Trees acquiesce to the chill of the times
and adopt a grave and sombre repose
as a way of convincing the inbred beautiful
to sleep away grief until born again.

The blue of the sky retreats hastily
to wait beyond the reach of all fears
and the clouds inflate with ominous grey
to prevent the advance of the untenable.

There in that dark and cold landscape
no birds can ever be heard or seen
and the wind refuses to usher in
a fresh breath of encouraging air.

I stand as a witness not distant, apart,
but one embroiled in the matters of heart
on fire and burning within where it hurts
and blackens the gold of belief.

I stand, yes, but do teeter so
when dispirited by the march of turmoil
that has no regard, no respect, no love,
for what was intended to be!

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• I do not want …
• The shudder/shake
• The pain of loss
• Where is the river
• Where does one go?

I do not want to be
a woman so in need
that life a chore untenable
and love a means to grieve.

I do not want to be
a woman with a memory
that overtakes my comfort zone
and leads me into feel.

And I do not, do not, want to be
in that place of feel
where no roof exists to canopy
and keep confined the agony
and turmoil of my being.

I do not want to “be”
but all I want has never been
and so, and so, believe me, please,
to want or not the same, you see?

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• I stand
• The shudder/shake
• The pain of loss
• Where is the river
• Where does one go?

It’s not to say she didn’t know
love hovered near to still her fear
but so much more she needed then
to make of life a good event.

It didn’t come. She called again,
again, again, again,
until still wrapped in sheer terror
she stepped into the world of Gods
to re-affirm true love’s avowals.

And from that sojourn she awoke
not still or settled, calm, peaceful,
but lost, bemused, abandoned,
in a world of foreigners.

She lives today, so they say,
within the shadows of the day
but you will look and never find
that woman who was known to call
again, again, again!

Helen / 21 October 2009

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• I stand
• I do not want …
• The pain of loss
• Where is the river
• Where does one go?

But ne’er is it swallowed and gone like the moon
when sun rises up to declare a new day
for it sits like a boulder, a rock, pebble stone,
that never breaks up with the force of sheer will.

And the will is inside fighting demons of loss
with the tools of the trade grown blunt with old age
and yet with the toil and sweat of endeavour
one day it will wear the crown of victory.

It will glitter and sparkle as crowns always do
but the wearer with eyes not attuned to the view
will appear as one down hearted and bent
until she steps out and looks from afar.

From a distance she’ll see gold and silver
streaked with rubies and emeralds of love
but tonight when the moon is full in the sky
she cries for the will not yet crowned.

One day, one day; how many days
for sheer will to defeat heartache?

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• I stand
• I do not want …
• The shudder/shake

Maybe lower to her chin,
neck and fulsome breasts,
and her fingers play
softly, tenderly,
between the folds of skin
age ushered in one day.

No wetness to attest
to the presence of despair,
no dried up river bed
to show how much she cared,
and her fingers travel,
waist, belly, thighs,
to the very centre
of true womanhood.

She pauses there to think;
perhaps the river flowed
down, down, down,
to where he one day lay
unknowingly to open
the floodgates of desire.

Not now, not there;
where are they then
those accumulated tears
and she turns from this reality
to face the world of soul.

“Watch out – a river flows!”
screams the echo of her needs
and she cowers in the shadows
too exhausted to run
from unfiltered emotion
threatening to flood
and obliterate
surface composure.

Immobile she stands
remembering it all
before silently detaching
to live the way she must
in total denial of …

the echo of her needs.

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• Where does one go?
• Love’s punishment
• I stand
• Mystique and Magic
• I do not want …