Friday, August 31, 2012

Blue moon

The moon is full and robed in blue,
as angels spread their wings,
and scatter stardust on the world;
give hope for better things.
In oceanic blossoming,
the lunar skirts are spread,
to shroud our fears with hope;
to free us of our dread.
The Goddess smiles in secret,
cerulean and bright,
to share her inner mysteries;
sow seeds in fields of night.

Thursday, August 30, 2012


You have to give it to them,
the hands are tools sublime,
both givers and receivers;
a gift of grace divine.
They hold and heal and help,
they take and give and soothe,
and offer up in friendship,
to make a bargain true.
In proof, or prayer or pleading,
in love, in hate, in song,
they are the means of being;
of acting in this world.

Who sorts the thoughts

Who sorts the thoughts
within my mind,
decides what I will see,
or hear, or know, or speak
or feel; the truth of being me?
There is an I who oversees,
observes and is aware,
and yet so much is given,
revealed by other hands;
as consciousness delivered,
sourced in hidden plans.
Who sorts the thoughts
within my mind,
decides what I will see,
or hear, or know, or speak
or feel; the truth of being me?

Wednesday, August 29, 2012

On dinosaurs

The way of information,
has made its way no less,
from very large to very small;
remarkable success.
Computers were enormous,
full filling up a room,
a dinosaur of science;
condemned to final doom.
And yet within the dying,
new forms were brought to birth,
as time reduced the size of them;
maintained intrinsic worth.

1: any of a group (Dinosauria) of extinct often very large chiefly terrestrial carnivorous or herbivorous reptiles of the Mesozoic era
2: any of various large extinct reptiles (as ichthyosaurs) other than the true dinosaurs
3: one that is impractically large, out-of-date, or obsolete

Monday, August 27, 2012

A touch insidious

It was a touch
the way the die
was cast,
that tinny fix
upon my heart;
infatuated waves.
Hope held my limbs
in gentle drifts;
a nip of tinted time,
where vivid love
did tick with heart;
soul's preludes split
through mind.

insidious, tinny, fix, waves, limbs, tick, nip, vivid, gentle, drifts, tinted, split, preludes

Dusk rose slow

Dusk rose slow to hide the light,
and empty day of grace,
as  night did trace in link of chain,
the dark, forgiven fence.
The recipe of time is held,
in ancient, whittled hands,
repeated through eternity;
God's constant will demands.
And such are life's essentials,
as each day births anew;
the operator honoured -
unseen, unheard, but true.
dusk, link, trace, empty, essentials, rose, pencils, fence, chain, recipe, forgiven, operator

Friday, August 24, 2012

I dipped the toe of time

I dipped the toe of time in pain,
and felt the chilling creep,
of long forgotten woundedness;
of hurts which still could shriek.
I held it in the depths of thought,
saw rippled fears and doubts,
come rising from the softened flesh;
revealing who I was.
Beneath the glassy face of grief,
the skin shone bright and dark,
and lingered in the pool of tears,
until I drew it out.


There is in truth no colour
which we can hold or touch,
no firm and fixed reality;
just energy at work.
The shades we see around us,
are but the work of mind,
and live as mere vibration,
for now and all of time.
Waves which weave their magic,
of reds and greens and blues,
are just the shining brilliance,
of multi-cosmic hues.

Mayan gourd

In serpent slide remembering,
the face of death is held,
to offer up a dream of life,
in ancient, sacred spells.
In circled chalice calling,
they carved the story bright,
that time might hold and cherish,
the knowledge of that time.

Thursday, August 23, 2012

The cup

Take the cup as offered,
shake its sacred soul,
hold the drift of memories,
drink what does unfold,
and in the doing linger,
through liquid, languid thoughts,
of leafy, bright camellia;
the goddess blooming bright.

