Paradox

Why is there such a paradox,
within the human mind,
on matters of pure principle;
with others' rights denied.
Why do we take a stance,
defending what is right,
for ourselves and some;
but not for everyone?
Why is one principle applied,
to some but not to all,
where differences of race,
or creed dictate another course.
It's either meant for everyone,
a principle applied,
across the board, and all the time;
or  is convenient lie.
How neatly some sidestep and twist,
the truth as it should be,
to keep the principle for Self;
the worst hypocrisy.

The ball of life

The ball of life was falling,

Wayward and sublime,

A strange attack of loving;

did channel through my mind.

This rough and robust frenzy,

Of feelings and of time,

Would settle on the seams of Self;

As joy and pain entwined.

Routine as illusion

For a few weeks
and sometimes months,
there is a routine placed,
and with it certainty is set,
to simmer for a time;
but always as illusion,
for nothing is confirmed.
To make home something physical,
means when we lose that space,
we grieve for something we have lost,
and sometimes cannot trace,
but when home is inside ourselves,
means we can always find,
the space secure and lasting,
which nothing can divide.

Certainty

The sense of certainty is set,
twixt what we gain and lose,
and in the mental mirroring,
we learn that we can choose.

Footprints

The footprints found their circled way,
around my soul and self,
but they displayed another shape,
which did not fit with truth.
Could I then walk as others did,
and fit my shape to theirs,
or put my otherness upon their form;
to honour who I was?
This question held its head up high,
and taunted all my fears,
for there could be no other way;
to walk, than who I was.

The dream

The dream will speak in stranger tongues,
to show us what we know,
but have forgotten or mislaid,
along the path to Now.
The Soul does speak in symbol,
and dreams will be its cause,
to draw us into image,
which speaks far more than words.

Winter

Winter draws the Soul inside,
of Self and Earth and all,
as if to mock the fading Sun,
to hold us to itself.
In huddled, dark becoming,
we reach for warming flames,
and feel the chill upon the glass;
the whispered Season's grace.

The Hanged Man

The Hanged Man held to watered earth,
like Odin on the Tree,
 and gazed upon the sacred fish,
which Soul carved carefully.
The boat which sails across the Styx,
was waiting there for him,
as broken dregs and dross of life,
received him graciously.
Within the swirl and turn of time,
he fell through ropes of grief,
and found himself the gift of sight;
the message once received.

The abyss

Creatured stone encompassed me,
and summoned soul to depths,
beyond the hopes of vision;
into the arms of hell.
And yet within the falling
into that dark abyss,
I found my heart took flight
and carried me to grace.

Love is all there is

Love is all there ever is
and all there ever was;
connection of the cosmos,
consciousness brought forth.
Each time we fall into the arms,
of someone that we love,
we fall into the arms of Life,
of what some will call God.
Love is much more than just a right,
it is all that we are,
and all that we are called to be,
throughout eternity.

sea and stone

The wash of salt emotion,
around the stone of self,
will break in waves of meaning,
to purify the Soul.
In liquid, sucked surrendering,
the source of life is found,
by letting its sure currents,
wrap and hold us now.

With every letter

With every letter gathered,
to build the words I use,
there comes the joyful knowledge,
that they still live and breathe.
Each letter has its energy,
and birth into each word,
bequeath the message carried;
through time onto the page.

Creation brought to birth

Creation brought to birth
in the crucible of pain,
both physical and mental,
to bring art into being.
Upon the hob of hurt,
we simmer what we know,
and turn it with a pen or brush
into something new.
The pot in brutal boiling,
brings forth archetypal grace,
which transforms roiling demons;
dilutes the power of rage.
From horror then comes beauty,
the art of life revealed,
in Self and Soul and artefact;
the truth, forever held.

When all seems dark

When all seems dark and echoed gloom,
when we feel so alone,
then know that love which others feel,
still holds us close and true.
With every rise and fall of breath,
with every beat of heart,
we do connect with those we love,
and they connect in turn.
There is no place within this world,
where we are not in touch,
with those who love and care for us,
no matter what we feel.

Demons of love and hate

Wings rose black through darkest days,
shone bright in lightest night,
and led the way to love and hate,
as each danced side by side.
These demons rose to grace the sky,
arms spread in curtained show,
reminding me that they were one;
twin faces of my Soul.

The hand of pain

The hand of pain did grittle hard,
and work its way with me,
reducing self and gristled hurt,
to brittle grains of thought.
In bristled fear I fought my way,
upon life's burning griddle,
to know that in the sear of grief,
my heart was born anew.

