Dream Time Poetry

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

Summer’s glory a thing of the past
not destined to ere come again
while clouds of grey, rain and hail,
stand full on life’s centre stage.

I shiver sometimes for it shouldn’t be
that summer bows out to winter
and brings back again the intolerable
like karma not yet resolved.

It’s an evil trick that makes me think
heaven chastises the meek
when really it’s just a change of the times
and not a personal affront.

The meek shall inherit – oh, blah di blah, blah!
Summer’s not meek or reticent
but simply withdraws from the fray
to allow winter a second chance.

So what if the season’s not right
to be denied the light
because what was and what is to be
all mixed in a common pot
and those who eat will soon enough know
there’s more than one mouthful.

Winter will stay until summer regains
the force of its own convictions
but it will give way again and again,
because it knows to allow latitude –
and summer is love, beautiful love,
that knows to give second chances
again and again and again!

Helen / 19 November 2009

Two upon the highest bough
remained in enjoyment
of each other and the air
until one had a thought
to leave and forage more
in the dirt of mother earth.

So off it flew and left the one
to wait and hope and pray
until it too had a thought
to go the other way.

One came back and I don’t know
whether first or last to leave
and I stood back a watcher
in deepest empathy.

Just a time but how it seemed
an eternity
before that bough stood empty
and lonesome in desertion
of what was beautiful.

The bough flourishes and dies
according to the times
in the sure knowledge
that the love birds will return
and enjoy its offerings
be they soft and comfortable
or stark and hard to bear.

The birds and I have left
but I still mourn the passing
of an extraordinary and amazing
moment of enjoyment!

Helen / 16 November 2009

Love comes at its own time
and takes us from the mundane
into the extraordinary
but to see it, feel it, know it,
not for the feint hearted.

The heart needs strength and fortitude
and the will to survive
through loss and grief and circumstance
that twists its path into a maze
with seemingly no exit.

But the exit’s there with every turn
for every corner holds the truth
albeit closely to its breast
like a mother would a child.

That child is fed and nurtured
but of love in this duality
it bears the brunt of fire and ire
and becomes as dust and grit
in the eyes of the beholder.

And that beholder’s you and me
who meander in our suffering
until we truly can believe
love never leads us to a place
that kills our free will choice
to simply turn the corner
and find the opening!

Helen / 14 November 2009

Stairs start and lengthen more
from the dungeon of despair
to make of every step
a laboured affair.

No man or beast, angelic friend,
or sweetheart of the heart’s desire
can lift the burden, ease the pain,
or change a state of mind.

But there always was and still is
the self that knows no other way
than up with good and down with bad
until the climb turns night to day.

And in the light of clarity
effort begets its own reward
that creeps into the psyche, see
and turns a servant into lord.

And so of lords both here and there
they set a standard for us all
and soon upon the highest stair
life will be as once before!

Helen / 6 November 2009

‘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

She who opens doors to more
feels the breeze of who she is
but then the cold of the “before”
wraps around her daily life.

She ponders so this memory chill
like strangers in her new abode
and in her manner so polite
offers them an overnight.

‘tis not to say they do not know
to leave before she suffers more
and yet it’s like they’re glued to beds
made before awakening.

She cleans around their imprints felt
and discards the useless junk of hurt
but the crown of how she knows to be
never placed upon her head.

But time is such that ponders not
the speed with which it leaves behind
the glorious and magnificent,
the amazing and fantastic,
and the really quite remarkable
woman that she is.

And of that woman, all women,
who open doors to more
they sit with shawls and blankets
until time comes round again!

So blows this life into the mind

where lives a thoughtful energy

and it joins and dissipates the force

that once was paramount.

And in this mix creation’s orb

shrinks and shrivels, disappears

and becomes a servant to dis-ease

clothed in shredded leftovers

of its former glory.

To search and find and reinstate

what once made life worthwhile

like a chore unlisted on the board

of human existence.

Lonely is the voice in time

that calls with silent needfulness

for thought to rise and fight, fight, fight,

the dictates of a mortal life.

Creation’s orb is there somewhere

tattered, torn, not as before,

so blows this life into the mind

again, again, till death the end!

Helen / 22 September 2009

‘tis a country girl that knows to be

in complete and utter harmony

with the wild that calls within, within,

in the dead of lonely nights

but she wakes to find the sun up high

on the crying fields.

The crying fields spread far and wide

over all her hopes and needs inside

and she traces them with hands attuned

to the fabric of despair.

Such fabric is o’er laid with fear

and studded with the beads of need

and the pattern formed a travesty

of the wild that calls within.

‘tis country girls and woman folk

who know of harmony and fear

and how it works to blend and meld

the real into the false

and grow amidst the crying fields

one red and vibrant rose.

That rose looks left and right,

sisters, brothers, none

and then it knows to stand upright

and speak for those who can’t

and it screams into the atmosphere

with all it’s innate might.

The echo travels far and wide

but so deep within the crying fields

it fades before the target reached

and the rose knows it must die

before the next sunrise.

Today there is no rose to shout;

the crying fields have spread and grown

beyond the confines of the known

and of country girls and woman folk

they’ve become like you and me

misplaced and dispossessed

of the wild that calls within!

Helen / 14 September 2009

Life moves in and takes out
dreams, wishes, hopes and needs
and stirs and mixes cocktails
like a barman paid to be
a maker and creator.

It has no mind for me to sense
or heart to pump intent
but, oh, so diligent
it serves up and clears away
like one who doesn’t know
there always is a crumb or two
missed in the clean sweep.

Crumbs mix and meld in their own way
with the morning of the day
and catch in the oesophagus
of one who knows to breathe
the remainder and the residue
into the atmosphere.

And so into the twilight
crumbs scratch and irritate
and scratch and irritate
and scratch and irritate.

Night descends and shallow breath
skirts the crumbs of what is left
and brings unto the one who lives
a sense of silent happiness
that sometimes, sometimes not,
sweeps the crumbs into the bin
of “what the hell, I live”.

And after, long after,
the “sometimes not” grows bigger than
those everyday little crumbs
and that’s the way it goes
until happiness evolves
but never can it grow
when love like a little crumb
remains an irritation!

Helen / 7 September 2009