Dream Time Poetry

The voice of a poet

Helen Howell — Tue, 02 Dec 2008 19:35:49 +0000

The voice of a poet soft and dulcet in its tone
or harsh, abrasive, cutting, and reaching to the core,
moves freely like the wind, touching, circulating,
and speaking only, and always, to those who wish to hear.

Ideology, philosophy, wishful thinking, memories,
unsubstantiated dreams, hopes, wishes, and desires,
woven like a tapestry too soon to be outdated
and discarded like a heap of old and musty books.

In a fire of these times volumes and manuscripts
will burn and be forgotten like bodies of the dead
and cynics will grow to outnumber those who know
till all and everything disappears into the air.

How pointless, how degrading, how useless is intent
to expose to the already wise the wisdom of the old
or shine like a star in the path of a blind man
in the knowledge that he has no eyes to see.

And the lilies in the valley, sunsets, mountains, hills,
all viewed and assessed from standpoints of the known
recede into the background as if they don’t exist
like love that’s annihilated on human battlegrounds.

Too numerous the setbacks and too far away the moon
to highlight a soul within the shell of flesh
and the voice of a poet disappears into the dust
to be trodden on and crushed by life’s intolerance.

The air once thin, sustaining, grows thick and thicker now
with the absorption of … simply all and everything!

Other Poems by Helen

A little ditty

Helen Howell — Sat, 29 Nov 2008 15:42:39 +0000

There once was a lady called Dawn
who arose with a stretch and a yawn.
She looked to the left and thought it was best
to disappear to another love nest.

But that was then when men were men
and the spirits came down from heaven
to share for a time two bodies on fire
and know of this thing called life.

Now, the devils and demons as we all know
haven’t yet learnt to go slow
so they dreamt a dream inside of just one
and framed it in gold like the sun.

They hung it, they did, in the heart of Dawn
and dusted it off with feathers and all
to tickle the fancy of her many parts
and send her in search of a loving heart.

Dawn found a heart like an almond tart
but that was only the start
for there was a soul so mournfully low
that she said, “Pack them both up to go”.

And now in these days of pay, pay, pay,
Dawn has no earthly say
whether to eat or sink to her feet
because the spirits, you know, are free
to arise with a stretch and a yawn
and fly into the golden dawn!

Related Poems

That lingering rhythm

Helen Howell — Fri, 28 Nov 2008 15:43:09 +0000

That lingering rhythm of love’s evensong
releases the angel and demon of dreams
and so complex in nature is this combination
that feet pound the road with all we can own
in attempts to outwit the haunting.

They follow like shadows; they are shadows
shackled and tied to a mortal life
but one day an angel, one day a demon,
twirls and whirls mind’s many thoughts
into a knot at the back of a head.

Of course there’s a breeze to blow it all free
and serenity after the storm
to debate the merits and demerits
of running away staid and sedate
to a tune that demands a wiggle.

Time forces, you see, the forgetting of moves
to the thump and bump of angelic views
within the sphere of demonic release ~
and that’s okay except for the song,
that haunting, haunting, song,
that follows the hands of time
till on the point of demise.

And then, and then, one stroke after then,
the lingering haunt of memory!

Related Poems

A season of reality

Helen Howell — Thu, 27 Nov 2008 18:03:06 +0000

It’s not the ghost of fantasy
lost and lonely wandering
but a season of reality
getting ready so to pounce
on the vulnerable.

I flex with the knowing
and stand naked and unveiled
in this moment’s grief
so contrary to the pose
of a woman with a dream.

Time beckons all into the fold
of waking up, it seems
for dreams are only pauper’s gold
of little worth and value
in the soon to be new order
which, of course, has always been.

I once was blind but now I see,
I once had hope but now believe
I and you and them and they
are pawns of reasoning
dangling like the dead
on strings of convenience.

So I dangle, dangle, cavort, dance,
but tip-toe round a heart
for it’s right and proper, true, correct,
that heart can sever ties
with the blink of loving eyes!

Related Poems

Remembering (believe it or not)

Helen Howell — Sun, 23 Nov 2008 20:15:52 +0000

He left her like a bride at the altar of desire
to blindly follow footsteps of a human fool
and then she knew of heartache
emanating from a level
previously denied
the consciousness of brides.

But that was then and now today
she remembers how it was
when first she knew of him
faceless and unseen
yet known to be as one
timelessly entwined
with the spirit of her love.

She called him near in dead of night
to lift the clouds of her despair
and she travelled many miles to be
in the centre of his being
till finally she knew at last
even conscious brides
must forego desire.

She lives today with that heartache
like a pall o’er happiness
detached like a press-stud
from its other half
but when she succumbs
to the memory of then
she’s known to be the cliff
o’er which the river flows!

Related Poems

Deep in the beat

Helen Howell — Sat, 22 Nov 2008 21:33:28 +0000

Dreams speak of a greater fear;
is there love in the atmosphere
or simply molecular dust
strumming the beat of lust
in trial and test of human fools
stuck in a modern day groove?

Deep in the beat no dancing life
can two-time a mystical mind
or side step possessed duality
in the swing and sway of light energy
unbound by the laws of attrition
in this period of transition.

