Dream Time Poetry » Life

The pulse of agony

Helen Howell — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 06:06:56 +0000

How amazing is the heart
to break and break again
and not ere be done with
the pulse of agony.

Slow running stitches
stabilize the tear
but when the thread runs out
a revealing stare results.

And that stare like a laser beam
cuts right to the core
and in situ cauterizes
the advance of agony.

But who can stand and stare
at a tear that runs amok
when the pulse of agony
beats vehemently?

So I make those running stitches
time and time again
because strange I am to not believe
revealing stares are laser beams!

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The sun and the meaningful

Helen Howell — Fri, 23 Jul 2010 17:13:23 +0000

The sun rises quietly like a peeping tom
and sneaks an intrusive look
through open windows of the mind
made so to be visible by innate honesty.

It’s a moment of joy and sorrow combined
that forces on the sun a hasty rise above
for to move and hide the view
a time to tabulate all discrepancies.

Yet even with the plus/minus,
pros and cons, maybe this, maybe that,
laid in order down the page
the sun still sits bewildered.

The problem in the manner of
one who can discern the truth
is how to navigate through junk
and settle for the meaningful.

And in the time it takes to make
a table that enhances love
and disregards the human force
chaos reigns down on the ground.

Not me, you see, but ‘tis the sun
that dilly dallies far above
until the sink brings in sleep
and night completes the table.

But, lo, the sun must rise again
on a day not as the one before
and must like you and me and them
rework through junk to enhance love.

The sun, the sun; I pity one
that can’t from sleep remain at peace
and un-bewildered hold in hands
the night’s tabulated meaningful!

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Makers and Creators!

Helen Howell — Fri, 16 Jul 2010 07:44:28 +0000

Not with pen and paper,
not with imagination,
but with a lifetime review
comes the definite knowledge
of failed experiments.

‘tis the makers and creators
that exceed their boundaries
and plan according to
a dream not meant to be
and I, the innocent,
bear the weight of failure.

And when that weight is lifted
there’ll be no golden trophy
or congratulatory smiles
for the experiment of “me”
made to give and receive
the impossible.

Try again, oh, try again,
but, no, not ere to be
for experiments are prone to weep
at repetitive failures
that sink the soul into dismay
time and time again.

And in the stand-off there will be
machinations beyond belief
and manipulative tactics
to lure again the innocent
into life’s experiment
but too there’ll be rejection
and no intake or uptake
of yet another lie.

Makers and creators!
There’s more to making life
than the wild and fanciful
concocted in the ether
absent and divorced from
a hard and unyielding
physical reality!

Helen / 16 July 2010

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Contentment

Helen Howell — Sun, 11 Jul 2010 14:45:33 +0000

‘tis not to say the sun this morn
warns of mayhem and dismay
and yet the rays that filter in
burn holes within contentment.

Small at first it’s like they are
merely there to pattern life
because each hole can easily be
hidden with a bauble, bead.

But woe the one who thought to be
unfettered by those sparkling beads
that were not needed yesterday
and found their way into the past.

Best to be if I had known
still possessed of baubles, beads,
that in the manner of belief
can be adjusted and renewed.

And so of holes the learning curve
decrees I shop the malls of mind
and spend the effort for rewards
of re-adorned contentment!

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Energized

Helen Howell — Fri, 02 Jul 2010 20:01:06 +0000

It’s a lazy sun that rises now
as if passion dead and gone
and the sky that once inspired
no longer energized.

I talk as if I can be heard
like hope whispers in the night
and think of good and better days
as if they’ll come again.

But today I watch the inter-play
and the bounce of blame
and how the clouds gather in
both sides of every game.

And then the breeze of grace
brushes tenderly my face
and I know to humbly bow
to all that is and must be.

All that must be now for then
and so crumbles every dream
amidst the tears we all must cry
until passion again energized.

