Dream Time Poetry

Today as yesterday

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 11 May 2012 07:25:00 +0000

And when from the depths there rises up

a shiver of fear and more than one tear

they remain for a moment simply a sign

of out of sight agony.

It’s an agony that rips apart

the security of heart

when worshipped is the creation

and not the sure creator.

And though knowing there is more

behind the eyes, the flesh,

I yet love the walking talking “you”

today as yesterday.

But hidden in the silence

is love that bears the agony

of life that cuts and slashes heart

with an evil unsurpassed.

And so of evil what to say

when heart in pieces can’t arise

and fight the fight on level ground

where everybody lives?

Love merely shivers, cries, and lies

a broken entity

behind the eyes, the flesh,

that loves today as yesterday!

Gypsy lady

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 19 Apr 2012 11:49:00 +0000

The gypsy lady’s gone to sleep

on a bed of thorns and roses

and one could say she’s dead

if not for the breath of life

flowing in and out.

The thorns beget a sob

and of the roses they beget

a sigh for things long gone

but she murmurs like a dreamer

held in the arms of love.

When eyelids flitter so, just so,

I think she’ll wake to be

a gypsy lady dancing

but still she sleeps; there must be grief

that keeps her comatose.

There’s a wilting now in process

as winter falls upon the scene

and soon no bed to lie upon

for that sleeping gypsy lady.

The gypsy lady’s gone to sleep,

there’s nothing left for her to keep,

and so she sleeps unmindful of

the dry and brittle soon to snap.

Pass by, pass by; there’s no desire

in eyes closed to a world

that offers up so many lies

in denial of the truth!

One tree

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 16 Apr 2012 12:52:00 +0000

There once was a tree, though it could be you/me, standing alone in the cold with burdens untold weighing it down and keeping it tied to the ground but it soon came to pass that the sun, in the silent manner of love, warmed from the inner out and it looked to the sky blue and alive and knew of a power on high.

It uplifted itself from pain, from realms not meant to be seen, and it heard in the wind a whisper to grow and enfold God’s love in its being.  It heard and it knew but the world wasn’t new and everything stayed the same till lightening from God struck the core of its soul and moved it close to the sea.

It watched the waves, saw pleasure and praise, and asked that it too be set free, yet still its roots were sunk in the sand in the middle of no-man’s land.  And there it was left to suffer and grow till it bent its leaves to the sea and the sea in response crept nearer and near to the tree grown older alone.

Sea laps at the roots of that lonely tree and swells with the weight of its tears till the tree in full obedience leans yet further towards the sea.  I can see it, can feel it, getting wet and wetter from the spray of how it must be and there will come a day when the sea rises up and the tree will find a new home.

It waits and it listens, it learns and it grows, it blossoms the rose of its soul, so all who pass by can smile and say they know where it’s going to go.  It will go, it knows, but God sets the pace and prepares a new bed for the tree but the tree, or you/me, must still shade the path of those traveling towards the sea.

Close to the sea stands one beautiful tree for God has given it soul to feel and embrace the stars in the sky as its very own paradise.  There will be more, so very much more, both pleasure and pain alike, until the sea covers the tree like God’s love has covered you/me – always it seems for how can He leave what He has created to be whether a tree or only “you/me” who one day will reach  the sea!

Time and the river

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 08 Apr 2012 08:02:00 +0000

Time and the river, oh, how they flow

and toil o’er the rocks of life

confined yet so diligently

forging a path to extinction.

Easier simply to know and accept

each has its own time line

that dictates the end of the journey

and makes them be as if not.

But I marvel at river’s fortitude

for it overcomes boulders and rocks

with never a tear, a sigh, shudder,

to tell of sheer agony.

But time, my time, leaves all up to me

and I can’t say there’s never a tear,

a sigh, a shudder, and sheer agony,

while embroiled in the overcoming.

Tomorrow perhaps with belief, faith, trust,

I’ll be like a beautiful river

content and peaceful just to “be”

until I reach the sea!

Every day

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 01 Apr 2012 05:24:00 +0000

What demon raises up the past

to live again as if alive

and turn the dawn of brand new days

into the setting sun?

I’m angry now and yet I see

‘tis just a smile the past displays

like the winner at a card game

smug and satisfied.

