Kindness

The shore has lain comatose

for nigh on a million years

a silent but strong barrier

against the encroach of sea.

Yet in the silence I can hear

the wish to join the sea

and travel far beyond the reach

of mankind’s evil ways.

But stuck it is like you and me

creating and maintaining

an extraordinary barrier

against the encroach of love.

Unlike sea love knows to withdraw

and wait in the corners of many lifetimes

and I wish sometimes it was like sea

to always provoke that intractable shore.

Love is kind but is it kind

to leave mankind’s free will alone

and feel the pain of being ignored

in, oh, so many little ways?

And yet love waits and soon perhaps

we’ll know that waiting as was made

will be the most spectacular

kindness ever known.

Oak trees

Lining the road like soldiers in time

standing tall, proud, touching the sky,

trees of fine Oak wave branches as swords

in homage and welcome to me, their Lord.

Soft is the wind that whispers through leaves

the message of love and how we should be

but all we once knew hides in corners of pain

each of us own as part of our gain.

Circles of age ringed silent and grave

speak of a wisdom awarded the brave

for roots of their history reach to the core

and know of the peace beyond heaven’s door.

I’ll pass by again one day when I’m old

no longer a Lord but a poor humble soul

naked and bare in my moment of prayer

next to the crown of my human despair. 

And I will bear fruit in my freedom to be

like a tall Oak in the kingdom of trees

upright and strong right where I belong

in the whispers of love’s immortal song!

Gypsy of note

So that gypsy of note opened her door

to the worse than ever before

and watched in dismay as her wagon wheels

buckled then broke under the weight.

She toiled all day until dawn broke

in attempts to repair the damage

but, lo and behold, the rain fell down

and her wagon got stuck in the mud.

There followed then the stress and strain

to release and uplift the entrenched

but finally too tired to move

she succumbed to the rain and mud.

Exhausted she lies and calls to the wild

that claims life in the deep within

to bless her with two gigantic wings

to fly free from the deeply entrenched.

And her voice with the wind journeys afar

to a place she still has to know

but she waits like a maiden with grace

sometimes in and sometimes out

that exulted state.

  

She waits and calls again, again,

but she knows wings won’t ever be real

because they are and will always be

just the strength to be happy in mud!

s

Pop, pop!

Pop, pop, pop!  The memory pops

and out flow all the bits and bobs

from years and years ago

and even just from yesterday.

Floating so within the mind

they form a pattern undefined

and yet sometimes the dots are joined

and cause/effect comes into view.

And of the dreams that should have been

they stand on the periphery

twinkling like a million stars

far from an outstretched reach.

Then there’s love and empathy

unencumbered by the past

because no matter how it tried

it couldn’t pierce the unfeeling.

Laughter, joy and happiness

a mere speck so hard to find

but there within the medley

for tomorrow’s search and find.

Sadness, grief and heartache

bump shoulders with adversity

and enjoy their freedom heartily

until acceptance swallows them.

Finally the clouds comes in

and all that once was visible

becomes as if it never was

until the next pop, pop!

Emotion

She wound emotion round and round

the stake of present times

and secured the ends to resolve

to prevent escape and leakage

out of two blue eyes.

She feels the twirl and whirl within

and so the walls are fortified,

the exits double bolted,

and she feeds detachment

in the hope of forcing speedy growth.

There’ll come a time o’er yonder hill

when freedom will be celebrated

and emotion will fall to ground

to finally be trodden on

and be as if it never was.

So she wonders why not let it go

but emotion far too meaningful

to end up in the dirt

and so the perimeter is electrified.

It may die for lack of air and care

but that’s alright, you know,

because then she’ll know at last

she’s joined the human race! 

As inherently bred

As she turned from the sky to the ground

she heard the chant of the whole human crowd.

“Love myself, love myself, love me, me”

as the only way to ere love another. 

Could it be, could it be, but no one should be

wrapped up and engaged with weeds in the fields

that seek to degrade the beautiful, free,

with thoughts of only a me, me, me.