Tuesday, August 21, 2012

Change of heart

I waited for your change of heart,
when ice began to melt,
and in the cold, dark corridors
hope held its chilling breath.
It needed just one touch of flame,
one fire to burn within,
to thaw the frozen face of love;
to warm your heart again.
I wrapped frail arms around my grief,
and prayed for sustenance,
until the inner hearth grew bright;
and smiled on soul's new dance.
But in your chest I heard no song,
felt nothing but your hate,
and sensed the freezing cliff was deep,
and high : inconsolate.

Your prompt this week is the third definition of:

HEART (noun)

1: a hollow muscular organ of vertebrate animals that by its rhythmic contraction acts as a force pump maintaining the circulation of the blood
2: a playing card marked with a stylized figure of a red heart
3: personality, disposition <a cold heart>

Halls of night

I walked the halls of darkest night,
to find within the realms of light,
which permeate with mysteries bright,
those dreams held loose, and then so tight,
wherein my many selves did fight,
to claim the victories of sight,
which led them on to what was right,
and broke new ground for soul's delight.

The whale dived high

In sundered, soul surrendering
the whale dived high and rose
upon the breast of ocean;
into the waiting sighs.
The birds then wheeled in glory,
to honour ancient gods,
and in the space of sea and sky,
mere mortals found their place.

Merge- Weekly photo challenge.

Thursday, August 16, 2012

Humbled bark

In humbled bark surrendering,

the tree bent knee to time,
and raised in dappled grace,
it's arms toward the light.
Days had danced on tender branch,
wrought with gentle force,
a moulding which  was eloquent;
in which life could rejoice.

When Is A Tree More Than A Tree Wonder Wednesday Wants To Know?

Wednesday, August 15, 2012

The modern eye

The modern eye is found within,
the I as it lives now;
a way of seeing we have learned,
from all that went before.

The path

There is a point and path to life,
but it remains well hid,
and all that can be offered,
is live it as you will.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

Home as heart

There is the world material,
 where bricks and mortar
make, a house which can
become a home; a place
where we can rest. 
There is the world ethereal,
where thoughts will form 
the shape, and love cements
it all in time;
divines our Soul's true place.
And then there is the spiritual,
where both are set in stone,
and mind and body, heart
and soul do truly
find their home. 

Trifecta, this week's challenge. a : a familiar or usual setting : congenial environment; also :the focus of one's domestic attention <home is where the heart is>


My favourite things

Waking by the side
of my best friend
and soul mate; drinking
freshly brewed tea with
buttered toast and home-made
marmalade; reading mail
from those I love; listening
to music; reading a book;
baking a cake; pondering,
knitting and embroidery;
the tang of oils on fresh
canvas; the sliding kiss
of the brush; the drift
and stroke of music, classical,
soulful, profound; the call
of birds, in echoed song,
outside my window; the
whisper of sunshine
on bare skin; the slip
of smooth, good wine;
the petalled breath
of blossomed flowers;
the moment of knowing,
that, no matter what,
all is as it should be.

Carry on Tuesday prompt - These are a few of my favourite things.

Life offers us

Life offers us a gentle hand,
to guide, to drag, to pull
along the path we've chosen;
which leads to who we are.
We've written our own story,
planned which parts to play,
chosen our companions,
to help us make our way.
We think that it's all random,
pure chance, without a plan,
and yet each moment given,
is how it's meant to stand.
The only difference being,
we have free will to make,
of everything that comes to us,
a suffering or a grace.

Dying days

With Autumn's flush on faded face,
life's edges curled and turned,
to dry the bloodied tears of time;
a wrinkled grace reborn. 

Monday, August 13, 2012

Your hands

Your Hands…

Your hands found me
curvaceous, time flooded
past in waves, to ricochet
invisible, then dwindle as we lay
in memory’s narrow alcoves
which warp the lace displayed,
as loving turned to anger,
and grief drew down its shade,
reworked the spin of time;
destroyed the maps we made.

curvaceous flooded past invisible lace dwindle spin narrow alcoves maps ricochet warp – Wordle 69.

