Dream Time Poetry » Poetry

Love’s punishment

Helen Howell — Mon, 03 May 2010 07:23:44 +0000

So from a high and lofty perch
love tumbled to the ground
and broke its legs and wings and “things”
that made it free to be.

Dirt got in its eyes
and it lay as one half dead
thinking it would mend
and reclaim its rightful place.

It gagged on mud and slush
in the season of its tears
and burnt from the inner out
in the season of its fears.

And in the cold of loneliness
it knew to not believe
the next season would uplift
the pain and agony.

How long it suffered I can’t say
but it dried beneath the feet of time
and lived just long enough
to know the coming down to ground
was its punishment!

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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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Betwixt and between

Helen Howell — Tue, 24 Nov 2009 07:39:44 +0000

If I could I would hop on a plane
and fly above the land
of the now betwixt and between
all knowing and sheer ignorance

The pendulum swings, scales are unbalanced,
and nobody leans the same way
on hallowed ground that’s typecast
as a place meant for defilement.

There’s an army of ants that march faithfully
and unconsciously down the middle
like ogres armed and empowered
to make of the knowing an enemy.

And so there’s an underground movement
setting bombs and committing arson
to break up the enemy camp
and scatter and spread the knowing
like ash to be blown away.

The knowing when valued tips the scales
and when ignorance grows it blooms
and so for the masses stuck in between
there’s no where to hide but inside
the safety measure of life
where ants shape shift according to
plain and simple convenience.

But how convenient to have the sky
filled with ash of the knowing?
It’s not, you see, for ash believes
every scrap of its once former self
will meld and o’er lay the start, middle, end,
and everybody’s life.

Don’t hold your breath! Time decides
or maybe those androids in sky
who fight from a better standpoint
than all of the ants on the ground!

Helen / 24 November 2009

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A smile

Helen Howell — Thu, 28 May 2009 17:30:31 +0000

It talks to me, sings to me,
though it never utters a word,
It lifts me up, up, up,
though it doesn’t have any arms
and makes the unseen spin inside
always and ever to music
I never ever can hear.

Without any hands it touches
my, oh, so tender spot
and silently wipes away a tear
I thought to forever ignore
and there are secrets, yes indeed,
that I feel but don’t really know
hiding somewhere behind the curve.

It’s only a smile, a beguiling smile,
and so very wicked and “nice”
but one day it shuffled its feet
and moved to the far other side
of my inherent insight
and it did all that without any legs.

A smile, a smile, amazing smiles,
they’re magicians in their own right!

Helen / 28 May 2009

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Ask and you will receive…?

Helen Howell — Tue, 17 Mar 2009 17:26:22 +0000

You have my love and that is that;
I do not ask for yours
but I want your strength of mind
to not break down and cry
and your nerves of steel
that never shiver, shake,
with the advent of desire.

I want the water in your veins
to wash my passion out
and your heart’s well formed icicles
to encourage frozen depths
within the all of me.

I want your ruler to draw lines
around good memories
and your curtains to pull across
inappropriate insight
and then I want your pen
to boldly write, “The End”

I want your hand that closes doors
and your feet that walk a million miles
away from mindful love
and then I want your pose
of wilful unawareness
and finally your recline
in sheer ignorance.

All of this I do not have
but I know to wait and wait
until I myself wrap that and more
in my survival kit!

Helen / 17 March 2009

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The acquisition trail

Helen Howell — Sun, 31 Aug 2008 08:38:29 +0000

Winter sings a mournful song
to the scrunch of every leaf
trodden on by humankind
along the acquisition trail.

The trail is long and winding
from inception unto closure
and the “got to have” a drive
inbred behind the eyes
until the cold, cold, air of winter
permeates the bones
with a sadness reminiscent
of a lover’s empty arms.

And life like a circus tent
awaits the make of love
to attract the curious
because inside the deep within
lies the amazing magic
of perfected balancing.

