The past

We cannot change the past
and yet, we grieve, reflect
and try, to re-write what
has been; to seek
to make things right.
And yet perfection stands
aside, and calls on me
to know, that she has been
at work within, the past,
the then, the now.
And all was as it should
be, and all remains as such,
and all will pass and she
remain, the guardian
of the door.

The apple

A pentacle is hid within
the gift the goddess gave;
a heart of seeds to sow
again - an offering of grace.
In bead-black symmetry
they sit, awaiting sure
release, as flesh is broken,
pulled apart, they fall -
their futures given.

Childhood refuge

In solid, patient waiting
my childhood refuge rests,
its mirrored door reflecting
the dusty detritus, of
all that has no purpose,
cast out of house and home,
surrendered into storage;
they wait to be reborn.
I see myself within that glass,
as child, in terror sent,
to hide within your musty heart,
until the world was safe.
Carved hiding place of glass
and wood, this cave of
smooth, dark flanks, you
took me in unquestioning;
drew darkness on my pain.
How I have grown and you
have shrunk, your bosom
narrowed now, and yet
I know you will remain
a place to heal and soothe.

In solid, patient waiting
my childhood refuge rests,
its mirrored door reflecting
the dusty detritus, of
all that had no purpose,
cast out of house and home,
surrendered into sanctuary;
she waits to be reborn.

The darkest hours

In the darkest hours before the dawn
the demons dance and taunt,
draw fantasies with sharpened teeth,
within the realms of thought.
In shadowed halls of lightless night,
the stories stretch and creep,
with reason swallowed, hope devoured
they haunt the world of sleep.

Torn between

Torn between the best of me
and that which I call base,
the struggle constant, or
the dance, the hunt,
the quest the chase.
This balancing of best
and worst; this judging
that I make, still drives
me on through darkest
day, and guides
through brightest night.

Change

There are no gaurantees in life,
no certainty to claim,
except within illusion,
the one thing sure is change.

I thought I heard

I thought I heard a voice
within the swirl and spread
of time, which told of
days which were to come;
beyond this life of mine.
It promised that all
would be well, that all
was perfect now, that
being in the moment,
is the true gift of the Soul.
It said that what I think
is real, is but a dream I
hold; the universe is this
and more, beyond what
we behold.
We look upon this world
of ours and call it true
and real, when what
we need to do is 'see'
to enter heaven's realms.
Creation speaks in magic
voice, to bring this all
to be, and asks that
we participate; draw
on the powers within.
For all is God and God
is all and we are God
brought forth; made
manifest, unique, revealed
as Love drawn out of Life.

Now

Tomorrow has no value,
and yesterday has gone,
which leaves today
in triumph; through
each and every Now!

The words

The words go forth,
in seeking to reach,
communicate, to
offer understanding,
reveal and compensate,
to show you what and
who I am, my feelings,
thoughts and hopes,
beliefs and understandings,
my fears and dreams
and doubts. But,
even as I watch them
fly, and urge them
on to you, I see them
fall into the void;
forever lost their truth.

My mother's diary

This poem is in response to a prompt from Margo Roby's poetry site.... something from an ancestor in their voice.

The first thing I thought of was my mother's diaries. Well, hardly diaries, more small books in which she wrote detailed lists in tiny writing of all she had to do. They are precious to me and it is probably time for me to read them again. If one reads lists in any true sense.

In many ways they reflect her life so accurately. She was a Virgo, but suffered from anxiety and depression and lived in so many ways a small, cramped, measured life. In her forties she developed rheumatoid arthritis which limited her even more.


In tiny shreds of writing,
I offered up my words,
in lists inconsequential,
of what I had to do.
Buy soap. Wash hair.
Post birthday card.
Cut nails and iron dress.
Write letter to my sister.
Soak underwear tonight.
In pencilled, leaded
offering, I wrote it down
to last, that I would be
remembered; that you
would know my past.

Madness

There is a kind of madness
Which tangles at the threads
Of sanity and reason;
Plaits sense as awful dread.

Gentle touch

In softened dreams
and gentle touch
you crept into my life,
and nestled close
to all I was - revealed
my hidden heart.
Love drew breath
with silken wings
in luminescent drape,
and dressed my hopes
so brightly - transformed
my self with grace.

Life abundant

Life bursts forth abundant,
wherever it is called,
in countless small becomings,
the orders are sent forth.
A multitude of maybes,
in egg and seed and sperm,
are drawn to the material;
in sky and sea and earth. 
In blossomed expectation,
in myriad of hopes,
they carry dreams eternal;
are born to die and fall.
In cyclic endless turnings,
the force of life is brought,
from universal consciousness;
creation's perfect dance.


 

The wind

A wilful song of wandering
begins to play the clouds,
and strum upon the dusty leaves,
a fitful, restless dance.
The wind in whispered fancy,
sets tease twixt twig and branch,
bares vengeful teeth in shredding,
the peace of life and hours.

