Not ever ...

I remember the days of so many dreams
that captured my gaze each day, month, year,
until the arrival of dark, dingy, clouds
like a gift from the devil himself.

The clouds never moved; not ever, not once,
so I turned many corners and climbed many hills
in attempts to unearth their glory and shine
that kept me enthralled for so many years.

Sadly, so sadly, they had simply gone
but I didn’t cry; not ever, not once,
because I knew they’d moved deep down inside
for me to feel but not ever to see.

For many a year they felt heavy as led
but slowly, slowly, whispers of air
softly and gently touching, touching,
most times to not know they were there …

but now there are times, artful times,
when the wind blows and blows and blows!

Grief

 

When grief was young it ran away

from sleeps dastardly attack

and sought the shade in daylight hours

to avoid being burnt alive. 

Older now it burrows in

deep, deep, down beneath the skin

happy to recline at ease

in its comfort zone.

 

But it jumps like a jitter bug

and thrashes side to side

when the slightest memory

spurs it into action.

 

And the thrashing like a devil thing

that hurts and hurts some more

until the tears fall silently

like the encroach of night.

 

There is no way to catch the grief

and enforce better behaviour

and I don’t know what to do

to stop it hurting, hurting!

From then to now

So she dropped from then to now
and landed quite confused
because nothing, nothing, nothing,
conformed to the fit and style
she had been accustomed to. 

She searched amongst modern norms,

between the leaves of every tree

and even scrummaged in the dirt

for signs of all she’d known before.

 

But gone the time of innocence,

the time of love and honesty

and I think the time of grace

simply bowed and walked away.

 

But the stage, of course, filled up again

with agendas, ego, selfishness,

and all the evil perpetrated

one against the other.

 

So lift her up back to the then

where everything fit perfectly

and love and grace and honesty

a known norm for everyone!

ONE TREE (RE-POST)

 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!     

Crown

 

When that gypsy grew old and her wagon decayed
the world as she knew it had nothing to say
so she breathed in the air and looked here and there
to find that illusive crown of contentment.
 
When the search was complete her eyes lifted up.
Perhaps way up high beyond her eyesight
or buried maybe in the bowels of the earth
and then the tears fell from that gypsy grown old.
 
She can’t travel high, she can’t travel low,
and she can’t resurrect the sadly decayed
and she wondered how to ever give up
her quest for that most amazing crown.
 
But the sound of silence had plenty to say
and she listened like gypsies are prone to do
until finally, finally, the words “make your own”
cavorted and danced demanding attention.
 
So she settled in with needle and thread
and a pattern made up with the years of her life
and she knew that soon, maybe sooner than then,
she would wear her own crown of contentment!

Time

 

In the silence of these times

a gypsy’s mind travels far

looking, looking, somewhere there

for what she know exists.

 

But she is known to misconstrue

the signs she sees along the way

which cause her to veer off course

from her core belief.

 

She doubles back to start again

but to no avail she humbly sits

and tries with all her might to be

well implanted in these times.

 

And so it worked for years and years

but how she longs to walk the trail

in search again for what she knows

is waiting, waiting, waiting.

 

But she smiles again like gypsy’s do

to fight off all the tears inside

that flood her being with … woefulness

because she knows she won’t succeed.

 

She tried back then and tried again

but now she merely waits and waits

because she knows she can’t be right

if the timing isn’t so.

 

Time, dear time, when is your time

to shine your goodness down?

"Here"

 

So she made a mistake and ended up “here”

where sunflowers have taken their leave

and no roses grow all vibrantly red

in soil deprived of nourishment.

 

Sometimes the sun beats fiercely down

and sometimes the rain pools in disdain

here in that place called “here”

that always sings out of tune.

 

But she can still hear the call of the wild

emanating from deep memory stores

that uplifts and places her way over there

away from that place called “here”.

 

So there, over there, is where she goes

to find the true and meaningful

that always sustains and fortifies

while living in that place called “here”.

 

She goes and returns again, again,

but comes back refreshed and renewed

and always gives thanks again, again

for that beautiful place over there.

 

And it truly is beautiful!