The song of cloud

The song of cloud forgotten,
those words of drift and whirl,
as mind no longer cares to hear,
the stories that they tell.
In vapoured, dancing dreams,
are held life's fragile notes,
in sky-born fantasies,
which only heart's divulge.
They draw us on ephemeral,
to tease and tantalise,
as if the heavens heard our cry,
and wrote the truth denied.

What does this piece of sky tell?
Light Words Prompt.

Sunday, August 12, 2012


The yarn in stitched returning,
Is pulled from waiting ball,
To hang upon a needled life;
Makes of it what it will.
From long and patient waiting,
The form is knitted sure,
Through timeless turn and placing;
To see itself reborn.


Through small remembered rooms
I searched, for what the child
called home, in distant days
and darkened nights;
lost houses where we lived.
As strange became familiar,
as cool walls warmed and stretched,
to hold the grimy handprints,
of children as they slept.
Beyond the grasp of solid wall,
the garden groped and fell,
into a jungled bursting;
where dreams could live instead.
Was home the narrow, sagging bed,
the couches worn and tired,
the table, green and laminex;
the wardrobe where I hid?
Or was it furrowed brows,
slow drifting smiles and shouts,
of adults with no time to spare;
of worries deep and loud?
Perhaps there was no house to hold,
nowhere which held its place,
and yet the home stood deep within;
as solid, gifted grace.
Through small remembered rooms
I searched, for what the child
called home, in distant days
and darkened nights;
lost houses where we lived.

Poetic Blooming prompt - memories of childhood and home.


The greatest gift is life,
brought forth
in unique form, as who
and what we are;
true value here is born.

Saturday, August 11, 2012

Naked Lady

 Amaryllis Belladonna - native to South Africa, a weed in Australia and poisonous to goats.

In siren call she trumpets,
of silk-fleshed pure delight,
to sing the song seductive;
draw down the shades of night.
In beauty beckoned brightness,
and drape of petalled thighs,
her mystery entices;
devouring with her sighs.
In pantheistic weaving,
and kiss of pink, fresh lip,
she offers up a dream of death;
surrenders all that is.

Doing the dishes

Porcelain plate
in shivered dress,
adorned with
bubbled soap;
a glimmered, glassed,
fresh offering-
baptised in cleansing
depths, of warm and
sudden drowning;
the past now
put to rest.

No thoughts of me

No thoughts of me

The words will come
if I don’t look; reveal
to you my heart, and
drape, blood-red, my
inner-truth, like wine
within a glass. I’ve
sipped upon this life
we’ve made, and found
it sour and small, and yet
you wait, to drink
the rest; no thoughts
of me, at all.

Photo prompt from Magpie Tales

Friday, August 10, 2012

Call to Ego

It's Soul who opens crimson skirts,
and calls to Ego: Come!
let spirit enter at the gate,
the union thus begun,
which brings to birth our destiny;
reveals the Child within.


Integrity is sourced in heart,
and makes a bow to mind,
but stands beside us silently,
and waits for Soul's small sign,
that Ego has agreed to hold,
her hand for one more time.

Disempowering mind

If energy does follow thought
then when we seek to heal,
does disempowering mind,
create a fertile field.

Thursday, August 9, 2012

Making plans

We get so busy making plans,
while life is happening,
in its own way, at its own pace,
in ways we cannot see.
We may decide to classify,
what comes as good or bad,
but in all truth, there's no such thing,
it's just the way it is.
So drop the tags of judgement,
which separate it all,
and know that life rejoices;
and asks we heed the call.

Landing on mars

The imprint can be literal,
or made as metaphor,
to stand upon the surface,
of something quite unknown.
In shadowed slow becoming,
we seek to make our mark,
and claim the worlds
beyond our own; demand
that they be ours.
And yet there is no surety,
that images are sound,
that what they do convey,
is what was really found.

