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”!

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!

Plans

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!

Lost

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!