Wednesday, December 16, 2015

Everyday things

When everyday things like writing a poem
have flown into the heavens above
they sit there amused at humankind
for bemoaning their untimely demise.

Not dead but waiting for the right time
to emerge again into my life
so I can feel their awesome effect
and know loss isn’t permanent. 

Yet the time it takes endless it seems
to know again what has been lost
and I like a jilted lover
remain burdened with memories.

Now burdens are such that no one can love
or trip through the daisies of a new life
until the brain and heart transforms
to adapt to the new and untried.

But in the process of transformation
memories surface time, time again,
and it seems to me like a punishment
for having so loved what is no more.

And so how can I trip through the daisies
unburdened and totally free
from that “gone but not forgotten”
that stalks my everyday life?

And the question goes out to the ether
there to sit and be amused
at one who inherently knows 
to not in this lifetime forget!

Saturday, October 3, 2015

Gypsy blood

That gypsy blood pulses so
within the frame of all it knows
pushing, pushing, this way/that
looking for an exit point.

No door, no hole, no crevice, crack,
but still the search goes on and on
like one determined not to stay
forever in the dark.

Where is the light, where is the light,
and, yes, it listens ardently
but who can speak to gypsy blood
when confined so deep, deep, down?

The will to pulse grows weaker every day
so when you go on walk-abouts
spare a thought and prayer or two
that gypsy blood will find the door.

But time, that artful thing called time
may not come to the party
and that poor old gypsy blood
will simply cease to be.

Rest in Peace!

Thursday, October 1, 2015

Then and then

The spirit is gone from one who once
loved the morning light
and now forever there seems to be
a dark and deadly overlay
over all of this glorious life.

That overlay comes and goes
like gypsies who traverse the plains
with a touch here and a touch there
but no earthly place to call home.

Happily so it doesn’t stay long
in that place where the spirit once sang
but now it is known that when it returns
it’s darker and thicker than ever before.

Weighted down and no longer spry
it’s loath to move to another pasture
and so hard to push it out of the door
when presumed it too has a purpose.

But be like a gypsy, oh, dear overlay,
and move on over the hills
until you find a mountain of grief
that welcomes your deadly presence.

Then that morning light once loved
will lift up the eyes, heart, mind, soul,
and rekindle that gypsy spirit
so long hidden from view.

And then and then all gypsies will move
to gain a good view and better perspective
of all that the beautiful morning light
chooses to shine upon –

and the angels will join the spirit within
and sing and sing again and again!

Saturday, September 19, 2015


Oh, that love from whence it came
is known and understood
but where it went to still today
remains a mystery.

It’s not here or there or anywhere
within my human reach
and though I strain I cannot see
its outline on the beach.

That is strange for surely sea
brings up treasures from the deep
and then lays them on display
for the lowly ones to see.

This beach -  no, that beach - no
or maybe yes at one time
and then returned again
to the safety and security
that love alone deserves.

Love then must be alone
protected fully and totally
from human touch that easily
degrades its awesome worth.

And as love swims and floats about
I wonder if it knows
it could have had a kindred soul
there in that expansive sea
of all there is to feel
if it landed on the right beach
at the right time!   

Tuesday, July 28, 2015

How long?

That gypsy knows to wipe away
the water from her eyes
and push aside emotion
that caused it so to rise.

And for a time, just a time,
she watches how it moves
not quick and speedy like a fox
but slowly like a snail.

She felt the chill of time
run up and down her spine
and thought perhaps a second
or a minute at the most.

But human time deceptive
and so she thought a day,
perhaps a week, a month,
or a year at the most.   

It matters not, you know,
because gypsies know to push
and push and push again
until emotion disappears.

But too they grow weak and frail
with no strength to make emotion move
and of the tears that pool in eyes
they find their way somehow
into the deep and hidden
there to lie and contemplate
how long, really, really,
is that thing called “time”.

Tuesday, July 7, 2015

The trees

Oh, the trees; how tall they grow
in search for the will of soul
and as they branch out this way/that
love becomes quite useless, flat.

And in that line of love gone bad
one can see how mournful, sad
they stand amidst the chores of life
and watch the pass of gifted time.

Yet still they grow good flowers, fruit,
and nest the birds if it will suit
the movement of all spirits free
that live on their periphery.

The trees are looking up, up, up
yet still there’s all that other “stuff”
that distracts and causes love to slide
far off, far off, towards the side.

I wished them joy and freedom too
as I released a branch or two
because it sometimes seems to me
less is more when love must be.

And so of love be sure to know
it is indeed the will of soul
lest like those most unruly trees
we take up space quite uselessly.  

