Dream Time Poetry » Creative Writing

Country girls and woman folk

Helen Howell — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 07:52:45 +0000

‘tis a country girl that knows to be

in complete and utter harmony

with the wild that calls within, within,

in the dead of lonely nights

but she wakes to find the sun up high

on the crying fields.

The crying fields spread far and wide

over all her hopes and needs inside

and she traces them with hands attuned

to the fabric of despair.

Such fabric is o’er laid with fear

and studded with the beads of need

and the pattern formed a travesty

of the wild that calls within.

‘tis country girls and woman folk

who know of harmony and fear

and how it works to blend and meld

the real into the false

and grow amidst the crying fields

one red and vibrant rose.

That rose looks left and right,

sisters, brothers, none

and then it knows to stand upright

and speak for those who can’t

and it screams into the atmosphere

with all it’s innate might.

The echo travels far and wide

but so deep within the crying fields

it fades before the target reached

and the rose knows it must die

before the next sunrise.

Today there is no rose to shout;

the crying fields have spread and grown

beyond the confines of the known

and of country girls and woman folk

they’ve become like you and me

misplaced and dispossessed

of the wild that calls within!

Helen / 14 September 2009

Related Poems

The sea

Helen Howell — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 12:36:09 +0000

The sea came in from way out there
where love’s a stable entity
to tell of many grandiose things
and the beauty of it all.

But the shore possessed of seashells, grit,
and discarded human garbage
could not absorb or understand
the sea’s need and wish to be
the bearer of good tidings.

Sea stayed a moment, just a bit,
before the toss and turn
that forevermore will silence
the tongue of one who loves.

Forevermore’s the damndest thing;
it’s how ever long it needs to be
but I know the sea and how she moves
along the grid of her beliefs.

She believes, you see, in evermore
and how what is remains to be
a memory not ere expunged
with the changing of the tide.

And the grid is one straight line
not curled and intertwined
like waves that come again, again,
unto that selfsame shore.

The sea, the sea, may she not be
one to rest amongst the grit!

Helen / 20 August 2009

Related Poems

Bedtime story

Helen Howell — Fri, 19 Jun 2009 20:51:23 +0000

Mist swirls as if propelled to be
a lifelong living entity
but creation writes the story
and makes of mist a seasonal
and passing happenstance.

In comes in low and stealthily
with the mind of a criminal
intent on stealing love
and ransacking true insight
and then it disappears
as fate decrees it must
to allow the “Seek and Find”
its chance to be around.

Seek sticks close to ground
and ferrets in the dirt
for what was lost when mist was here
and it travels like a bloodhound
sniffing, sniffing, sniffing,
and listening, listening, listening,
for “Find’s” time of exultation
to pierce the air and echo
through time immortally.

And all is still and silent;
mist was trained overseas
or maybe in the bowels
of the deep underground
and it’s a perfectionist
when it comes to stealth and stealing.

Seek and Find, poor Seek and Find,
the story gives them arms and legs
a torso, head and feet,
a mind for facts and figures
and a heart for pumping blood
but of a soul that knows all things
a treasure far too rare
to be shown and made known.

But there’s mystery in all stories,
twists and turns in every plot
and that’s why we have… toes!

Related Poems

The gypsy (A bit of Sunday night nonsense)

Helen Howell — Sun, 17 May 2009 19:05:26 +0000

The gypsy’s fire has burnt to ash
and she has now retired
from passion’s inspiration
to dance so mindfully
to the tune of all she feels.

The rain has started falling;
pitter-patter, pit-pat-pat,
and there’s a momentary pause
before the rain is allowed
to mingle with her tears
and make them be as not.

The pause is the time between
what was and what must be
to appear a gypsy happy
around a pile of ash.

I can’t see her but I know
her head is bent to low
and she hunches like a crone
on her shuffle back to home.

I think she’s somewhat lost
in the dense and physical
and I would say she seems to be
directionally challenged
because it’s this way then it’s that,
it’s forward then it’s back,
and not to mention left or right
according to the track.

A gypsy is meant to dance
and a fire is meant to burn
but what is meant can never be …
when a gypsy has retired!

Helen / 17 May 2009

Related Poems

The “pretty weird”

Helen Howell — Sun, 19 Apr 2009 07:01:54 +0000

The “pretty weird” sits like a bloated frog
on a rock in the centre of town
surveying the scene as if it’s a king
and ruler of lesser mortals.