She tried to go back to when it began

and find the corner she didn’t turn round

so she too could be in the valley of “me”

and chant forever in unison. 

Now directions for gypsies are none to clear

when issued by someone known not to care

for the you, the you, the you, you, you,

and so gypsies remain as inherently bred.

Who bred them to be so mindful of you

and battle the dragons plaguing your soul

when , oh, that tree of only a me

promises peace and harmony.

Would anyone leave such a paradise

to feel another’s pain and heartache

and she wonders how many would gather at noon

when asked to leave themselves far behind.

She doesn’t sigh as gypsies can do

but proceeds on her journey happy to be

a singer of her own special song

for you, of course, and you, you, you.

Maybe one day she’ll find the corner

and join the chant of humankind

but she doesn’t like corners that lead nowhere

and so she’ll remain as inherently bred. 

Sunday's story - In her reverie

That gypsy stared intently at her ancient tree of life

and wondered in her reverie how the smallest branch

had managed so effectively to infiltrate and weave itself

into the fabric of her soul to make of the scattered parts

one all inclusive whole.

And then she thought of your tree and the cut and prune

that left a gaping hole that never bled but cried

the tears of one who knew that  human ignorance

had cut it down before its time and left it so to rot

in a barren field of total isolation. 

Not as intense as then but she still can feel today

the branch’s pain and agony, the disappointment and heartache

and most of all the sadness at being cut adrift

from the foundation of what was meant to be.

And so the story goes; no one needs to know

if the branch of love grew or not when transitory pleasure

wears the crown of ruler over the human race

and dispenses rewards to what can be perceived

as the completely undeserving.

But such a gift is free will that surely there can’t be

reprisals or punishment for deciding not to love

and she wonders in her reverie if it even matters

when all is said and done and all the trees have died.

However, in that silent space between each heartbeat, breath,

there’s a deep abiding knowing that in the fullness of all time

what was allowed to grow will enlarge, expand and spread

to shade the future path of one who way back then

decided of her own free will to fall in love with you!

Helen / 28 February 2016

Lost

Time brought her the meaning of life

and placed it down at her front door

but slightly, oh, ever so slightly

off to the right so she didn’t trip

and land prone on the ground of her birth.

Now gypsies, you know, traverse here and there

and don’t believe in walking straight lines

so over she went and swallowed and swallowed

enormous amounts of dirt from the earth.

She chocked and spluttered until finally knew

she had to get up and leave it behind

but dirt in these not so merry times

manufactures its own special glue. 

So down to the river (there’s always a river)

but where, oh, where, is that special one

that will gladly accept the intolerable

and make believe it never ere was?

So tired and weary the gypsy had grown

from searching and searching to no avail

that she turned about face to make her way

back to the meaning of life.

Too many hills and too many dales

and so much underbrush to clear away

that finally, finally, she had to admit

she was plain and simply completely lost!

The Awakening

Set one of the stage opens to show a table for two prepared near the  door.  Fairy lights dazzle and sparkle with hues dancing and glowing up to the moon.

Reflections in water of love’s precious dew surround the table covered in blue and the music that plays whispers a tune of heaven’s own bliss that’s come none too soon.

Locked hand in hand a couple emerge, he walking proud with graying of hair, she passed her prime and showing the signs, they dance until chimes of midnight resound.

The glow from the fire inside of the door promises comfort for love’s early dawn but the call of the wild can be seen in her eyes as she leads him away to the fields and the sky.

On a blanket laid out in nature’s own way passion awakes from living as dead and stars hide their eyes behind soft wispy clouds as naked and proud they offer themselves.

He kisses her fully joining their lips as hands slowly travel down to her hips and the essence of her releases to him the truth of her being so different from his.

The wind brushes bodies with unspoken pleas sending out messages coded yet clear and the pleasure they give returns to their souls as heaven smiles down on the knowing of love.

Scene two opens now with return to their homes as sun touches bodies still warm with own glows but the fire has burnt to ashes of cold and the stage slowly turns as they enter the door.

