Dream Time Poetry

The gifted, the wise, the pastors, the wives,

the noblemen, preachers, and poor humble beings,

turn feelings to words in attempts to describe

the emotion of love, if there such a thing be.

Not gifted or wise, no longer a wife,

I stumble through love with the pen of my mind.

It’s lacking in substance and cannot be seen

yet in the market it barters a give and take fee

but the fee is a feeling exchanged for free

so it could be construed as an invalid deal.

Too it is given with no earthly reward

so the gold in our hearts must be ill gotten gains

and the castles it builds are made out of air

so, therefore, love’s castles are not meant to be.

It doesn’t have legs to cross the divide

between mother earth and heavenly sky

so it’s surely not love when we think we see stars.

If love is the greatest, who taught it to play

sweet lilting music to which we all sway?

Its mission I’ll say, but then won’t deny it,

is to find a “something” that’s missing inside us

but whichever, however, it destructs if ignored

and, therefore, must be as if it was not.

What is love? It’s a thought, an idea, a wishing to be,

a prayer, a hope, and the longing in me,

but if one day it knocked, would I even know?

Would you?

Other Poems by Helen

• In Africa, South Africa
• The crash land
• Round the dandelions ("D" words)
• Night
• A nameless woman