Dream Time Poetry » Spiritual Poetry

Turning the table

Helen Howell — Fri, 27 Nov 2009 06:13:10 +0000

Sometimes there comes a day
when one thinks to turn the table
and dine on the other side
of life as it seems to be.

And then there are other days
when all of this life holds sway
and the dished up fare though grandiose
holds no appeal for the hungry.

It’s an evil plot or just love’s intent
to send the hungry behind the scenes
but some tables are heavy, too heavy,
for the weak and disparaging.

No matter the sideline clap and cheer
encouragement falls on deaf ears
and the weak remain weak and hungry
in their own perceived destiny.

The outcome, I bet, is never a pound
or a kilo gained round the waist
and this perhaps so the skinny
can slip through birth/death unseen.

Oh, yes, but the news of this very day
applauds the turning of tables
for beneath the illusion of … meat
there is on the underside
the most amazing and sustaining
glorious spiritual feast.

But tables no matter still stand
on the base of this beautiful land
and how great to eat on the top side
when you know what lies underneath!

Helen / 27 November 2009

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The rebuff

Helen Howell — Fri, 20 Nov 2009 06:57:34 +0000

The tune of love played hauntingly
for many a day undisturbed
until the seriousness of a rebuff
made of the ears non-working organs.

But everyone knows the ears aren’t soul
and soul still listens and sings along
like an uncontrollable wilful child
while the parent wails and bemoans
its complete and utter inability
to produce what the world expects.

The parent in time knows to let go
and let the soul listen, sing, dance,
for surely it is the right of soul
to make of its life what it likes.

But when parent and soul split up
there’s an emptiness in the “gut”
that like a virus crashes the system
and prevents a needful restart.

The system is dead that once played love
and held body and soul together
because when a rebuff hits home
there’s nothing left to speak of.

And so for a time, the longest time,
the unspeakable silence of soul’s depart
reverberates down the lines of time
because nothing ever can rectify
the dire and seriousness consequences
of an all-embracing rebuff!

Helen / 20 November 2009

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Extraordinary bliss

Helen Howell — Fri, 01 May 2009 05:59:19 +0000

In a moment of sheer and extraordinary bliss
I like to think the world doesn’t exist
but the world is a constant; it never is not
and bliss fades into obscurity.

Hunched and bunched like the defeated
it haunts on all fours the chambers of mind
and gains sustenance from imaginative feasts
placed on a platter of memories.

But the platter once gold is dull, uninspired,
and bliss looks on with lack-lustre eyes
but it knows to eat from fantasy’s store
to validate all that was long before.

Though gone is all that was long before
bliss cannot be amongst the ignored
so it rises up into attack mode
and gathers the minds of those so inclined
to believe in its mystical powers.

But this in sleep and I’m not aware
and, yes, I lie, because I’m of the world!

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Under construction

Helen Howell — Wed, 22 Apr 2009 20:00:54 +0000

Under construction and junk everywhere
this incomplete business no happiness pill
but no one can breathe let alone swallow
a seemingly pointless attempt at renew.

It’s okay and good to move the view
from here to another outlook
but there is no magic in junk everywhere
to simply implode at the touch of a thought.

Under construction and junk everywhere;
‘tis just the first and initial assault
on the queen of denial
who wears the crown of a fool
to safeguard security.

The incomplete will become complete
and junk everywhere a faint memory
when the queen bows to whatever must be
to effect a return unto love.

Meanwhile that queen is still a fool
under construction with junk everywhere!

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A story, yes, but maybe not

Helen Howell — Fri, 17 Apr 2009 16:12:07 +0000

Above where the stars twinkle and shine
lies the land of the now unseen
allowed to be free and loving
according to the dictates
passed through the ages to me.

It’s a land of calm waters and torrents
that find their own place to be
and a land divided by thought and intent
that ensures no pollination
between the flowers and weeds
in the garden of all creation.

It births an abode of this versus that
and ‘tis the once disgraceful
who weed to no avail
and the once shameful
who drink the force of despair.