We Write Poems prompt:  Write a poem, howsoever you feel inspired, by this image of that far far landing on Mars.

Wednesday, August 8, 2012

Vacant memory

Strange streets
sang slowly,
in songs redolent
with mystery,
drawing seductively
upon my open page;
empty, waiting,
ready to receive,
and yet tremulous,
not knowing
what would
be written,
or if the images
would need words
to hold them
in their place.

In response to Margo Roby Tuesday Vacation Tryout.
My challenge to you is to write a what I did during my summer vacation poem without anyone being able to tell that is your topic.


Pondering the Olympics this morning and thinking:

The goal is always to succeed,
to win as it's defined,
and yet the guts of life and truth,
comes on the losing side.
The Romans had a slave behind
as they rode basked in triumph,
to whisper stark realities;
how brief is victory's smile.
There is no doubt that winning,
is something to acclaim,
but also to remember,
that losing stands and waits.

Tuesday, August 7, 2012

On kindness

Kindness is no measured thing,
cut like lengths of cloth,
and handed out selectively,
as if there's not enough.

Monday, August 6, 2012

Life is a gift

Life is a gift,
to be unwrapped,
slowly; asking
nothing of us,
but that we savour
all that it is.

Sunday, August 5, 2012

Wordle Work

The maggots stirred in marrow
store, to wake through rotting
flesh, and link the hands
of life and death upon
the pitch of life.
To navigate the ship of time,
to sand on Soul's port deck,
and hold the rail of conscience,
or sink on stern's regret,
before we do drop anchor,
and ring the bell of death.

SW 68
marrow, link, store, anchor, wake, navigate, stern, deck, pitch, sink, rail, port


Remembering that there are times,
when we are called to wait,
as those we love are suffering,
and nothing can be changed.
It's only love, as thought or prayer,
or touch, or gift or word,
which reaches out across the world,
when nothing can be done.
We learn that sometimes being,
is all that we can be,
because there is no doing,
for them, for you, for me.

Saturday, August 4, 2012


Familiarity makes us feel
that we have found safe place,
that there is some true certainty,
that things will never change.
But everything in life is change,
it is the way of things,
and certainty illusion;
ephemeral as dreams.
Life takes us into moments,
and sometimes days and years,
where we can share with others;
our laughter, hopes and fears.
And yet it is just passings,
on life's eternal path,
a series of connections,
which cannot ever last.
But each and every moment,
we hold in mind and heart,
as Soul's enduring truth;
as something which does last.

Friday, August 3, 2012


We are all one, connected,
and yet we are unique,
and treasuring diversity,
is part of being free.

Thursday, August 2, 2012

Being hurt

The only way we can be hurt
is when we give permission,
for words are what we make of them;
and are no cause for pain.
When someone speaks it is a fact,
that anything we feel,
is only what we tell ourselves,
the words they use do mean.
If someone knows us well and true,
the words may hurt and yet,
still carry truths we need to hear,
but would seek to reject.
And when a stranger uses words,
which punish or cause pain,
we still must look within to see,
if any truth is raised.
But if there is no substance,
in what is offered forth,
then hold the words in honour,
as their pain brought to birth.
There is no place of safety,
which we can ever reach,
and also none of danger;
so nothing to be feared.
When we are brought together,
the angels whisper close,
that nothing can be personal;
the lesson is to learn.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Vines in winter

Photo: Vineyard, Adelaide Hills, South Australia.

In shouldered rows of frosted bark,
the vines raise shivered arms,
toward the wintered sky of grey;
in thirsting for the warmth.
In tangled reach of bare-born branch,
they hold to dreams of Spring,
and sing their silent songs of life,
to buddings deep within.

Written for Margo’s Wordgatherings: Tuesday Try an Image Out

Whirl of thought

Within the whirl of thought and mind,
we call ourselves to be,
through all the stories that we tell;
through what we do believe.
For every story, thought, belief,
there is another way,
to look upon what is at work;
to change what we become.