Heartache

She looked at the ground,

saw the seeds of heartache,

but thought they never would grow

so she turned away and proceeded to be

content with her own belief.

For many a year that carried her through

the trials of everyday life

but behind the scenes those seeds took root

and grew till they covered her whole landscape.

Yet still she believed she could walk through

unscathed to the green, green, grass

and so she tried one step at a time

until finally, finally, she gave up.

It took a long time for her to know

the full import of real heartache

but it hit with a force to slay the brave

and she stumbled and tripped right into it.

Like all gypsy’s do she arose and ran

to the safety of her own wagon

but, lo and behold, that heartache had stuck

and travelled right down to her core.

She cried for a time and bemoaned her fate

but she isn’t a gypsy for nothing

so she tried again in the sincere hope

that wagon wheels would trample the lot.

But do you know that to this day

no one has heard from or seen

that gypsy who thought to beat heartache

at it’s very own game?

I guess she must have simply died

trying and trying and trying again!

Not a statue

She’s not a statue, no, she’s not

but just a woman in repose

contemplating life and love

and what the future holds.

It’s been a lifetime, more or less,

yet still there’s no results to show

except to say life veers and dips

and love simply comes and goes.

And so she moves; at last she does,

but muscles that once firm and strong

and thought to enter life full pace

now weak and slow and uninspired.

It’s hard to drag the unexplained

and all that can’t be understood

along the path she knows to take

unless the mind is jettisoned.

And so the mind takes to flight

and discovers in the atmosphere

all that’s missing in the world

and what will never be.

It could be true to say she’s now

a mindless woman just like me

walking, talking, laughing some,

and acting like the mind’s intact.

But she’s okay; you know she is,

because her heart still as made

guides and leads and navigates

through all of life’s pitfalls.

As for love, well, yes, it’s there

because when unconfined by mind

it blooms and grows like roses do

and beautifies the world!

No wind

There’s no wind today but evil still blows

over the land like a tidal wave

and it lifts and scatters the foundations of life

to make humans behave in the strangest of ways.

Soon what is strange will turn into norms

practiced with vigour day in and day out

and perceived freedom will turn into chains

to secure one and all to instability.

There’ll be no place to land and believe

love prevails and kindness exists

and the caring that once enabled true growth

will simply be incomprehensible.

But we’re not there yet, not yet, not yet,

and so of the wind let it blow gratitude

and belief in the power to be like a tree

with roots sunk deep in goodness and grace.

Goodness and grace?  Can it be, can it be?

Oh, can it, can it, ever ere be?

Twisted world

It’s a twisted world that cannot be

straightened out by humankind

because the twist made firm and strong

simply cannot be undone

by the good and true.

They stress and strain, pull and tug,

and sweet talk till exhausted

but the twist simply smiles

and lives another day.

The twist elusive snakes its way

in no particular order

across the countries of the world

relentless in its quest.

Oh, yes, it ties us up in knots

and, yes, we turn this way/that

in attempts to be as once was made

but really it’s to no avail.

There is a secret, yes, there is

to resisting and indeed preventing

that twist from gaining ground

but I can’t tell you what to do.

If I could I’d simply say … pray.

Top of the mountain

She reached the top of the mountain

battered and bruised and somewhat confused

but she breathed the air of one quite relieved

to be where no man had ere been before.

She knew for a fact because pristine and clean

un-ravaged by greed and man’s mortal needs

and nowhere a sign of destructive measures

designed to lay waste to the pure innocent.

So she stayed for a time to pluck from the air

the strength to return to where she came from

and thought to pretend for a life time or more

still too weak to tackle the down.

But the down is the making of character

and the moulding of all she needs to be

to release the strength to face the unknown

and to finally know she did it, she did.

So she loaded her wagon with all that she was

and made her way down steep inclines

careful to not dislodge her resolve

to conquer the pitfalls of life.

And she sang the song all gypsies do

day and night all the way down

till back in the midst of humanity

she became the queen of all that she knows.

Lost

Not a stone, boulder, rock,

but just a woman somewhat lost

in this world of love’s abandonment

perceived as paradise

by those with low ability

to see and feel the truth.

So confident they say to do

the opposite of love’s dictates

to not abandon or let go

what love has joined together.

“Turn around, turn around

and place that love inwards

to satisfy your own desires

and carefree join the pack.”

Some merit there but how to turn

when love walks straight and sure

and so she’s lost and yet she’s not

because she knows, has always known,

one cannot now or ever

unsubscribe from love!

The first

It slides and slithers, oh, just so,

before it disappears from feel

to leave a great and growing need

to once again be joined.

