Thursday, May 2, 2019

End of an era

This is a story written from my own poem titles.
Perhaps a bit of truth buried in it.


Shadows sing to the music of a moment but in Africa I’m listening to the frogs instead of Jingle Bells.  I should take a gentle stroll through the minefield of the mall but it’s a bad place to be and quite a bothersome ordeal at Christmas time so see me like a phantom in a dream purporting to be real in a summer haze.

Reality is born in the old in me but if it’s Sunday, it must be story time and the poor and needy, lonely, sad, like the fallen and the dead in a village of humanity can think that there’s a rainbow on a dark horizon when the rain falls and not think of cyclical manoeuvres felt but unseen

Winter is turning the air of love into an emotive roll but it doesn’t matter in Africa, South Africa, where life is good in the turn, turn around.  It’s not like yesterday but it’s alright. 

Someone laughs between the trees and believe I would in secrets if not for the flame, desire, walking, talking, of wisdom and hope.  Look!  It’s not as if it matters that I read from left to right when the sun, the son, is a million steps behind after the summer sun because I am love born anew in the shadows of the truth and the river sings beyond the limits.

Someone whispers Christmas thoughts and wishes but nothing makes any sense and so I dream again of rich and juicy plums at the edge of need.  No one needs to know about the jump and spirit plans because goodbye is just a word in the mind of a woman.  I didn’t die but I believe it was me with blue eyes and backbone in the garden of love on wash day.  I’m waiting for the sun, the sun, and not the wind and bricks of change!

How the people lie – don’t ask me why but there’s always a sign beyond the tone when I’m sleepless in S.A.  I am the will to believe in love because and simply so because of evolution, you see, and not because I throw “them” bones.  And I dream of the weatherman and what to wear these days if not paradise clothes when I don’t look down like an artist on a wire.  But where do dreams go?

I think the energy of soul is the sinking sun and not the bread of life when the power of love like one last flickering fire in February memories but this isn’t confession time.  It’s a story from titles and the words I heard before a summer rose sank in the quicksand of goodbye.  It’s not echoes of indecision or a story of a “she” but men of the land, beware because she cries again and Sunday’s nameless woman, a once beautiful china doll, now just the words of spring from me to you.

Thunder rumbles when a river meets the sea and waves of thought like dream energy come back above my head in the blue, so blue, of sky and tonight perhaps I am now like a willow tree in the game of life and not a girl turned woman, older now.

Who writes of love’s awakening and what the spirit knows in the silence of heartache?  What is love?  Hey you!  Why don’t you let it out?   Love is a friend they say not the happy-sac of heart in the shadows of a picture un-perfect. 

It’s the wall of truth fresh from the earth in spheres of the natural where once a budding rose, my heart, folded first in the deal.  Be calm.  I love alone in the waiting game like a lily amidst brambles, thorns, of life.

Wine, women, and song and the matador and the bull like an acorn in the lost lining of sweetness in the pit of a soul.  Left or right over a mountain?  I cannot stay at the crossover point in the mist in mid May in case the demon of need would catch, grab, and keep my head/heart and the eyes of a woman.  Perhaps but maybe not the time has come for spirit love.

As a river flows so my train of thought of what I don’t/do want to know about love’s empathy but, really, I won’t go there no more because the skeleton of doubt like formations of rock when I get there.  Intuition tells me that if time could know more about winter roses and crosswise manoeuvres, there would be no deceit.

Spells are cast over dying trees and the common heart and love and someone needs to pay attention because the call is for growth spurts.  To think there can be rainbows in life’s tapestry when the wind blows cold just illusionary sketches in the silent spaces of a last plea. 

Behind the voice of thunder a flower blooms similar to the perfume of a heart and that’s alright because the air I breathe brings peace after the tears.  Oh, to love like a lovely lady but where I’m at there’s no love’s hold in the circle of my soul and this is my confession.  I could go to a land called Swaziland for just a release but sun touches windswept roads in the overthrow of summer and I might imagine things in love’s sky.

How do you feel when exhausted with no hope or new car under the African sky?  Only one tree as a symbol of human need in memory but be still because in the grooves and threads run leprechauns and ghouls to frighten a caveman not to mention the termites and rats. 

God saw it was good that she dances again and so I write the words of love at the start.  Praise me for this bonus pain because partners like the sea and the shore have knock-on effects in unholy matrimony.

It’s been said that the music makers pull the strings off the wings of simple things but that’s just a ramble for the good of soul transplanted in the grey and not a last and final call for memories to play ball. 

The grey sky in descent like handmade footsteps of dreams and how knowing this progression around the mulberry bush of unrequited love but I’ll remember today/yesterday and the glow of summer over rolling hills until one to twelve, the end.

Emotion speaks in the swing of time, “Be my Valentine” but decisions, decisions, and who gives way to new life?   In simple terms it’s simply this; it was only a dream of your touch and her walk into withdrawal only shadows in the glare of necessity vs. need.

Court is in session.  You did it all and on appeal I’ll give you a woman’s tears but it’s not the usual please pity me or story of a monkey because it’s all in the mind of only an “I” of the gender feminine where once no unconditional love. 

Heaven isn’t bliss but God speed the stream of ecstasy and the voice of a poet to the morning after when it’s the need.  One fine day when I know the air of dreams is at the window only me perhaps will see a woodman’s fire and say, “thank goodness it’s Friday and not a collision in sky”.

No one is driving complacency like a stream in heaven because backward energy is lazy sometimes and wayward steps make no impression when the light changes.   The sun, alone tonight but at ease on the ride, asks, “What if I hear her pray for the plight of innocence and I think it’s about me and not love’s rope and the colours of a heart?” 

The “thing” or “things” in value-pack bags in the artful warp of time like a volcano shooting pebbles, mere pebbles, at the base of my heart but in the likeness of man is Mike from the north and this I know from the murmurings of sea and the night sky. 

Where is the river of my yesterdays?  In the groove on the edge of love’s punishment as yesterday when Sally broke my heart? 

Pat-a-cake; what to pack when love cannot and will not be God, the air, emotion, or a mouse who learnt to shout like the sea when at the limit of endurance?  Rather let me die towards the end of May because life is about hands and perceptions of air when time is my master.

She thought it best to write a note but not me soon into air to ride a cloud like Will-o’-the-Wisp past moving walls when the train has no brakes.  I seek to find vintage wine not the merry minstrels or magicians of the air.  Let nobody say we cannot fly or write a little ditty for light relief from illusive love or only one silly tale for today but not yet because it’s time for Sunday’s story of a ball.

Dear Diary.   In the story of a man and story of a searcher, I would say “so and so” like a swan about love and to love following on dancing with the stars before the swing, slam, dunk, from butterfly wings of once-upon-a-time.  Oh, if I was love like the sea and the sky and not the night from the light!

She asks, “Is this the untitled and unfounded confession of sky, of daisies, or of the “This Is Me” from the inner or the outer because I could wilt like the rabbit and the tortoise?”  “No”, says the queen of the sky in wilful protection.  “This is just my thought for the day because it’s Sunday and the countdown to another Sunday!

There once was … but, no, that’s it!

6 November 2005
(and that's that - the end of an era)

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