It croaks from a platform above the norm
donned as it is in regal attire
and delivers its message forcefully
to those not yet in the know.

I listen like one determined to be
educated in the ways of its world
and the croak echoes day in, day out,
until I succumb to my perceptions.

I must tell you now that perceptions are based
on what I surely do not understand
because, as you know, frog language is meant
for frogs of the world and not me.

The “pretty weird” sits like a bloated frog
just to annoy the hell out of me
and has no agenda besides to confuse
and mix up my realities.

Don’t listen to frogs; they’re as weird as can be
and “pretty” can hardly apply
but beneath what seems quite gross and unreal
there must be something outstandingly grand.

I’ll no doubt know more when I’ve… croaked!

Related Poems

Many a day

Helen Howell — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 18:01:27 +0000

It’s been many a day since stories were told of how the young and the old passed each other midway for the old held their secrets sealed up inside and the young too excited forgot to ask why.

The old went up, the young went down and landed, I bet, in the middle of town and so it was done, God loved everyone, but he too had secrets locked up inside in case the young refused to become pawns on the everyday board of his inexplicable plan. So to children he gave only half of a brain, the other half buried too deep to be found, and he watched and he waited, smiled, cried in pain, but always believed they’d come home again.

Life was good for little children unable to see above their head height and the maneuvers and movements of perceived adulthood of no consequence in their frantic rush to quickly grow up. The children then grew new hairstyles and frowns and walked in the shadow of their former selves while the adults tried hard to remember the rules and find again the meaning of life hidden somewhere beyond failing eyesight.

Some found it, they did, and smiled for awhile until a spider came down and frightened it out. Some thought it was cool to rule like a fool while others refused to accept a new view and they all together as one became old.

The children now older but not yet too old changed the face of the earth as they’re prone to do and made everything ready and waiting for a brand new intake of young. And these young ones passed the old on the way but not once in the passing did they exchange views or offer advice and it’s a bother to me why they weren’t ever told that they would land here with a part missing from brain.

I think it’s the middle between the two sides were secrets are kept like treasures unfound but it could be the top, the bottom, the sides, because wisdom, you know, moves around all the time – and through time and with time.

And if I should pass the young on the way I too won’t speak for I wouldn’t know how until I have landed in some other place and grown a new style in accordance with mind.

I maybe have found a miniscule part of that half of my brain hidden somewhere down deep but, yes, that’s right, a spider came down and frightened it out. The spider’s name? I’m surprised that you’ve asked because, of course, we all call it “life”!

Related Poems

At the beginning

Helen Howell — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 19:40:50 +0000

It was at the beginning that sea touched on shore
like a woman still unsure of her sex appeal
and the shore did not recoil or think then to move
until the sea withdrew as time and tide decreed.

And by this same decree the sea returns again
to assess the state of nature since last she knew of it
but the shore for many years has lain comatose
absorbing air, dispensing it, and dead to the world.

The world meanwhile has succumbed to history
that decrees another war, another shift and crack
and another upheaval of what was solid, sure,
and still the shore sleeps as before.

And by this same decree the sea has too succumbed
to history’s penchant for repeating itself
but ‘tis not a free will choice to replicate the past
and experience again the very same outcome.

But, tra-la-la, the sea moves on, the shore sleeps as before,
and air does its magic trick of keeping the dead alive
for ‘tis nature’s decree that a state remains a state
from that time of the beginning until the very end.

So know this now; there’s no escaping history
until within a movement starts that grows to overtake
the dictates of the past
but better really just to say
until the sea and shore unite!

Related Poems

A woman’s need

Helen Howell — Sun, 21 Sep 2008 16:29:32 +0000

At the stroke of memory
a woman’s need awakes
and it runs like Cinderella
to the safety of her love
o’er the cruel and dastardly
deeds of other folk.

Out of breath it arrives
at the door of happiness
but stops to then remember
it lives within a woman scorned
and an arm upraised to knock
falls slowly to its side.

It tries to raise the other arm
but the message has got through
and the need falls asleep
to a woman’s out of tune
and forced lullaby.

And a woman burdened so
drops her ray of hope
into the marshy swamps of life
like one who knows to be
lighter on the move.

Energized with devil’s blood
she travels o’er the hills and dales
seeking shelter for her need
that can’t remain within
sleeping like a log
on her river of desire.

And there the tale remains;
she’s not returned again
but perhaps I know no one’s au fait
with a woman’s need
to take it in and feed, nurture,
what they cannot see!