Not long until again it’s back

to quench the need and satisfy

and as the sun rises up

the day is greeted happily.

And in the pause before the next

it works its magic deep within

warming, holding, comforting,

and awakening the senses.

But for all that follow in its wake

none so special as the first

and how can humankind survive

without that first one of its kind?

Yes, it is, you guessed I’m sure.

It’s that hot and steaming freshly brewed

morning cup of coffee!

Village of Humanity

In a village of humanity where the children all grow old

double-sided rainbows weren’t expected every day

but suddenly in awe the inhabitants looked up

and radiated energy pulled the sky down to ground.

Blanketed in blue and shades of other hues

the energy confined boiled over into crime

and the mothers, fathers, children, as one became unglued

from a value system and the merit of kinship.

Up and out they struggled one by one alone to find

the earth no longer stable had become a rolling ball

from which they fell and tumbled into a foreign mode.

In adjusting to the temperature and the intensity of change

love became as water free flowing down a drain

and collected in deep pools beneath the earth’s crust.

There it bubbled, boiled, and today it bubbles, boils,

denied full release into the atmosphere

but through the hues of sky and me it erupts occasionally

and sends boulders, pebbles, rocks, flying everywhere.

Catch them … but they can’t

for love and foreign modes

are and will remain

incompatible!

Indifference

Clouds creep up from the rear

like the natural march of indifference

intent on a search and destroy

of the sky’s so heavenly blue.

It’s a silent but deadly approach

like the reality of a ghost

unseen but felt and known to be

an ineffective and useless guard

at the heart’s unmarked border post.

So crosses indifference speedy and swift

into the haven of love’s settled state

a warrior, gunman, thief, murderer,

in rampant and raging disregard

for what is intended to be.

And the sky that once vibrant and blue

succumbs to a dim and dull overlay

like the eyes of love once fearlessly clear

now brushed with the strokes

of complete indifference.

Flutter, flutter, and I flutter eyelids

simply today to no avail

because indifference begets indifference

in terms of section one hundred and three

of the perceived playact of life!

The meaningful

She lurks on the side lines amazed and dismayed

and sometimes amused at how humans behave

when embroiled in life’s so many small things

that keep them distracted from the meaningful.

Yet too does the meaningful lurk in the shadows

always in hope of being found and discovered

and it waits and it waits, oh, how it waits

but it ages, you know, like we all do.

I wonder sometimes how it would be

if the meaningful died before being found

and how many would grieve and mourn the loss

when busy, so busy, with the small things.

Now small things exist; they do have a purpose,

but alone they become the “be and end all”

and create a sense of mere self-importance

in those who do not seek and discover.

But look in the shadows; feed the meaningful

and give to the small things enhanced purpose

so all of the things we do and will do

become plain and simply … meaningful!

Tuesday's story

The sun is setting quicker now

than ere it did before

in a hurry to say goodbye

to a world full of strife.

And the night is none too pleased

for it needs not to be

witness to the plot and plan

of what is yet to come.

As for stars they twinkle still

but call and beg the clouds

to hide their light from humankind

not deserving of the blessing.

The moon of course vacillates

sometimes granting love and joy

and sometimes saying, “No, no, no.

What a waste of energy.”

But energy doesn’t care.

it works its magic everywhere

but surely one day it will tire

and retire from the fray.

Then the wilt and wither;

the preamble to demise

and I wonder then if everyone

will know they overstepped the mark.

The mark, the mark!  Where is the mark?

It seems to veer and swerve about

according to the times

to leave mankind confused.

It’s good, it’s good, as only then

can one stop and think!

The day

Wake up, wake up!  It’s artful day

knocking on your window pane

ready to lay claim to soul

and twist the truth into a lie.

So warm it feels and comfortable

like a much loved cashmere sweater

and we step into the day seemingly well-armed

and yet unprepared for what may befall.

For those who carry night into day

the lies stab the heart with ferocious intent

and sadness sinks down deep, deep, inside

when knowing that soul has no part to play.

So be it; it’s just a gigantic stage play

that keeps both audience and participants

totally wrapped up and enthralled

with the trivial and insignificant.

I watch from the side lines; sometimes I do,

and sometimes distance myself totally

but how hard it is to clap and cheer

those, oh, so many little things.

What purpose life if the meaningful lost

in the total onslaught of those little things

that causes the soul to disappear

and be as if it was not?

Miracles

From out the ether they silently come

and drop their wares o’er humankind

not like a rock to stun and knock out

but like the whisper of a gentle breeze.