Timeless worlds

We disappear in timeless worlds
when we do least expect,
reminding us that minutes tick,
because we say they do.
Delight can drive its way through time,
and pain can hold it close,
and time can feel both fast and slow,
though it does not exist.

Gifts of words

How often do we offer gifts
of words like daisy chains,
to find that they're recived
as iron and steel which binds?
It was not sent with such a goal,
no thoughts to trap and hold,
and yet within the distance,
they change as they're beheld.

On being stuck

I remember when I used to feel stuck,
when life was like wading through treacle,
with those heavy dream steps which take
so much effort and lead nowhere.
But when I stopped believing in the word stuck,
I found I simply was and even the treacle,
was warm, embracing and an experience
which asked only for mindfullness.
And then there was no stuckness,
no being trapped in clinging depths,
just a sense of living, in the moment,
even if nothing moved - not even I.

Stages of the journey

We see so well reflected,
the truth of who we are,
in all that does surround us;
in all we come to know.
There is no right or wrong in it,
no better place to be,
just stages of the journey,
we make from I to me.

Why is it that we fear to feel?

Why is it that we fear to feel,
to let our body speak,
in ways the mind won't understand,
in ways beyond our grief?
In honouring our Feeling Self,
we open wide our hearts,
and drop into unknowing;
embrace our darkest parts.
There may not be a reason,
which we will know or see,
and understanding may not come;
but truth will be revealed.

We place our thoughts so neatly

We place our thoughts so neatly,
into the box we make,
which sits upon the shelf of life,
our ego to display.
Sometimes we lift the lid and look,
upon the tangled threads,
of those beliefs we call our own;
to drape around our neck.
Within the dust of time and trust,
we've gathered them as ours,
and yet so often they have come,
from others - not our Souls.

The box of mind

The lid is closed so carefully
on all that we believe,
that like the 'cat' alive and dead;
we hide the truths we need.
We live within the box of mind
which we have built with thoughts,
and only when we open it,
are treasures found when sought.

We wander

We wander through the drifts of day,
set sail on shrouds of night,
and tell ourselves that we can see
the truth which darkness hides.
But often what we call the truth,
is but reflected lies,
a shimmering of our beliefs,
which we learned as a child.
The eye which will reveal it all,
is found within our hearts,
and it can see beyond the known;
displays all that we are. 

Palm fronds

Palm fronds
hustle,
dry-leaf dance,
caress, careen
and sigh,
in loop
and link,
and stroke
of edge,
they play
the sound
of night.

Night breeze

Night breeze
is like
a lover's touch,
on gentled,
waiting skin;
a murmured
breath surrendering,
in measured
intimacy.

Night air tease

The night air tease
of scattered sounds,
a voice a bark
a horn,
as all does gather,
on the breeze
of evening's
trailing shroud.

Wall of words

To feel the truth,
to know its worth,
beyond the wall
of words.

Evening's gift

The lake sucks air,
to spit the wind,
in slow and sensual
speech, which drifts
on skin and strokes
the mind as evening's
gentle gift.

Murdered feelings

Oil on Canvas, Dark Sky - Bright Earth, Roslyn Ross, 2012.


Within the closing moments
of murdered feelings day,
we sense for just an instant,
what they had tried to say.

You think you think

Lake Eyre, Oil on Canvas, 2012, Roslyn Ross

You think you think what you believe,
and yet it is not sure,
for what we think and do believe,
may be true opposites.

Cosmic circling

Within the cosmic circling
of who I think I am,
there is a world which can be born,
once I know who I am.
There's thinking and there's being,
there's knowing and demand,
as atoms whirl and dance through time,
in this molecular world.
In constant change and movement,
dynamically and sound,
the particles draw in and out,
to leave me as I am.
And yet the mind is master,
of unseen universe,
in micro and in macro;
where time begins and ends.
It needs a focussed consciousness,
to take the offered hand,
of our diffuse awareness,
so we, as Souls, may stand.
It's only in the dance of life,
for universe or me,
that we can ever find our place
in God's eternity.




N.B. I use the word God not in any religious sense but in the sense of the intelligent consciousness which is the foundation and formation of our world and everything in it.

When joy is near

Why is it that when joy is near,
some fear will rise to speak,
and suck the pleasure from the day,
as if the two are twins?
Perhaps they are as opposites,
along connecting lines,
for one will be at either side,
like two sides of a coin.
In symbiotic certainty they rise,
to grace the play,
of life's eternal rhythms;
as night becomes the day.