And so in the times of being still

I shuffle, deal, shuffle, deal

and play the game alone to be

finally the victor.

But pointless, useless, so in vain

for only death can clear the mind

so take the pot, oh, smiling past

and revel in your evilness.

And when I die so too will you

so what’s this game we’re playing

that leaves the victor/loser

as if they never were?

The answer’s simple, don’t you know

every day’s the first of April!

Oh, yes...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 27 Mar 2012 09:45:00 +0000

No one is immune

from the energies of doom

that hide behind a miracle

and speak the words of love.

Beware, oh, yes, beware

deception’s in the lair

of the young/old innocent

who mindlessly believe.

Back, oh, yes, we must go back

to times before the chaos

and follow history’s trail

to more understanding.

It’s a chore of time and energy

that challenges the weak

but to find the truth of ages

leads finally to peace.

I am peaceful now and yet,

oh, yes, I still love you

in a world of times that won’t survive

the final confrontation!

But rather...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 25 Mar 2012 06:52:00 +0000

When you want to take a chance

on someone or something other than love

there follows a most exhaustive search

for the sparks that ignite desire.

But they have gone missing and simply lost

since that moment of first encounter

and desire must stay as forever dead

deep in this life’s great mystery.

It’s not to say that the clouds descend

and blanket a life in gloom

but rather the sun shines fulsome

on the smallest of blessings.

And that’s not to say that we shrink

and become as the weak disempowered

but rather there follows a speedy growth

into complete acceptance.

To know and accept begets the will

to lay down the tools of the search

but that’s not to say that we will

stay as forever dead, dead!

Happy Ever After

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 18 Mar 2012 13:49:00 +0000

So I read a fairy tale

one day while missing you

but couldn’t trace the path

that Happy Ever After took.

Head bent it walked away

from the lilting song of love

and never dared look back

at the tower of destiny.

Today it wanders, yes, it does,

the forest of remorsefulness

because it let the people be

alone and isolated.

Happy Ever After, where goest thou?

And it turns to face the question

drifting o’er the hills,

blowing off the sea,

and whispering through trees.

Confused it stands in silence.

Was it not so rudely banished

by personal agendas

that took precedence?

It travels still the forest paths

waiting, waiting, waiting,

for the call and echo to return

to those who would lay claim

to Happy Ever After.

But there is only silence

deadly and destructive

and if you listen carefully

you’ll hear its mournful sigh ~

drifting o’er the hills,

blowing off the sea

and whispering through trees!

Not everyone

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 17 Mar 2012 07:00:00 +0000

Not everyone can be like me

and lift you up, up, higher up,

upon that pedestal

of how you first were made ~ and, yes,

my head bends back, back, back,

until the strength of what you do

and what you choose to say

affords me again a level view.

It’s a view that hurts like fire

in the belly of desire

for I desire your stance

upon a pedestal

that stands forever firm, secure,

through all of life’s demands.

Not everyone can be like me

and that’s good, you know, or else

lovers would not ere unite,

friends would cease to be,

and the world would plain and simply be …

great balls of fire!

Looking

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 15 Mar 2012 14:21:00 +0000

I’m looking for that grace filled place

that keeps me balanced liked a clock

tick-ticking without fail

to time’s eternal beat.

Not stupid I know where it is

but I wander here, there, everywhere,

because should I chance upon its core

I may just think perhaps, perhaps,

everything is alright.

Of course it is and yet it’s not

because life brings in the need, desire,

for what has been and still remains

plain and simply missing.

So I and you and maybe them

pendulums in disguise

from grace to inner restlessness

back and forth, back and forth.

But I’m moving, grooving, waiting for

one last and final move

that will keep me evermore, amen,

in a state of grace!

"Stuff"

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 08 Mar 2012 06:50:00 +0000

When all I thought and once believed

left the comfort of my mind

I searched the stores, markets, fairs,

for “stuff” to fill the empty space.

It visits every now and then

to view my acquisitions

and I listen as I did before

in silence like a woman scorned.

So I move the “stuff” this way/that

but when love has proved untrue

and life, of course, unfair

nothing seems to fit.

And when one sits with bits and bobs

that have lost initial glows

it’s like the one that has to move

is me, me, me –

mind, body, soul, you see!