They return with a smile waiting to be

the recipients of thank you notes

but sadly there is no post today

and no post for many more days.

Undeterred they wait for just that one

who knows the breeze was a miracle

maybe small, maybe large, but indisputable

and finally, finally, the postman knocks.

It’s not that we’re blind; we just don’t see

the breeze that changes what could have been

so how can we thank what cannot be seen

in a world dismissive of miracles?

But, oh, we can feel, we most certainly can

and yet, and yet, we don’t connect dots

or take the time to think it strange

that what could have been now is not.

So write that letter (figuratively)

and don’t let the Postman be unemployed!

Heart

Not behind glass but solid steel

lies the beat of her heart

determined to not ere again

go to another location.

Heart in the past used to dress up

and go out on walk-abouts

but the everyday dirt and grime

like the weight of a brick.

That constriction no happy state

so tears rose up and out

to cleanse, no doubt, God given grace

that needed to be visible.

But closeted so heart now mourns

because it knows, has always known,

that it needs to be dressed up and out

to live up to its potential.

But it thinks of that dirt and grim

and the emotional cleanse of grace

and with sadness looks sometimes

at that unused hat and coat.

Maybe, just maybe, one day again

it will venture into the elements

knowing that tears simply a means

of cleaning what cannot be sullied.

One Tree

There once was a tree, though it could be you/me, standing alone in the cold with burdens untold weighing it down and keeping it tied to the ground but it soon came to pass that the sun, in the silent manner of love, warmed from the inner out and it looked to the sky blue and alive and knew of a power on high.

It uplifted itself from pain, from realms not meant to be seen, and it heard in the wind a whisper to grow and enfold God’s love in its being.  It heard and it knew but the world wasn’t new and everything stayed the same till lightening from God struck the core of its soul and moved it close to the sea.

It watched the waves, saw pleasure and praise, and asked that it too be set free, yet still its roots were sunk in the sand in the middle of no-man’s land.  And there it was left to suffer and grow till it bent its leaves to the sea and the sea in response crept nearer and near to the tree grown older alone. 

Sea laps at the roots of that lonely tree and swells with the weight of its tears till the tree in full obedience leans yet further towards the sea.  I can see it, can feel it, getting wet and wetter from the spray of how it must be and there will come a day when the sea rises up and the tree will find a new home. 

It waits and it listens, it learns and it grows, it blossoms the rose of its soul, so all who pass by can smile and say they know where it’s going to go.  It will go, it knows, but God sets the pace and prepares a new bed for the tree but the tree, or you/me, must still shade the path of those traveling towards the sea.

Close to the sea stands one beautiful tree for God has given it soul to feel and embrace the stars in the sky as its very own paradise.  There will be more, so very much more, both pleasure and pain alike, until the sea covers the tree like God’s love has covered you/me – always it seems for how can He leave what He has created to be whether a tree or only “you/me” who one day will reach  the sea!    

No one

No one said. “Look out”

and so she tumbled down, down, down,

into a world of truth and love

that took her breath away.

And in that silent state she knew

the climb back up from whence she came

the most sad and arduous journey

only the brave can undertake.

But was she brave?  Oh, no, no, no,

she simply was a woman lost

who felt the pull of commitment

to complete what had been started.

And so she took a breath, left the love behind,

and returned to face a world of lies

as a test, I bet,  of her ability

to be a great pretender.

I’m sure you’ll find her there today

amidst the strife and turmoil

of man-made norms and forms

doing what she did before.

She is, of course, like you and me

but she ages like we all must do

until that knowing finally

will become as if a dream –

a forgotten dream

or maybe, just maybe,

almost forgotten. 

When rain sets in

When rain sets in and candles flicker listless in the air,

a sense of loneliness creeps unnoticed through the door

to drape like silken robes over shoulders of the old

and bring a kind of comfort to the coldness of alone.

Illusions of the night flitter through a brain in pain

as sighs escape from lips into the atmosphere

to freeze and hang immobile from ceiling to the floor

like statues in a park sculptured from unfeeling stone.

But out of sight a better life dances on the beach

to captivate and catapult the lonely into dreams

where warmth of fantasy trespasses in a mind

until the sun in silent mode announces a new day.

Then star dust in once hopeful eyes dies in reality

and lies beyond the lids waiting to rise again

for when the time is right, there’ll be no lonely nights

but a peace and a love greater than a human’s dreams.

Soon stories will be told of how life began again,

of how fables old are true, and of how a human being

regained the right to see a better, grander, view

than falling rain and candles that flicker listless in the air!