But already I am disgraceful
for how I despise the tether and tie
of my love to the wayward side
of one who knows but will not
rescue disaster’s child.

And too I drink now the force of despair
and suffer unbound the raging waters
but history repeats unless, unless,
I mindfully loosen the strings
and tie them again to another.

Fingers and thumbs; what is this love
that refuses to be untied?

Helen / 17 April 2009

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The clouds

Helen Howell — Thu, 09 Apr 2009 21:27:20 +0000

Formerly and prior to
the eventful
clouds of forgetfulness
o’er laid the land.

Oh, happy, happy, happy days
when unto men and women came
nimbus, stratus, cumulus,
as rulers of our kingdom
and dictators of our truth.

But time in its own time
and in the manner of a despot
chases all the clouds away
and leaves the happy naked
and shivering.

Then suddenly from out the blue
the clarity of mind
and the recall of other times
and I call the clouds, sometimes I do,
when naked in my love of you!

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The weave!

Helen Howell — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 19:57:57 +0000

‘tis not a spider web but the weave of one bemused
that twists and turns, overlaps, and tucks the corners in
to ensure a neat conformity and unruffled approach
to the nudge and prod of love
that demands acknowledgement.

No wind or rain dislodges same or hail dent the façade
for the weave of mind by one bemused
too solid and compacted
to allow a journey down into
the essential truth.

And that weave my goods and property,
my pension, comfort zone,
and my busy-ness and bustling
betwixt the non-essential
and the soon to dust.

So stands the one bemused in a swamp land
sinking, sinking, sinking,
and sinking, sinking, sinking,
until sinking kills the thinking
and heart released at last
rises up from the depths.

But no one braves a swamp land
to retrieve the risen up
unless, unless, they know
that heart is meant to last!

Helen / 8 April 2009

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Not a sunset

Helen Howell — Sat, 04 Apr 2009 22:01:51 +0000

Not a sunset but a fire
with the devil’s eyes
searing through the landscape
of inherent nature
and the turn from this to that
a complete and utter disregard
for the beautiful.

And we were beautiful
before the heat of fear
and before the breathing in
of smoke ridden atmospheres
but now to ash the glorious
and once glamorous.

And ash unharnessed moves unbound
in the wind of circumstance
like lovers seeking solace
in the arms of many “girls”.

So the beautiful now scattered, spread,
no longer empowered
breaks and severs spirit pacts
like they themselves were broken up
and togetherness a thing unknown
for the duration of a life.

But sometimes, just sometimes,
wind circles back again
and deposits all the scattered bits
one upon each other
and that pile of ash becomes again…
the beautiful.

I feel as if I’m beautiful but cannot ere be sure
because not a sunset but a fire
with the devil’s eyes
happened before my time!

Helen / 4 April 2009

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Visions

Helen Howell — Sun, 22 Mar 2009 10:13:32 +0000

I had a vision one moment in time
and then for more moments forgot that time
but time circles round and I’m back again
in the vision I had that one moment in time.

But that vision now in this moment of time
a fraudulent means of enlivening mind
and is but a rock on the path of belief
that crashes to ground perceived insight.

I now have the wisdom, the wisdom of time,
the broad based knowledge of a jilted bride
and yet of all visions they ne’er are content
to lie fallow as dead in the circles of time.

Visions and time how they intertwine
and move together like husband and wife!

Helen / 22 March 2009

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Story Line!

Helen Howell — Thu, 19 Feb 2009 17:51:15 +0000

Take it, yes, and scratch it through
with pen of ink bold double sized
and hope the near and sure divine
can live without a story line.

‘tis not the time nor for this life
to not evolve around the tale
and immerse the heart in mystery
that not in truth can ere be told.

There’s a story in my love for you,
a beginning and a middle, end
to the legend of red roses, four
and the sea and shore; perhaps they mourn
the end of what went long before
but still they live to tell the tale
of time and tide and permanence.

I will live like stories do
read, absorbed, told second-hand,
but of the ones left then to hear
therein lies the mystery.

Evolve and learn, evolve and learn,
and maybe in the spin the awe
of stories then, today, again!

Helen / 19 February 2009