Dream Time Poetry » General Writing and Poetry

Emotive vibes

Helen Howell — Wed, 07 Jul 2010 16:12:38 +0000

The pendulum unable to swing
jumps hither/thither entwined
with the strings of emotive vibes
dangling free from the mental plane.

Up/down/around like lightening in sky
and joyous the crowds down below
but suddenly a thunderous return
shatters surface composure.

And in the longing for a gentle swing
detachment seeks to be known
and as it steps out from the shadows
I pull it closer and in.

How amazing it is like a cape to be worn
and a blanket of intricate weave
but when it coils like a snake deep within
I know freedom is soon to be.

And that snake is fed with intent
to witness but not be entwined
with those strings of emotive vibes
dangling free from the mental plane!

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The road of dreams

Helen Howell — Sat, 26 Jun 2010 20:35:29 +0000

The road of dreams twists and turns,
climbs mountains then down again,
and sometimes hugs with all its might
the grand and glorious sea.

There are no signs along the way
to warn of humps and bumps
or potholes that wait with evil intent
or dead ends and circular routes.

So I travel and travel like one unnerved
by the stress of the unexpected
but this remains an unconscious event
until by chance I drive over a cliff
and know I’ve come at last
to the end of a beautiful dream.

But dreams create and recreate roads
again, again, and again,
and insert sneakily magnetic strips
that attract the dreamers, you see.

Attracted then by the dream I am dreaming
I remain forever and ever
a beautiful dream traveller!

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Flags

Helen Howell — Fri, 11 Jun 2010 10:14:43 +0000

Flags wave in the breeze
and I wonder if they feel
the air cruel and sinister
around their happiness.

It’s a movement from all sides
not intended ere to be
but it forces a crossover
from the upright and determined
to a wayward vagabond.

Unable to remain at peace
that vagabond is me
manoeuvred like a fool
into a foreign mode
by the air that circulates
demonic energy.

So I plant my flag again, again,
from where it was to where should be
and this exercise seems futile
when nothing can be seen
but the bend and stretch,
mental intent,
the saviour of all flags, you see,
that wave haphazard in a breeze!

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Denial

Helen Howell — Sat, 24 Apr 2010 18:46:17 +0000

Drum rolls play upon the mind
and this is not a sheer disgrace
for one who moves according to
the rhythms of denial.

Denial is fast and circles one
within the sphere of catchy beats
that tap the feet, hands, fingers, mind,
deep into thinking this is right.

But soon and sooner than is thought
denial leaves the man-made stage
and all is quiet where once the tone
of all I chose to see, believe.

It’s not easy then to tap alone
to beats that soul has now disowned
and so finally and faintly comes
the lilting and so sweet refrains
of one unheard above the rolls.

To tilt the head and listen then
perhaps too late but maybe not
for ‘tis decreed that lifetimes yield
a chance to tap to different beats.

And so it is sweet melodies
that capture mind when all is quiet
but in the time of living now
survival taps to loud drum rolls!

Related Poems

Sand is sand

Helen Howell — Mon, 19 Apr 2010 16:57:47 +0000

The clouds hang low o’er shifting sand
that finds the will within the feel
to move from here to there
but sand is such it seems to be
content to shuffle slowly so
that progress ne’er is seen.

What difference grains of more or less;
it looks the same and no one tests
the depths of sand’s intense desire
to change what was to what must be.

I sometimes think I might bow down
to sand’s so quiet steadfastness
but then I think I might hurl rocks
and dance the jig of one enraged.

But sand is sand intractable
so best I just walk over it
again, again, again,
on my way to the forevermore
with my basket of delectable’s
held safe beyond its reach.

Sand never moves or so it seems
till dust o’er lays the scene
and then we know beyond our sight
there’s movement, progress, growth,
towards a new and settled state!

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First moment of a day

Helen Howell — Mon, 12 Apr 2010 04:44:27 +0000

It’s just a snatch and grab of sleep
these days when life abrasive, harsh,
that brings a sense of settled peace
with the moment of first wakefulness.

