Posted by Helen Howell on July 16, 2010
Not with pen and paper,
not with imagination,
but with a lifetime review
comes the definite knowledge
of failed experiments.
‘tis the makers and creators
that exceed their boundaries
and plan according to
a dream not meant to be
and I, the innocent,
bear the weight of failure.
And when that weight is lifted
there’ll be no golden trophy
or congratulatory smiles
for the experiment of “me”
made to give and receive
the impossible.
Try again, oh, try again,
but, no, not ere to be
for experiments are prone to weep
at repetitive failures
that sink the soul into dismay
time and time again.
And in the stand-off there will be
machinations beyond belief
and manipulative tactics
to lure again the innocent
into life’s experiment
but too there’ll be rejection
and no intake or uptake
of yet another lie.
Makers and creators!
There’s more to making life
than the wild and fanciful
concocted in the ether
absent and divorced from
a hard and unyielding
physical reality!
Helen / 16 July 2010
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Posted by Helen Howell on July 11, 2010
‘tis not to say the sun this morn
warns of mayhem and dismay
and yet the rays that filter in
burn holes within contentment.
Small at first it’s like they are
merely there to pattern life
because each hole can easily be
hidden with a bauble, bead.
But woe the one who thought to be
unfettered by those sparkling beads
that were not needed yesterday
and found their way into the past.
Best to be if I had known
still possessed of baubles, beads,
that in the manner of belief
can be adjusted and renewed.
And so of holes the learning curve
decrees I shop the malls of mind
and spend the effort for rewards
of re-adorned contentment!
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Posted by Helen Howell on July 7, 2010
The pendulum unable to swing
jumps hither/thither entwined
with the strings of emotive vibes
dangling free from the mental plane.
Up/down/around like lightening in sky
and joyous the crowds down below
but suddenly a thunderous return
shatters surface composure.
And in the longing for a gentle swing
detachment seeks to be known
and as it steps out from the shadows
I pull it closer and in.
How amazing it is like a cape to be worn
and a blanket of intricate weave
but when it coils like a snake deep within
I know freedom is soon to be.
And that snake is fed with intent
to witness but not be entwined
with those strings of emotive vibes
dangling free from the mental plane!
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Posted by Helen Howell on July 2, 2010
It’s a lazy sun that rises now
as if passion dead and gone
and the sky that once inspired
no longer energized.
I talk as if I can be heard
like hope whispers in the night
and think of good and better days
as if they’ll come again.
But today I watch the inter-play
and the bounce of blame
and how the clouds gather in
both sides of every game.
And then the breeze of grace
brushes tenderly my face
and I know to humbly bow
to all that is and must be.
All that must be now for then
and so crumbles every dream
amidst the tears we all must cry
until passion again energized.
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Posted by Helen Howell on July 1, 2010
The shed of one’s true glory
into the happenstance of life
a prerequisite to forgetfulness
yet the bough from which it came
sways in the breeze of time
and taps on window panes
draped with essential veils.
The veils are made to last
and they keep the truth at bay
like clouds on summer days
and they’re heavy like the price we pay
to be participants.
I stand like one distanced from
my own damn window pane
held so by veils ordained to be
there for no good reason
but to keep me ignorant.
Oh, glory be, oh, glory be
but not ever in my lifetime
because boughs tap to no avail
when soundproofed is the mind
by impenetrable veils.
Boughs and veils and window panes
and the whispers of “Oh, glory be”
bounce back like useless tender
into my human stock-pile
there to lie as dormant
through the happenstance of life!
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Posted by Helen Howell on June 29, 2010
Old days, old times, old faces, smiles,
revolve in tandem in the mind
and this at night when all is still
except the drone of spirit will.
I listen to that drone at night;
‘tis silent when the brain takes flight
into the mix and blend of days
that begat both pleasure and the pain.
And the drone is overcome by this
like trees within a swirl of mist
and lies invisibly forlorn
by all that went before.
Yet still I hear the wish, the need,
for mind to repel useless scenes
and pattern a new vision quest
for when the mind’s at rest.
Sleep, oh, sleep, amazing sleep,
and spirit will acquires a beat
that moves the mind and heart of one
towards the shade of other suns.
That shade’s a place where all must go
and they say it’s deep within the soul!
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Posted by Helen Howell on June 26, 2010
The road of dreams twists and turns,
climbs mountains then down again,
and sometimes hugs with all its might
the grand and glorious sea.
There are no signs along the way
to warn of humps and bumps
or potholes that wait with evil intent
or dead ends and circular routes.
So I travel and travel like one unnerved
by the stress of the unexpected
but this remains an unconscious event
until by chance I drive over a cliff
and know I’ve come at last
to the end of a beautiful dream.
But dreams create and recreate roads
again, again, and again,
and insert sneakily magnetic strips
that attract the dreamers, you see.
Attracted then by the dream I am dreaming
I remain forever and ever
a beautiful dream traveller!
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Posted by Helen Howell on June 15, 2010
Today I am within this time
where space is violated
by crates of limitation
stacked one upon the other
in and around
mind’s innocence.
‘tis the crates that keep the mind
well and truly confined
and there is no disgrace
until the moment comes
for clearing out the store
of the implanted.
Sometimes it’s done, the floor is swept,
mind becomes an adult,
and choice stands large and regal
in the silence of a void.
To the side the aid of ignorance
stands tempting in the shadows
but it’s called in simple parlance
a survival tool
in a world where crates are comforters
and stagnant air a crutch.
And so of adults ignorant
who choose the side again, again,
beware the large and regal
because it’s mass an awesome force
until the floor is cleared again
and ne’er again is littered
with crates of limitation!
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Posted by Helen Howell on June 12, 2010
The sea waits with open arms
for the release and the giving
of everybody’s tears
but now the shore the keeper
because what if, what if,
the tears of love not manifest
ne’er can ever cease
and the capacity of sea
merely an illusion?
The land will become
unstable for my feet
and I will float like debris
on waves of hysteria
until the inevitable
sink into oblivion.
It will be the end of my world
and ‘tis not to say imagination
not a prophet or a seer
and so the shore holds tears,
stretches them from you to me,
and weaves them all together
to not pressure the sea
into an overspill.
But overspills have been, will be,
because the sea not distant and apart
from burdens placed on the shore
so give your precious tears,
give them to …
an illusion!
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Posted by Helen Howell on June 11, 2010
Flags wave in the breeze
and I wonder if they feel
the air cruel and sinister
around their happiness.
It’s a movement from all sides
not intended ere to be
but it forces a crossover
from the upright and determined
to a wayward vagabond.
Unable to remain at peace
that vagabond is me
manoeuvred like a fool
into a foreign mode
by the air that circulates
demonic energy.
So I plant my flag again, again,
from where it was to where should be
and this exercise seems futile
when nothing can be seen
but the bend and stretch,
mental intent,
the saviour of all flags, you see,
that wave haphazard in a breeze!
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