Two beds far apart and divided by “life” await their return without any warmth and as the sun rises they each can be found …

smiling in sleep for the night took their souls!

Of Life

 “Of life”, said the woman, “How lucky can you be?”  There are rivers, mountains, border wars, and sun to blister skin together with the turmoil of making money be.  You also have the sea and leaves on every tree in motion entwined with a breeze you cannot see.  You have the moon at night and shadows of your fright, the stars in the sky like goals out of reach, and lungs to keep inhaling both the good and the bad elements of luck.  

Ah, yes, you have your vehicles and speed that always kills on highways to your destiny as well as backs to scratch, palms to grease, and the other cheek. You have doctors, dentists, lawyers, and, of course, the poor.  You have domesticated animals who always want to roam, children born to leave, lovers you can’t see, and mothers like their mothers though they vowed they’d never be.

You have me, the one and only, who can say you have it all when you speak of loving peace and of hating war so don’t ask for more in jungles of concrete that suffocate the weak.

You have the magic of your work, a home you never see, a need to explore the mystery of ego, and a body once beautiful now tattooed with dragons and butterflies and supposedly adorned with studs in ears, eyelids, lips, and rings in belly buttons. 

You have a heart like a magician’s hat that brings forth funny things and a soul you cannot know no matter what degrees trail behind your name but what’s in a name when only a mind remains to tell the tale.  And your mind belongs to you.  I can’t intrude or dare to guess its form and design unless, of course, you pay me to.

And if you wish for many things one day they’ll all come true but scattered in between all the things you do not need, you may not be aware that they are even there.  If you pray – well, it’s the same and still bears your name as if you wrote a letter and dispatched it in the mail.

You can wait by the garden gate for a lifetime more-or-less or search amongst the millions for the one who’s meant for you but never will he/she be delivered by the trees unless you believe there are fairies in the glen.
  
You have the alphabet for life plans of a, b, c, etcetera, and too you have your numbers that balance for the few. You’ve got books to read but no time, things to do still un-done, and a thousand opportunities that never come to call.

You’ve got me to tell you how we feel and poets who write poetry, two faces (maybe more), a stare that says it all, idle hands (sometimes), and body aches to tell you how many years you’ve lived.

Oh, yes, you also have sex and the ones who get lucky may sometimes think it’s love. You have dreams and fantasies that never come true and nightmares that do. You’ve got hopes and you’ve got wishes like fish in oceans deep that always without fail mangle your lifeline.

You’ve got me to show you how to cry, friends you want to be, and always and forever those bills you have to pay.  You have your yesterdays in which you never age and your tomorrows that like a birthday gift land in your lap for better or for worse.

One day we’ll all be free but I’m not too sure, you see, so until we all go walking down mystic avenues, you still, of course, have … me!  How lucky can you be?  

Now ...

She wishes the moving would lead somewhere

but it doesn’t, not ever, no, not ere

but she trundles along like gypsies do

to simply end up where she’s been before.

Now this gypsy not clever to count the cost

of having to do everything twice

but bound as she is by some strange decree

she surrenders up unto her plight.

Now her wagon must hold more than before

because baggage mounts up each passing year

but her wagon grown old can’t cope with the load

and so she must enter “select memory” mode.

Now she shifts and sorts; what not to keep

to enable the love to remain undisturbed

and caught in this stage she’s a gypsy in red

as if the discarding has bled on her dress.

Now gypsies would choose to follow the river

but a drought has o’er laid the land

so off she goes in her red dress

knowing that soon the river will flow. 

And then she’ll dive in dressed as she is

and wash off the stain of unhappiness

and appear like a woman born anew

into a world not known before.

And in that world she won’t do again

what she has done before

and yet there are tears threatening to fall

for the one thing she didn’t repeat.

Now that gypsy knows well that now’s not then

and nothing will be the same again

so dance with her please under the stars
and tell her she’s lovely when free of the past!