Moments, years

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 06 Mar 2012 06:15:00 +0000

I am the one who flew the skies

to land within a state of mind

that stayed for many moments, years,

unwilling to depart.

But today it’s moved off to the side

and sits there crying like a bride

jilted at the alter

and I speak to it so many times

and say this really will not do.

Soon, I think, it has to die

for who can cry like jilted brides

for many moments, years,

without the will to welcome in

one last and final breath.

Perhaps then I’ll cry for it

for many moments, years,

until compassion and empathy

moves off to the side ...

and sits there crying

like a jilted bride!

A gypsy knows

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 02 Mar 2012 13:01:00 +0000

There’s something in the air

and a gypsy knows it’s there

because after midnight rings the bell

and she awakes to murmurings

unclear yet understood.

It’s a message that has many times

travelled o’er the land

and the sea

and the in-between

to sit within her being

and yet she would sleep.

Night comes again, again, again,

to hold her firmly in its spell

and keep her captive longing for

sight, touch, taste and smell.

Night has neither yet it speaks

of a love that surpasses

but how weak is a love

that tiptoes round the truth

in the light of day!

Sustaining power

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 01 Mar 2012 07:04:00 +0000

Love lies, has lied and will always lie

because it takes pity, you see

on all of the people who believe

it has no sustaining powers.

But it’s just a lie that deafens our ears

for we must find our own hearing aids

and we must in the fullness of time

harken unto the truth.

My time isn’t yours and sad this life

that moves and grooves to the silence

broken only by the clatter and din

of the times that will not survive.

And I’ve heard the words of the weak

propagate off-centre views

and feel, have felt and will always feel

love’s ever pain and anguish.

If only, if only, love would speak

in the words of the multitudes

but it sits on the side-lines waiting

for the bubble to burst.

It will burst in the most amazing way

and all of the deaf will hear

and I pity the people who believe

it has no sustaining power!

Brambles

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 25 Feb 2012 09:11:00 +0000

And as she circles trails

in the forest of remembrances

brambles scratch and pierce

deep in the heart of love.

She’s a gypsy lady ne’er again

to be as she once was

yet still the heart pumps passion

and she would dance again.

She tears at fortitude,

looks deep into composure,

and searches for the truth

as a means of standing still.

Not yet but finally

stillness will o’er lay the world

and that gypsy lady dead

in the coffin of lost love.

But look amongst the brambles

and lift, lift her up,

for the life-blood of a gypsy

flows unchecked into the dirt.

What will it grow, what will it grow,

but nothing grows when all is still

and no one comes to pay respect

to all she was and tried to be!

"Right"

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 19 Feb 2012 08:44:00 +0000

When the fight is given up

“Right” lies down

and suffers then the agony

of a homeless one.

Wind and rain, hailstorms, snow,

and the disregard of passers by

shatters so its certainty

and it weeps.

Tears mingle with the elements

but the world doesn’t end

and another day arises

to the same as before.

Day looks down again, again

but nought to do it simply stays

a witness to the tragedy

but no teller of the tale.

I tell the tale for “Right” should be

tall and proud and loved by all

and yet a vagabond it lies

in the gutter crying.

But one day “Right” will rule again

if you and me and lovers all

don’t in situ kill it

slowly and agonizingly!

Freedom

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 15 Feb 2012 05:49:00 +0000

When a moment comes of no recall

freedom grips the soul

for after all the past is gone

and ne’er will come again.

But just a moment, yes, indeed

for the heart would backward go,

and remember till no break of day

brings the present into play.

With no reins made to tie the sun

down on the other side

each day the heart must learn again

to put the past aside.

It learns each second, minute, hour,

of each long living day

but unlike mind it cannot

ever gain a passing mark.

The heart, therefore, a drop-out

lives to beat to what was good

and the soul just sits and waits

for a moment of freedom!

A gypsy rests

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 02 Feb 2012 06:26:00 +0000

Beneath the shade of present times

a gypsy rests her weary mind

and sighs the sigh of womankind

that through the ages sallied forth

o’er the hills and dales.

She packs and ties her chattels down

the same as once before

and checks the path that lies ahead

for pitfalls of the past.

There they are, there and there,

and, my goodness, even there

but she smiles the smile of womankind

because that’s what gypsies do.