Sunday, June 21, 2015


Sometimes it’s this and sometimes it’s that
but the past, of course, never comes back
and sometimes we say, “Thank goodness for soul
that absorbs and converts the bad into good”.

I don’t  know, don’t know, what happens to lies.
Do they squiggle and squirm and turn into truth
and make nests in the soul to forever deceive
or are they simply thrown onto trash heaps?

I do know, I know, trash one day will die
but meanwhile it lives within normal life
and propagates more and more after that
to litter each corner of beautiful earth. 

And so as we walk on lie after lie
we burn from the outer down into the deep
where no fire can ere turn lies into ash
to be blown into the heavens above.

If it could, if it could, how great would life be
because only heaven can save mother earth
and preserve and protect the true meaningful
meant to be, I suspect, our given birth-right.

But we can know, can truly know,
no lie will live and grow in the soul!

Sunday, May 3, 2015

In the corner

Stuck in the corner of mind’s memory store
there lie the remains of all gone before
content perhaps or simply depressed
at their sure loss of mobility.

They cannot get up and walk into “now”
and promise to be alive the next day
but no one can say there’ll ere be a time
when constancy is the name of the game.

I miss their presence and simple chit-chat,
the look in their eyes and glorious smiles
but I visit that corner now more than before
to tender my thanks and offer comfort.

They were, they were, sometimes for years
and sometimes for a few precious weeks
but always they’ll be stuck in that corner
for as long as I am so lucky to live.

And I venture to say what a glorious thing
to be stuck in someone’s memory store!

Friday, April 24, 2015

The song of the angels

One day or week, month or year
she stood upon the edge of time
and breathed, breathed in again,
the feel of something wonderful.

It sped through lungs, blood, muscles, skin,
till landing full and puffed up
in the middle of her heart
where it sang the song of angels.

So with this song tucked into heart
she turned to face the world of man
and, oh, the song disappeared
from the mind of one attuned.  .

She mourns today; you know she does
the loss of something wonderful
and she asks again, again, again,
“Please sing again, again”.

And there is only silence, deadly, deadly silence,  
but she lives her moments, minutes, years,
like one well versed and practiced
in the art of pretence.

She pretends that angels sing
and sing and sing again
somewhere in the middle
of each and every heart.

But do they sing?  No they don’t
because we never hear a single note
and yet and yet perhaps ‘tis so
that angels sing and sing again
waiting, waiting, waiting,
for each and every one of us
to become attuned.

Perhaps she’s right, perhaps she’s wrong.

I don’t know.  Do you?  

Wednesday, March 11, 2015


That gypsy looked well at the branches and leaves
intertwined like her words round the stake of today
and she wondered how they ever could breathe
when trapped and confined by nature’s decree. 

Indeed she could prune and cut some of them loose
then let them lie fallow in the dirt of the world.
or she could ignore, let them suffocate,
and tune out from the cries of suffering.

What to do, what to do?  She’s a gypsy unsure
but perhaps tomorrow or the day after that
there’ll be signs and symbols and a little insight
to make her decide to do this or that.

Then perhaps tomorrow or the day after that
action will reign supreme for a day
and whatever must be will indeed be done
and she can happily move on again.

But for now, for now, this earthly now
that gypsy looks well at the branches and leaves!

Thursday, January 15, 2015

In the dip

Down in that dip beneath what I see
waves of memory wash over me
and sometimes they cool my restlessness
to leave me refreshed and perfectly calm. 

Then there are times when the waves are wild
and toss me about like a piece of driftwood
but I must be that because life cut asunder
the good and honest, the true meaningful.

Driftwood of course has no memory;
it’s just a thing discarded, useless,
with no “inside” to dictate the times
of good to bad or laughter to frowns.

No wishing, no hoping, no longing to be
a piece of driftwood can ever ere be
and so in that dip there’s work in progress
to calm those, oh, so very wild waves.

Come on waves, come hither to me,
calm like the day before knowing love!

Sunday, January 11, 2015

Dead of night

Silently and stealthily the dead of night creeps in
and steels like the thief it is human consciousness
and it runs, yes, it runs, into the wild unknown
there to clean and cosset its prize of the day.

But not completely evil it returns to the owner
all the components of what has gone before
always in the hope we’ll view with different eyes
and gain a new perspective on what we thought before.

And like the “love me/love me not” it works sporadically
because day like a fierce and aggressive sci-fi animal
wakes up and starts to feed on all re-assessments
until overfed are we on this life’s reality.

How beautiful if only known what the night brings forth
and how sad to let it slide into the rising sun
that lands us back and back again into the same old/same old
that keeps us held and bound in total unawareness. 

It’s life, you know, simply life and what is meant to be
until, until … well, of course, until the very end!