One, two, three, and something new
disturbs the rhythm and blues
and the “pretty/pretty” dancer in me
surrenders into a scream
the past offbeat and lustful tunes
played to death by tenuous views.

Come drummer, guitarist, singer of soul,
and the dancer is cast a lonesome role
in love’s amazing but easy quickstep
because no one can quicken footsteps
when heart in slow-time decides
to deny love’s ardent desire.

Thus to life and the music unheard;
the lustful dance undeterred
misses love’s corners and bends
in the throes of modern day trends
and the dancer bows out defeated,
her energy now depleted!

Related Poems

Shattered dreams

Many a day

Helen Howell — Thu, 20 Nov 2008 18:01:27 +0000

It’s been many a day since stories were told of how the young and the old passed each other midway for the old held their secrets sealed up inside and the young too excited forgot to ask why.

The old went up, the young went down and landed, I bet, in the middle of town and so it was done, God loved everyone, but he too had secrets locked up inside in case the young refused to become pawns on the everyday board of his inexplicable plan. So to children he gave only half of a brain, the other half buried too deep to be found, and he watched and he waited, smiled, cried in pain, but always believed they’d come home again.

Life was good for little children unable to see above their head height and the maneuvers and movements of perceived adulthood of no consequence in their frantic rush to quickly grow up. The children then grew new hairstyles and frowns and walked in the shadow of their former selves while the adults tried hard to remember the rules and find again the meaning of life hidden somewhere beyond failing eyesight.

Some found it, they did, and smiled for awhile until a spider came down and frightened it out. Some thought it was cool to rule like a fool while others refused to accept a new view and they all together as one became old.

The children now older but not yet too old changed the face of the earth as they’re prone to do and made everything ready and waiting for a brand new intake of young. And these young ones passed the old on the way but not once in the passing did they exchange views or offer advice and it’s a bother to me why they weren’t ever told that they would land here with a part missing from brain.

I think it’s the middle between the two sides were secrets are kept like treasures unfound but it could be the top, the bottom, the sides, because wisdom, you know, moves around all the time - and through time and with time.

And if I should pass the young on the way I too won’t speak for I wouldn’t know how until I have landed in some other place and grown a new style in accordance with mind.

I maybe have found a miniscule part of that half of my brain hidden somewhere down deep but, yes, that’s right, a spider came down and frightened it out. The spider’s name? I’m surprised that you’ve asked because, of course, we all call it “life”!

Related Poems

The search for understanding

Helen Howell — Mon, 10 Nov 2008 06:50:18 +0000

In a search for understanding
true harmony is lost
between the real intrinsic self
and this temporal state.

It’s like the mind chooses denial
of its innate stretch and reach
for as it seeks to know the route
and how the roads criss-cross
it lands within a ditch
of only its five senses.

And in this ditch it’s like a frog
in jump in/out of self
to land again, again, again,
on good old mother earth
and croak unsynchronized
with the truth of who it is.

Ordained perhaps for frogs, you/me,
because we can’t walk on air
or be sustained and fortified
by the sense of an invisible
energetic flow
that neither holds nor strokes, touches,
the body beautiful.

But frogs don’t cry, they don’t lie,
frogs are happy, yes?

Related Poems

Shattered dreams

Helen Howell — Sat, 08 Nov 2008 08:23:05 +0000

I dreamt in the days before love took form
and proceeded to break and shatter them all
and they litter the floor still awaiting a bend
in acknowledgement of the now state of them.

Tomorrow perhaps when the body undone
from the bone and muscle that keeps it upright
the pieces that lie at the base of a life
will be as dust discarded and gone.

And then, and then, no need to bend
and a woman, a man, can know of no trial
that forced them to kneel and sweep to the side
the broken and shattered dreams of the time.

They lie silent and seemingly dead to the turn
of one who now knows to overstep love
but always a step too large for the frame
can topple a steadfast and steady resolve.

Knowing that, knowing that, it’s like I can be
a bubble that floats ever nonchalantly
above the now shattered and spent
many, so many, remembered dreams.

But bubbles … oh, damn, they’re so very fragile
and don’t know how to align themselves
with steel inlaid concreted balls
that roll over love as if not even there.

And the drawing board calls to creative endeavour
but I know I’m the board, the creative, and all
that ensures safe passage over shattered dreams!

Related Poems

At the beginning

Helen Howell — Sat, 01 Nov 2008 19:40:50 +0000

It was at the beginning that sea touched on shore
like a woman still unsure of her sex appeal
and the shore did not recoil or think then to move
until the sea withdrew as time and tide decreed.

And by this same decree the sea returns again
to assess the state of nature since last she knew of it
but the shore for many years has lain comatose
absorbing air, dispensing it, and dead to the world.

The world meanwhile has succumbed to history
that decrees another war, another shift and crack
and another upheaval of what was solid, sure,
and still the shore sleeps as before.

And by this same decree the sea has too succumbed
to history’s penchant for repeating itself
but ‘tis not a free will choice to replicate the past
and experience again the very same outcome.

But, tra-la-la, the sea moves on, the shore sleeps as before,
and air does its magic trick of keeping the dead alive
for ‘tis nature’s decree that a state remains a state
from that time of the beginning until the very end.

So know this now; there’s no escaping history
until within a movement starts that grows to overtake
the dictates of the past
but better really just to say
until the sea and shore unite!