That moment sometimes long and deep
intrudes upon the loneliness
and wanders through the forests, glens,
like one who knows the way.

At other times a child at play;
peek-a-boo, I’m here then gone
but there is no giggle echoing
through the rest of the day.

But when it’s like a see-saw left
to suffer in the heat unused
slowly, slowly, comes the time
of total lack of usefulness.

What use the peace that crumbles so
when I don’t flick a backward glance
at first moments of a day
that bespeak the true value, worth,
of sleep’s most precious gift?

It’s like I’m schooled and tutored in
the manner, means, of disrespect
and in the, oh, so easy throw
of peace into the garbage can.

I could say it is involuntary
or just a something that must be
but I can’t, you see, because I know
I am the giver and receiver
of all I choose to feel
and all I choose to use, abusive,
or simply let lie fallow
in the sand of mortal time!

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Rooted

Helen Howell — Thu, 08 Apr 2010 07:30:13 +0000

So from the prison of denial
the monster, love, escaped
and sat beneath a lonesome tree
in plot of plan of future moves.

This took a time, the longest time,
by standards set and known
by those who walked the trail
and laid down signs and symbols.

Perhaps they blew away or sunk into the sand
and I know they didn’t shout and scream
as a means of being heard
and so that lithe escapee
stayed rooted to the spot.

Love starved, you see, just like me
amidst blueprints, maps, and doodles
because every way it thought to go
led to the unknown.

The tree grew and prospered,
the escapee shrivelled, died,
and so be careful one and all …
don’t sit beneath a tree!

Related Poems

Mystique and Magic

Helen Howell — Tue, 06 Apr 2010 04:42:22 +0000

When mystique and magic creeps through the door
the walls of the mind shiver and shake
for fearful they are that foundations will crack
and mind will be free to expand into more.

Oh, but they’re built to withstand the advance
of what surely is meant for the fairies, not me
but how strange the mind to give form and flight
to a smidgen and figment of imagination.

So I give to the fairies all the magic in me
and donate my mystique to empty air
and bend low, low, to stabilize walls
built high, high, to imprison the mind.

This is me and you, them, they,
born to be held like a prisoner, you see,
within the confines of reason and sense
hard and unyielding like bricks and mortar.

And I close for the sake of conformity
and lock against threats of vulnerability
because I know from the crumble and dust
love comes to fill up my … “lungs”!

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Pretence

Helen Howell — Sun, 22 Nov 2009 04:23:25 +0000

A complicated and indistinct map
is placed in the hands of the now inept
but they don’t think to use other means
to find out which way to go.

Those other means aren’t real, you see
to those with no eyes to see,
with no heart to feel,
and no faith to believe.

I’m such a one today in the mire
of refusing to believe
but I do have two eyes and a heart
that nudge the senses day in and day out.

It’s them against me in this stand-off phase
and for now I’m the great pretender
turning away from the nudges
like the dead who refuse to breathe.

So now when I want to know
whether potholes or not in the road
I sit strapped in to “what the hell –
I won’t see or feel or believe”.

And a car like you and me, them, they,
when stuck in a mire can’t move
until pretence a thing of the past
and all other means are embraced!

Helen / 22 November 2009

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A moment of enjoyment

Helen Howell — Mon, 16 Nov 2009 07:02:12 +0000

Two upon the highest bough
remained in enjoyment
of each other and the air
until one had a thought
to leave and forage more
in the dirt of mother earth.

So off it flew and left the one
to wait and hope and pray
until it too had a thought
to go the other way.

One came back and I don’t know
whether first or last to leave
and I stood back a watcher
in deepest empathy.

Just a time but how it seemed
an eternity
before that bough stood empty
and lonesome in desertion
of what was beautiful.

The bough flourishes and dies
according to the times
in the sure knowledge
that the love birds will return
and enjoy its offerings
be they soft and comfortable
or stark and hard to bear.

The birds and I have left
but I still mourn the passing
of an extraordinary and amazing
moment of enjoyment!

Helen / 16 November 2009