This world

This world is but a construct
of all that has been seen,
and heard and felt and fantasised
since life did first begin.
Belief began with our first breath,
was spoken, written, held and then
bequeathed to all who came;
descendants one and all.
In word and image stories fell,
into our hearts and minds,
to replicate in futures found,
the known engraved on time.
We think we see what does exist,
not knowing we create,
all that we call this world and life;
our truth, our times, our fate.
For colour, sound, shape and form
are brought to birth within,
our brain and ancient consciousness;
they are no more than dreams.

Distance

The distance is imagining
no fact holds it in place;
perception is the dictate
for what is near and far.
If we have no experience
of what is here or there,
our mind will not perceive,
what vision would declare.

We demonise the other

We demonise the other,
and create an enemy
to make ourselves feel better;
to deny humanity.
But evil lives within us all,
and is more surely found,
when we see it in others;
reveal our inner ground.
Whenever we condemn
the truth is surely set,
the judgement of another,
displays our inner Self.

Desire becomes demand

Desire becomes demand and then
we find ourselves entrapped,
where Need holds court with
chains of expectation.
Through hopes and gentle wishes
Must pulls us to the wheel,
of misery and grieving ,
for all that cannot be.
The Now is cast adrift on tides,
of disappointment and of loss
where bitterness clouds perfect days;
nails reason to the cross.

I sent my words

I sent my words across the void
which opened up between
the you that was, the you that is
and hoped that they would join.
I wanted to rebuild the bridge
that disappeared with time,
between our hearts and souls;
between our lives and minds.
I saw them fly as flimsy birds,
hopes feathered bright with love,
as rustled in the whispered winds,
their message might be heard.

Take wing

Take wing upon the streams of life,
fly gently through the skies
and find a way to soar and rise
no matter what you find.
To ride the currents low and high,
to sweep and turn and glide,
surrendering through days and night,
will bring you home again.

Love draws life

Love draws life 
from where it can,
from savaged stem 
and tortured twig,
it pushes forth in 
raw determination.

Love

To hold within the inner depths of Self,
the truth of who I am and yet may be,
and folded in, around, and through it all,
the love which can enfold eternal Me.

Thorns

Tossed amongst the thorns of grief
love's petals blossom yet,
as blood-red beads in teardrops fall;
dissolved in heavenly scent.
The dance is done twixt pain and joy,
through ancient, measured steps,
to honour life through dark and light;
revealed in every breath.

Were my tears for you?

Were my tears for you


or were my tears for me,


or did they fall because


of what I chose to believe?

Creation

Our lives are but a process 
of creation, brought forth
through blood and bone
and thought, where time
plucks strings of expectation
and dreams draw images
of worlds we may not know.

Knowing

Beyond the place of flimsy
thought and thinking, 
there lies a world of knowing
and of truth, which
rests in gentle harmony
and grace and where belief
so fickle, has no place

Darkness

What darkness dwells within the soul,
reveals and hides again,
as moments fall and harsh collide,
when feelings fully reign. 
The bleak brought forth from brightness,
as night in triumph brings
its power to end the dreams of day,
force sanity to her knees.

Connected

In loving you I love myself;
in hating you I hate myself;
in everything I do there is
me and there is you, and
we are, always, connected.

Thought

Thought writes upon the page of time,
the stories that we tell and holds in flimsy
memory, our lives in faint recall. 
These stories that we tell ourselves,
and weave through other minds,
are simply our perception; 
where truth may never lie.

Feelings

Through falling,
faltered feelings
I find my way
to me,
through scattered
thoughts and
memories
they offer truths
long hid.

My parents

Beyond the faded photograph
and jaded memory,
the fragile dream
or broken thought,
I hold to nothing real.
I did not know your truth
in life, as child it could
not be; and cannot know
your truth in death;
too late to be revealed.
Perhaps the child can
never move beyond that
place of birth; where awe
prevents the knowing,
of you as human being.
Beyond the jaded photograph,
and faded memory,
the broken dream
or fragile thought,
I hold to nothing real.

Wanting

It is within the wanting
we sow the seeds of pain,
turn simple true desiring
into needs and a demand.
To want, to wish, desire
is natural and pure,
and only causes suffering
when tied to must and should.

Woundedness

Within the place of hurting
lie portals to our Soul;
a door to our becoming,
through heavens and through hells.
These tender, fragile places
where skin can barely hold,
allow us to be opened,
to live, to learn to feel.
In each and every one of us,
Achilles- like remains
these small and fragile openings
which help us find our way.
The truth of our humanity
is held within that space,
where Gods have held and loved us;
allowed our woundedness.

SPRING 1/9/2011

In rise of sap and blossom burst
life joyfully draws forth
from winter's cold and deathly grip;
to leave the world transformed.

Silence

Silence is a precious thing
and rare in life today,
where sound is constant,
varied; allows no peaceful place.
A click, a whirr, a hum, a beep,
a murmur, mumble, churn,
the noises of our modern world
are present, always heard.
It is in floating silence,
of oceanic pulse, that
we find soothing calm;
restore, repair, replace.