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!