People love and money love
but the throw, catch, hold, of both
the exulted state
of balanced harmony
still yet to come of age.

Winter sings a mournful song
and the scrunch, scrunch, scrunch,
goes on and on and on!

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Everybody’s Garden

Helen Howell — Thu, 14 Aug 2008 13:42:04 +0000

Photo courtesy PDPhoto.org

Spit and spurt; no one is hurt
when water trickles gently so
upon the garden all must grow
but send me to a waterfall
unbridled, uncontrolled,
and sinks the part that could be heart
because always too much spray
is just too hard to swallow.

Out there amidst the drip and drop
is where I hold opinions best
but in the roar, the crash, the fall,
all I thought entrenches more.

But I turn the cheek of tolerance,
these days I’ve grown some more
for what is noise and bluster but
the building blocks of nature
in mix and match like flowers, weeds,
in everybody’s garden.

Nothing serves a garden best
than a soft and gentle morn
breaking ever quietly so
over all that tries to grow
but when the midday sun screams out
only weeds survive the heat!

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Magic is dead

Helen Howell — Fri, 25 Jul 2008 09:48:11 +0000

The witch and the wizard
one day made a pact
to go it alone without love
and life was good
with the birds and the bees
until flowers closed ranks
and the trees grew no leaves.

Magic, you see, not a mythical king
called “time” on the play-act of life
and set in motion a devious plan
to suffer the witch and the wizard
to come again unto love.

Swords were drawn by that good man of war
and the witch traded tears with her peers
because a turn, turn around, humbles a man
and makes a woman a servant to him.

And so with the stubbornness of a mule
the wizard sought refuge in caves
and the witch, poor dear, took up her broom
and flew off in a different direction.

For many a year magic prevailed
within that kingdom of dreams
where wizards and witches unite
and make of love a true delight.

But magic, my friends, never can last
if wizards too weak can’t open a heart
and witches leave cobwebs untouched
around yesterday’s manifesto.

Magic is dead – squashed like a bug
when we go it alone without love!

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Who can draw lines?

Helen Howell — Tue, 22 Jul 2008 06:43:15 +0000

Who can draw lines or erect boundaries
when soul is the maker, creator, of all
and we the mere puppets and lowly workers
enslaved in its will and told to obey?

And soul doesn’t care if this life or next
because ultimately so its agenda is met
but I, the worker, need it now to be
to know the peace of attainment.

Better, in fact, to not think as such
or seek the results of an inner plan
lest the mind then becomes firmly fixed
and refuses to open to alternatives.

It’s been that way for me in my day
but now as the sun rises on pain
I must through necessity open my arms
to the offerings of the far from ideal.

So I argue, debate, go to work late,
and plan and record my strike tactics,
because workers rebel when soul doesn’t care
to ensure culmination in this present life.

But who can draw lines or erect boundaries
when soul is within and determined to be
the leader and most over-bearing master
of what the workers must do and feel, know?

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A contract

Helen Howell — Tue, 15 Jul 2008 18:53:38 +0000

Can you see how the sea believes it is free
but naturally so the mountain stands tall
and confines the sea between boundaries
set in place by a contract of sorts?

It must be a sort of a contract or more
that decrees the sea remain as before
restless to know, to feel, to believe
its stature is that of a mountain, you see?

It’s a contract of sorts that humbles the poor
and a sort of a contract that deprives the rich
of the truly amazing and magnificent feel
of scraps from the table dropped thoughtlessly.

It’s a contract of sorts that causes a war,
a sort of a contract that allows peace to fall,
and a contract of sort that ties spirit up
in the mind of a human just like me.

It must be a contract of sorts or more
that allows a mouse to promulgate fear
and a bee, oh, please, why must it die
when protective instincts come to the fore.

So contracts of sorts all thought into being
by the will of the mountain, the sea, you/me,
and I cannot believe there’s no escape clause
to allow for a twist and a turn from it all.

And the twist and the turn no magic trick
but a contract of sorts and so very much more!