She’s going back, back, back again,

to times before the gypsy blood

rose fulsome, free, in her psyche

and set her mind to wandering.

A gypsy rests; it’s meant to be
the end of all that should have been!

The honesty of love

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 25 Jan 2012 04:39:00 +0000

One day the honesty of love

simply melted like the snow

but then the clouds disappeared,

the sun shone brilliantly,

and we thought it was good.

We never saw the lingering

of head bent cautiousness

or knew how quiet withdrawals

taint future outlooks.

But here we stand beneath the sun;

surely we’d remember

that beautiful appendage

to the body beautiful?

We thought, we think, but can it be

we live without love’s honesty

because, because, we thought it good

that day it disappeared?

Not as if...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 18 Jan 2012 20:22:00 +0000

It’s not as if I dropped love

on the ground to ne’er be found

it simply found its way into

the drama of their lives.

Ignored it thinks to maybe be

a parrot trained to not ere talk

or perhaps a homeless vagabond

with nought to bring to the party.

And so it studies and ponders

each and every drama

making notes by the score

until it simply is no more.

But that’s not true because, you see

it simply came right back to me!

Last Flickering Fire (repost)

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 17 Jan 2012 05:05:00 +0000

In form like the sun’s rise before fall

she dreams of love’s fire licking at sky

and dances her heart openly unafraid

like a passionate gypsy on a hot summer’s night.

“Come! Feel the burn of this energy!”

she sings to no one and to everyone

as her body in sync with involuntary action

gyrates to the beat of mystical tunes.

The air opens up like a fabled cave

to the heat of desire and need of release

until precious gold and sovereigns of old

become useless tender to the sensitive.

The fire, the fire, one last flickering fire,

forever burns love as a symbol of wealth

when earth meets sky in explosive delight

somewhere over there beyond her foresight.

She’s a lady, a woman, an angel, you/me,

imbued with love’s feel and in motion to be

a second string bow to the masculine soul

like sun is to sky when earth turns to fire!

Agony

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 14 Jan 2012 20:40:00 +0000

Silent in the now is snow that falls to ground

like the creep of agony where it can be felt

and I wonder of the two which will be heard

far beyond the borders of this present time.

Snow will leave, depart, and completely disappear

when seasons change and herald in the warm and beautiful

but of agony it beds right in and stays to reappear

at the moment of inception of remembrances.

Inception? Yes, the start of and the very beginning

grows and grows till finally it reaches the end

but agony, that fateful thing, slips past the end

and settles down to await the next sure beginning.

How stupid to believe agony’s a thing like me

that at a thought, an accident, or the run out of time

will leave, depart, completely disappear,

and leave a vacant bed where once it nestled in!

The fire

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 13 Jan 2012 19:05:00 +0000

Love is a grand and wondrous thing

until it turns to face the fire

for in the turn it loses face

and stands as a woman shamed.

There is no light from eyes downcast

and never can there be a smile

when viewing only solid ground

unyielding like the unfeeling.

Love shamed is like a cloud o’er-lay

that forever keeps the sun at bay

and we know humiliation like a plague

seeks out and then destroys.

No laughter comes from out the form

and no echo issues o’er the hills

because, because, love turned one day

and faced life’s raging fire!

Join again

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 03 Jan 2012 22:55:00 +0000

My mind has strayed far away

from love’s so many struggles

as if it needed time apart

to rejuvenate the soul.

But soul (that’s me) knows mind can’t stay

for too long far away

because it’s the keeper of my love for you,

the believer of my worthiness,

the treasurer of priceless gifts,

and the chaperon of pain.

Though good it may be for a time

to mindless whittle down the days

I think it’s time now, yes, indeed

to join again and simply be

all I am and have to be

in the year two thousand twelve!

Halfway

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 19 Dec 2011 06:57:00 +0000

Yes, oh, yes, I’m halfway there

and, really, really, it’s okay

to be stuck and nearly buried

neither here nor there.

But my place isn’t yours

and I can’t tell you how it looks

and it may be hot or may be cold

dependent on a point of view.

I’m halfway to the promised land,

halfway to loving you,

and halfway to creating

my beautiful reality.

I simply am halfway

and I think it’s fine, indeed I do,

to be neither here nor there

because, oh, yes, indeed because

one day, one day, one day …