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Everybody’s tears

Helen Howell — Sat, 12 Jun 2010 18:55:40 +0000

The sea waits with open arms
for the release and the giving
of everybody’s tears
but now the shore the keeper
because what if, what if,
the tears of love not manifest
ne’er can ever cease
and the capacity of sea
merely an illusion?

The land will become
unstable for my feet
and I will float like debris
on waves of hysteria
until the inevitable
sink into oblivion.

It will be the end of my world
and ‘tis not to say imagination
not a prophet or a seer
and so the shore holds tears,
stretches them from you to me,
and weaves them all together
to not pressure the sea
into an overspill.

But overspills have been, will be,
because the sea not distant and apart
from burdens placed on the shore
so give your precious tears,
give them to …
an illusion!

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The journey

Helen Howell — Thu, 27 May 2010 08:32:42 +0000

And as the plane prepared to land
at the magic isle of yesterday
the mind rebelled and tried to
unshackle memory.

For a moment free it looked around;
there was nowhere else to go
but still the twist and turn
and the need of an escape route
because it knew the climate there
heartbreakingly severe.

But the plane had been boarded
and the journey pushed by spirit will
carried all the passengers
back into the arms
of the long lost past.

They alighted one by one
into the sun of clarity
and blinked despairingly
at dreams and wishes, needs,
sitting on the tarmac
grinning sheepishly.

And the passengers each one and all
knew always they’d be there
as a draw-card for the brave
who seek again and again
to validate
dreams and wishes, needs!

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Suffering

Helen Howell — Mon, 24 May 2010 08:00:56 +0000

I chanced upon a little thing
called suffering by some
not boxed and well confined
but free and liberated
and ambidextrous that’s for sure
because it dishes out both left and right
equal amounts of self.

Sometimes it flutters quickly by
but sometimes nests within
and builds a fortress thought to be
indestructible.

And that little thing called suffering
makes me think the damndest things
and sets me to bemoaning
the supposedly unbreakable
time and time again
until powerless becomes the norm.

But there’s nothing yet and will not be
a break-down of abilities
to rise above, dictate the rules,
and reign as one superior
to life’s very many little things ~
but until, until, always until,
I know how small they are
I remain forever faithful
and in close proximity
to my own suffering!

Helen / 24 May 2010

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Death Row

Helen Howell — Thu, 20 May 2010 01:54:20 +0000

Not many are sitting on Death Row
for draining the life force of soul
because invisible crimes today, always,
are simply swept under the mat.

The mat has bumps here, there, everywhere,
but we walk as if nothing exists
until sleep overcomes the day
and soul has a chance to pray.

Maybe it prays for harmony,
and molehills to not be mountains,
or maybe it prays for compassion
for those who have no empathy.

Maybe it prays or maybe it moans
and asks for relief from the fray
like a babe in the throes of hunger
or a stray cat on my windowsill.

The mystery of soul and who really knows
whether puffed up with glee
or drowning in pools of humanity
as the days turn into weeks.

But the life force of soul not fragile
yet smiles and swims with the tide
and that’s why no one is sitting
behind the bars of Death Row!

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Field of consciousness

Helen Howell — Sun, 16 May 2010 07:37:17 +0000

And so the saving grace for some
is pretending there is love
because in the manner of pretence
all things are possible.

I can pretend I am a warrior
with swords and fighting “things”
and do battle with opponents
that never can be seen ~ or
I can be a worker
in fields of consciousness
and grow the finest roses
blood red for loving you.

I can turn my face around
from a world that disregards
my wishes and my needs
but I cannot and I must not
expect my meaningful
to be plucked from a garden
planted by another.

But I have my own garden,
my thoughts, roses, love,
somewhere in the fields
of my own consciousness
with no essential border
or trespassers beware
affixed to nowhere.

You can come on in
anytime, my friend,
but I know we have this “thing”
for living between borders
and so there is no cake,
no boiling kettle, me,
waiting for visitors
in my field of consciousness!