
the dictates of an honest mind?

It takes a time to disengage
from this indeed unholy cage
that holds with such disarming charm
as if not doing any harm.

But harm is done to one ensnared
and who indeed quite unprepared
for evil’s artful acts and deeds
that cause the heart to bleed.

But heart, oh, heart, the simple heart
grows to become a thing apart
and flies up to the clouds on high
where honesty a state of mind. 

And there it lives safe and sound
protected from the maddening crowd
and where indeed it smiles relief
at its escape from grief.

The simple heart; yes, it flies
beyond the reach of evil’s ire!

Tuesday, October 7, 2014

That gypsy now

No longer free that gypsy now
reclines beneath a willow tree
wondering as gypsies do
what next is meant to be.

But time has stolen youth and more
and left the soul to wither, die
without the firm implant of love
that keeps rapture alive.

So the gypsy looks around/about
and can see where blessings hide
waiting, waiting, waiting,
for the opening of mind.

And the time is right when gypsies know
what’s here is meant to stay
and she will clear away the brush
and chase the clouds away.

Then sky will be the clearest blue
the trees won’t bend and dip
and all beneath their canopies
will maintain their earthly grip.

Beneath the trees or not,
tall, straight, upright, or not
blessings come from anywhere
and joy found everywhere
if we but stop, listen, feel,
and open mind to see!

Tuesday, September 9, 2014

Do it!

It was the beginning of time
that caused sea to rise
and embrace the indomitable shore
that determined not to move
sat in its own lethargy.

The sea was confused;
how could it not move
and join in the free-flow of life
calling out again and again.

The sea stayed to stroke and cajole
for perhaps a million years
and then suddenly and quietly
a stillness like death descended.

How can that be?  Sea rolls as before
but no one can know the innermost soul
and how spiritless sea can be
when faced with such lethargy. 

But the sea still dreams of how it could be
if the shore just got up and moved
an inch, a foot, a yard, or miles
just to say, “I damn well did it”.

Do it, just do it, yes, indeed
before the end of time!

Saturday, August 16, 2014

The river still flows

An overcast day and the river still flows
down to the sea of all it can feel
when love is silent within containment
beneath the fa├žade of normality.

It’s there in the depths that love is free
to remember and know the beautiful
that once confused and set in motion
a series of steps towards heartache.

But not yet broken the heart is whole
to enlarge and absorb the full import
of how love in its own power
moulds and adorns the essence of one.

And the sea still thrashes and rolls as before
without a “you” to disturb the flow
by whatever degree of ignorance
is decreed as your burden to bear.

The river is free there in that sea
where memories meld and mingle
with an unseen and unknown force
that leads true love into eternity.

So look at the sea and know, believe,
I am there remembering “you”
today, this day, when the river still flows
on a South African overcast day!

Friday, June 6, 2014

That gypsy again

No longer in that ever great love
and no longer seeking its substitute
that gypsy well known for moving away
stands still to know and assimilate
the strange and amazing moves
of the now invisible.

And with the shake of her head
she sighs her astonishment
and yet she knows, deep down she knows,
love never abandons or cuts the ties
though seemingly it would appear.

She breathes the change that’s come her way
straight into her inner sanctum
but there’s no debate or argument
in the silence of her immobility.

It’s beautiful there and so comforting
but soon she must bid farewell
and take to the trails one more time
to come face to face
with the beginning again and ending
of what she has always known
was her one and only life purpose.

Perhaps she will miss the trundling along
in her wagon grown older with time
but her call to the wild, “Wish me well”
can be heard today, tomorrow, until
she must again … know and assimilate!

Tuesday, June 3, 2014

Home fires

That gypsy stayed near the mountain of more
which retreated the more she advanced
and so she knew well to go back again
to the constant burn of home fires.

But have they ceased in her absence to speak
of a camp of laughter and mirth
or do they burn low and dispirited
because of time’s ungodliness?

And what of the trees, grass, pebbles, stones,
that comforted, held and supported
her each and every endeavour
to reach that awesome mountain?

So she snips a bit from here and there,
bends low to retrieve memories,
and places them all in her rucksack of past
to not ever be lost and forgotten.

Though once there were three now only one
fire of her heart and soul
that fire will spark and revive again
into its true potential ~
and she will watch and wait patiently
until she knows she can safely leave
the land of human endeavour.

Burn little fire, burn bright and high,
to warm from afar that old gypsy’s heart!

Sunday, May 18, 2014

Down at the river

Down at the river where the water runs cool
that gypsy reclines in her love of you
gone now like the pebbles thrown in one by one
and the sink of each day’s so beautiful sun. 

She remembers the ripples and how they flowed
outward, outward, until her face glowed
and how that light in the dark of her life
made everything be completely alright.

That was then but now after the fact
that bubble of love lies dormant and flat
and lives within the depths of her soul
with no conceivable life of its own.

She gathers more pebbles, awaits a new day,
but the call of the wild distinct in its way
makes her know to lighten her load
and set forth again on a new road.

But there in the fields where the gypsies roam free
there are no roads on which she can flee
but she moves, she does, until the sun sets
and she joins that bubble in heavenly rest!

