Season

It’s just a season good or bad

that comes and then it goes

and caught in the cycle we obey

whatever rules are laid out.

But then mid-way or at the beginning

a mighty struggle ensues

and who once a leader becomes a loser

and the old gives way to the new.

We can blame the season or leader now loser

who once in the task of growing up

caused an event that sapped his strength

at a time when most it was needed.

He doesn’t bend his head in shame,

he doesn’t wring his hands in grief,

and certainly no tears can fall

when evil is his saving grace.

Yes, evil applauds dastardly acts

and the one who caused his downfall

because evil’s not fussy as long as it lives

and as long as the people suffer.

But evil forgets it is just a season

and soon the season will change

and over the land one word will rebound

and that word is, of course, …

“Freedom, freedom!”

Once ...

 

Once on a Sunday that lady believed

magic would manifest all of her dreams

and the sun shone on that day in between

the beginning and end of that Sunday that was.

 

She remembers well the heat of the day

and how blue the sky that captured her gaze

and as the leaves danced on each/every tree

she wondered what tune played only for them.

 

She listened because she too wished to dance

to celebrate fully her day of belief

but instead she sat still and breathed in the air

that surely held tunes she couldn’t yet hear.

 

And then the night fell; it kept falling, you know,

and blanketed out the sun, sky and trees.

to make her believe her day of belief

was plain and simply a dream.

 

But what held the dreams she certainly had

except that glorious day of belief

that weakened its grip and let them fly free

to perhaps manifest in some other time.

 

She waits and she waits and listens each day

for the music she couldn’t then hear

but she knows she will one Sunday in time

because days of belief don’t disappear.

Fanning

 

I’m fanning the air around wishes, needs,
to circulate what I put out
but how stupid is that when mind’s intact
and works with no electricity.
 
It’s not solar powered but yet needs fuel
brought up from the depths of desire
but you must understand life pollutes all
and makes wishes/needs ineffectual.
 
It’s not like life’s evil or bad
but simply slow to desist
from dropping my every wish 
into the dirt of its own agenda.
 
But one day, one day, life will believe
everything dropped must be picked up
so if I don’t fuel the fires of desire
my wishes and needs are disempowered.
 
And who would have thought a woman like me
would end up a stoker of fires
but it’s okay, you see, because I believe
one day that one day will come.

Never thought …

And I never thought I’d know

of corruption, deceit and thievery

and yet here I am surrounded and embroiled

in the worst of them thrust on humankind.

It’s like the mindful tower I built

of all I thought was good and true

has fallen prey to despicable control

that toppled it to ground.

Of course I search amongst the rubble

for traces of the right and honourable

but all I find are dust particles

that ne’er again can be a whole.

It’s raining today and where sand now mud

that one day will bake in the sun of renewal

but those days are so very far off

that perhaps never in my lifetime.

But I’ll make my own tower again, again,

because all that I am and all I believe

can’t be destroyed by the hand of evil

so prevalent in these current times.

And so as I wait for the sun to come out

all I can do is design and refine

my blueprints of soul that allow me to know

but that block the infusion of iniquity!

Before ...

Before the night claims my day

I think of words to say

that perhaps will aid and abet

the furtherance of love.

But then in the morning light

I come to the understanding

I need to grow and increase

my force and effect.

How tall, how big, how loud and dictatorial

and then I shrink with the knowing

the my hands are tied to the post

of plain and simply who I am.

I cannot shout from mountain tops

or dance the light fantastic

to the tune of all I know should be

or simply tell you quietly.

I am here and you are there

but before the day lays claim to night

I like to think that in that peaceful state

everyone is dancing to the tune of love.

I like to think but can it really be

when some don’t think to dance?

Magic

The air is fresh and clean

and that gypsy over yonder hill

stares up above in wonderment

because she knows that way up there

magic has been made and despatched.

She cannot see it, no, she can’t

and yet it’s real and tangible

deep in her heart that’s been dismayed

and sunken in despair.

For everything there is a time

and this her time to receive

and she will breathe the fresh clean air

in gratitude and thankfulness.

And that time to lose too far away

to spoil her happiness

and she dances as all gypsies do

deep in the essence of herself.

No argument, no, not one

that she is free to be

unencumbered by the grief

and agony, heartache.

Remember, remember,

everything must pass

but always there is magic

that will make it come again.

Remember, remember,

help her to remember!