Dream Time Poetry » Uncategorized

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?

Related Poems

Between the layers

Helen Howell — Thu, 14 Jan 2010 07:23:04 +0000

Between the layers of events and happenings
lies a little symbol of what life is all about
but designed to not be visible it simply isn’t there
to the eyes of a searcher and the maybe you/me.

Next to that the pendant of love’s amazing grace
shines and glitters brilliantly like a polished diamond
but the maybe you/me look the other way
for the glare so fierce and piercing
begets a different view.

Different views like mohair on the skin
go from amusing trickles to severe irritations
because, you see, it’s no laughing matter
to disregard the intent of love’s amazing grace.

So there we are then, searchers and the you/me,
irritated, agitated, and restless beyond measure
in the same old time-honoured comfort zones
that stick like glue and procreate more irritations.

It’s like that different view so beautiful and new
taunts and tempts the mind to reconnoitre inside
with the heart of all matters and the heart of desire
to make of the two transparently compatible.

The heart of desire when too gentle in its need
cannot outweigh the heart of all matters
but it tries and it tries because it doesn’t know
the scales of life are unjustly weighted.

The heart of all matters like dollars and cents
shoots the heart of desire right off the ground
to float forever unattained and unrestrained
until it succumbs to no force and effect.

It’s a sad malady but only if we know!

Other Poems by Helen

The beautiful

Helen Howell — Wed, 23 Dec 2009 05:05:43 +0000

No snowflakes fall to overlay
the truth of who we are
and yet there is a shroud
thick, heavy, and so dense
that grants unto the beautiful
the semblance of a grave.

And when there are no snowflakes
no one thinks to clear away
mortal imperfections
and facilitate the rise
of the buried but not dead.

So the beautiful lies comatose
awaiting the awakened
to brave the elements
like a determined warrior.

But we are lovers, are we not?
Out fighting spirit tackles nought
but flesh and bone, muscle, fat,
and what we say and do.

And then I don’t like you,
and you and you and you,
until I am possessed of tools
to dismiss the now imperfect.

And then I still don’t like you,
And you and you and you,
for in the clear and sweep away
the beautiful is not always
appealing to my eyes.

But you, “the” you, unknowingly
rose unaided into view
and in that moment of glory
I fell in love with you ~
but then you disappeared
back into the grave.

So the beautiful lies buried, lost,
to ne’er again rise from the grave
and stand naked before the eyes
of a woman who loves …
the beautiful!

Helen / 23 December 2009

Other Poems by Helen

Fingers and thumbs

Helen Howell — Sat, 19 Dec 2009 06:28:59 +0000

How like life to twist the truth
into knots of little use
and glue and staple them in place
as an extra safety measure.

Come the fingers deft and sly
but up to now not yet tried
for years it takes to plot and plan
an attack on all the knots inside.

The fingers have been twiddling thumbs
in the safety of old comfort zones
and ‘tis the twiddle, twiddle, thumbs
that tire of such attention.

And so they leave the stretch and reach
of fingers lost in plot and plan
and stand apart entrenched within
the truth made known and visible.

Fingers, fingers, numbered eight
cut adrift from truth and light
stumble in the gap between
what is and what should be.

I feel for fingers numbered eight
lost so within the in-between
but they will mutate and grow
according to the place they’re at.

But who would grow in no-man’s land
that neither was and nor will be?

Helen / 19 December 2009

Other Poems by Helen

Intention

Helen Howell — Fri, 05 Jun 2009 11:33:47 +0000

Nothing yet but not to say
the mail man’s gone away
but rather that the sender
went one day on a bender
and forgot to put in motion
the package of intention.

But the package of intention
large, heavy, in retention
sinks quickly to the bottom
of the cumbersome
and lies like a thing ignored
in a lifetime’s bottom drawer.

It cannot wiggle toes
or dance to the tune of woes
and as it haunts the halls of time
sad and sorrowful the eyes
that ne’er can see the sun
or a deed, completed, done!