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.