The ghost

‘tis the ghost of times long past
that haunts this present human state
and flits like thoughts and feelings
within and round about
the all and everything of life.

I know it’s here when I am here
and there when I am there
and I would shake, rattle, and roll
this attachment from my life
if I were a one to be
unmindful of that state of grace.

And in that state love hovers so
within or on the outskirts of
my experiences
and though I seek the knife, scalpel,
that cuts through energy
I find that none exists.

There is no mortal man-made tool
that severs who I am from you
but ‘tis the “I” of transience
that seeks to touch again the face
of love’s now earthly form.

And so I touch when I am here
to find again the same as there
but ‘tis known in circles of the wise
that ghosts are ghosts, times past are past,
and the haunted remain haunted
until, until, until …
well, until I am detached.

Christmas trees

If there's magic in a Christmas tree,
how more so in you and me
but baubles, beads, attract the eye
and not what's down inside.

So it is then how it's got to be;
I sparkle not nor glitter
and that's because, I'm not, you see,
tied to a Christmas tree.

And because I can't see down inside
I do not know to what I'm tied
and so the glint and gleam once bright
disappears into this life.

Yet and yet there's something there
that shines through the veil of time
and I guess it simply has to be
the free to be both you and me
who left in part, returned in heart,
and reclaimed the glow of love.

But meanwhile we have Christmas trees
to attract the eye and make us sigh
for all we are down deep inside
not seen or known this mortal life!

The pain of loss

Even that which we have will be taken away
and it's like nothing ever is meant to stay
and the moon tonight full in the sky
can't compensate for the pain I imbibe.

But ne'er is it swallowed and gone like the moon
when sun rises up to declare a new day
for it sits like a boulder, a rock, pebble stone,
that never breaks up with the force of sheer will.

And the will is inside fighting demons of loss
with the tools of the trade grown blunt with old age
and yet with the toil and sweat of endeavour
one day it will wear the crown of victory.

It will glitter and sparkle as crowns always do
but the wearer with eyes not attuned to the view
will appear as one down hearted and bent
until she steps out and looks from afar.

From a distance she'll see gold and silver
streaked with rubies and emeralds of love
but tonight when the moon is full in the sky
she cries for the will not yet crowned.

One day, one day; how many days
for sheer will to defeat heartache?

Beyond the limits

Beyond the limits of a mind
a mystic one with love abides
and at a whim moves you and me
betwixt, between, true ecstasy.

From there to here; what do I fear
robed and anointed with my tears
restrained on this unstable ground
in spirals spinning down, down, down?

And life's unending turn from love;
who stands behind this daily shove
that lands you/me distant, apart,
from an immense and fulsome heart?

Beyond the limits I declare
a merchant gathers up my prayers
like winter hoards for warmer days
sun's truly awesome summer rays.

And there they lie in endless sleep
beyond the limits of my keep!

Love's empathy

I may be following or perhaps ahead
but I'm here, always here, and not yet dead
to the birth of heartache in one not yet of age.

The young and the old; how special the day
when love paves the way for the sharing of pain
and as empathy joins two breaking hearts
the bond between souls is confirmed and defined
and remains forever inviolate.

The physical showing of love's empathy
in the touching of arms, bodies, cheeks, tears,
lights a candle beneath the healing process
and lays a foundation for honesty's growth.

But to be like a man on the sidelines withdrawn
from the cause and effect of it all
leads only to isolation and no true company
in the forever and permanent world
of the spirit community ...
perceived to be real by the magic in me!

An artist on a wire

An artist on a wire closed eyes, said a prayer,
and heard the voice of love calling from the side.
Softly, sweet, meek and mild, the agenda of a soul
reverberated and filled up the tent of human lives.

From the ground music loud with worldly cares
pounded through a brain the need to turn away
and back track to the safety of insignificance
in the larger picture beyond the flapping door.

Eyes wide unseeing, faces blank unfeeling,
many lives awaiting the pleasure of demise,
waved a needy hand and sucked in energy
until the artist teetered on the edge of sanity.

How clever in disguise is the mass of humankind
how artfully they dance to tunes of poor, diseased,
begging, calling, pity me, forsake your future life
and stay, return again, forever more, amen.

The artist couldn't see behind the eyes of need,
couldn't read the questions meant to test a soul,
and so the voice of love once heard departed sad
to watch and wait silently from the far away outside.

An artist on a wire closed eyes, said a prayer,
to stay, go back, or fly, and I too closed my eyes!

The voice of a poet

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!