Dream Time Poetry » Sad

I stand

Helen Howell — Tue, 27 Apr 2010 07:09:23 +0000

Brown and distorted like old winter leaves
hopes, wishes, needs, litter the ground
where once dew drops foretold happiness
in their own unique glitter and shine.

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 …

Helen Howell — Sun, 14 Mar 2010 07:26:35 +0000

I do not want to be
a woman who believes
there’s a reason for the tears
that fall continually.

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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The shudder/shake

Helen Howell — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 17:12:38 +0000

‘twas not the spark of passion
nor the advent of desire
but the shudder/shake of terror
brought up from her recalls.

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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Where does one go?

Helen Howell — Sat, 06 Sep 2008 07:36:34 +0000

Where does one go when love turns away
but into a cavern dark dingy and grey
where the underworld lives in gay abandon
and laughs at the turmoil raging within.

The echo resounds in midnight avowals
to find an outlet for deep seated heartache
and left/right the eyes survey the scene
like a prisoner seeking an escape route.

There, over there, a gap in the rocks
chiselled just so to let the light in
but small, too small, to allow free passage
for one inflated by desperation.

Hands claw at that fixed and immovable block
with blood running free as if to assist
because no one goes into a cavern prepared
with the tools necessary to widen the gap.

A bend and a rise disturbs the spiders
and they congregate as if to attack
until only withdrawal the way to survive
for one so trapped in a dark dingy place.

Lo behold withdrawal suffers the plight
of one forced to be when it rather would not
and a smile steps in as a protective measure
while life manifests what is meant to be.

To smile, they say, chases spiders away
but the hands only heal as time allows
and I guess it will be when finally death
reclaims and buries a desperate need.

She dies, you know, that one in a cave
day by day slowly and agonizingly
but she smiles the smile of the pretender
because time, the teacher, has shown her the way
out of a cavern dark dingy and grey.

But see her there like a know-it-all queen
unable, unwilling, to let wrong become right
and so she weaves most diligently
her very own web that traps within
the undeniable truth of love!

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So says the dream

Helen Howell — Sun, 07 Oct 2007 20:41:59 +0000

From within the heartache overspills

and cuts grooves within contentment

to make of volcanoes matchbox toys

lined up for keen inspection

for nought can equal or outmatch

the energetic free-fall force

of a woman’s tears.

But pooled within and confined

behind barriers of maturity

they call forth a brighter, hotter, sun

into the deep interior

where it shrivels heart to matchstick parts

before the moon is nigh.

And sadly earth’s the counterpart

of all the matchstick men/women

weeping, keeping, negativity

as fuel for the fire

of earth’s will to die.

So says the dream that never reveals

how to be joyful in sorrow!