Sunday, May 4, 2014


She turned to the blue as a means to be true
but green and brown so close to her feet
pulled her away and tied her down
to the oddities of life on the earth.

Now a gypsy is prone to shake her head
not only when dancing to the tune of love
and so she does almost every day
in attempts to align with the unfathomable.

She shakes and shakes while trundling along
in a wagon grown old and missing the spark
and of dancing it seems she’s forgotten the moves
and the tune of love too feint to be heard.

She’s a gypsy alone too far from home
but years of living have dulled her brain
and she can’t recall the site and layout
of that place where the music played.

She wonders if this hill or maybe the next
will find her facing her very own death
but still the search for where she belongs
pushes her forward and on. 

It’s that blue, that blue, that beautiful blue
that can bring down the magic to earth
to turn old wagons to flying machines
and transport the old back into youth.

And if you were the blue, what would you do?
Like gypsies perhaps you’d just shake your head
and forever, forever, attempt to align
with the completely unfathomable!

Thursday, March 27, 2014

Twists and turns

Forced to look upon a star
that gypsy’s mind wandered far
and trespassed into other lands
beyond the borders of her time. 

But she withdraw in tandem with
the slow downturn of tired eyes
and she was then amazed to find
she found love not on this here land.

She thought to look again up, up,
but how the land twisted, turned,
and she dared not lose her grip
on her perceived true home.

She trundled forth amidst the gloom
and watched the pass of minutes, hours,
till finally she counted years
and then more years and years.

She never found love, no, not ere
upon the straights or corners, bends,
of mother earth’s so hard terrain
that made her twist and turn.

She twists and turns until this day
seeking strength to look again
but stars are hidden by the clouds
that float unbidden into mind.

Or does she call them in, in, in,
to simply block out all she knows
so she can trundle on and on
amidst the gloom of mortal life?

Perhaps she does, perhaps not so,
but who can know a gypsy’s mind
or why she sighs and sometimes cries
in the middle of a twist and turn?

Sunday, March 16, 2014


After I saw it I couldn’t believe
but eyes only see what is there
or do they perhaps, do they really,
see what does not exist?

After I heard it I couldn’t believe
but ears take in every sound
or do they perhaps, do they really,
hear everything that is said?

After I touched it I couldn’t believe
but fingers tell mind what is there
but do they perhaps, do they really,
tell all that there is to know?

And when we feel love can we believe,
it is as it is, does what it does,
and touches us all only to be
well and truly known?

But if I can’t see it, touch, hear it,
how can I say, “I know love”
but I do because and only because
I plain and simply believe!

Friday, March 7, 2014

Sitting there

You’ll find her sitting there
underneath a willow tree
contemplating more
than ere she thought before

She watches how the river flows
free at ease towards the sea
unmindful of the twists and turns
along its lonesome journey.

But gypsies know that rivers don’t
have wagon wheels that crack and break
when rough terrain the only way
to reach that awesome sea. 

They do not pause to re-assess,
they do not stop to rest,
and most of all they do not think
to make mountains out of molehills.

But gypsies know the mountain’s there
looming large and deadly
and she knows she cannot go around
what is meant to be.

She sighs the way all gypsies do;
tomorrow maybe she will move
but content for now she simply waits
for the sun to set.

And she will sleep beneath the stars
protected, yes, until the dawn
when again she looks and shivers some
at that imposing mountain.

Day in/day out you’ll find her there
underneath a willow tree!  

Friday, January 31, 2014

A gypsy's lament

Back from the shores of love’s loneliness
that gypsy walked forward one step at a time
but laboured and slow like a stupefied toad
she got nowhere fast in that winter just past.

It is summer now and the sun heats the road
but that burning desire now missing and gone
brings nothing up from the deep down within
and she neither smiles nor sheds any tears.

On and on; the road seems so long
to one who can’t see around the next bend
but so busy trying she stumbles and falls
and lands flat on her face in disgrace.

It is a disgrace for she does surely know
whatever is waiting won’t meet her half way
or offer a sign, a symbol, or hint
at what lies beyond her fall from grace.

Finally then as she always does
she gains control of that wanting to know
and shrugs her shoulders, flicks her head,
and moves again to the next bend in the road.

Corners and bends, corners and bends!
What happened to all those clear roads ahead
that glistened and gleamed with the knowing of more
and brought forth joy into the world?

Thursday, January 9, 2014


Sun shines from the sky of human desire
like a laser to burn the deep down within
and it shatters reserves of protective measures
to make of denial a pile of ash.

So denial made mobile melds and joins
with the wind of circumstance
and creates a thick and dense overlay
over the rest of a life.

This process is known as converting the whole
into small and manageable portions
to make of the burden no hardship
for one who owns and carries denial.

But always there are the corners, you know,
where denial collects and grows in stature
and the cleaner must clean and clean again
and again and again and again.

And this conversion and clean-up process
no chore to be always despised
because it allows a step into the truth
of deep down human desire.

Break up and spread denial to be
in the freedom of one’s own truth
because compacted denial a forever lie
that burdens and weighs down the soul.