Thursday, January 31, 2013

The days so drab

The days so drab did pulsate,
as tendrils of the past,
drew creepingly beside me;
held my heart so fast.
And in the watered moments,
when threads of hope were lost,
I gathered up the detritus;
wove dregs with aching dross.

Drab; adjective: Lacking brightness or interest; drearily dull; of a dull light brown color.
Pulsate; verb: Expand and contract with strong regular movements; (often as adjective pulsating) produce a regular throbbing sensation or sound or be very exciting.
Tendril; noun: A slender threadlike appendage of a climbing plant, often growing in a spiral form, that stretches out and twines around any suitable support; something resembling a plant tendril, esp. a slender curl or ringlet of hair.

Wednesday, January 30, 2013

Beauty in death

The touch is firm upon the flesh
of death; the wrap of slow embrace.
A drawing closer till the breath
in silent lifting rises still
and yearns to break through barren lips;
a final freeing from the Self
of Soul released and barely held.
And yet the moments follow on
in watchful waiting, days deep drawn,
of endless dying made as one;
a threading of the final hours.
Eternity is sown within,
the stitches silken, holding close
the memories and fading thoughts.
Life lingers on beyond the call
in reaching for the final sum,
accounting of the drifting years
and dreadful days which she has known
and which will litter long the nights,
sweet-cling to dreams created yet.
Within the garment of the soul,
a last, black brightness
holding fast inside the milk-white,
withered face;
reflecting back the dark embrace.
 And death draws closer,
girds her loins, enfolds the body,
strokes the mind, lays bare the bones
in crepe-loose skin,
disturbs the final drape of life.
The moment come, the shades are drawn,
the messenger with bright-spread wings
brings dreams of angels; whispered words
and glowing golden through the mist
draws close to give the celestial kiss.
The breath of death is scarcely felt
upon the cold, grey shrink of cheek,
yet life in final yielding stirs
and deep within is heard the call:
breath-held the moment beckons still
and then relents … surrenders all.

   Our prompt suggested finding something you regard as beautiful, yet that others might consider ugly – and from that observation write your poem.

Sunday, January 27, 2013

Australian Outback

The continent as crucible,
in raw and tattered form,
from scattered edge of ocean;
the outback vast is  born.
The mist of time does mirror,
this curved and skirted land,
where songline chimes eternal;
draws magic from life's hand.
In soil, straw and rock it breathes,
of red-dust timeless truth,
where scale of man is minimal;
and ancient gods still rule.

raw, chimes, scattered,edge, mist, mirror, tattered, skirted, straw, curved, vast, scale

Saturday, January 26, 2013

I never thought that love

I never thought that love
would bring so many tears;
that pain would be the partner
in its soft embrace.
And yet I think that
somewhere deep I knew,
and still held out a heart
which welcomed truth.
For Soul will call us on,
to any risk, and love cannot
be limited, nor chained;
for it is life's true source.
This calling to connect
has many forms, but always,
in the greatest power it must,
hold joy and grief within
its tempting frame.
As light and dark are one,
and still the same,
so love and hate are partners,
Soul will claim, and in
the flimsy balance
they will make, us deeper,
stronger, greater, better ...
than otherwise we might
have been. Polarity reveals
upon its face, the spectrum
of our destiny and grace;
as either/or do tread in
steady dance, and pull
us through the wisdom
of our hearts.

Friday, January 25, 2013

It's surprising really

It's surprising really,
how many tears
can be shed, as if,
the oceans feed
into my heart and
through my eyes,
in an endless, constant,
salted washing.
It's surprising really,
how, when we cry,
it comes of its own
volition; as if some
other force has said,
it must be done.
It's surprising really,
how we cannot make
ourselves cry, not real tears,
but only let it happen,
as if we have the power
to embrace the deluge,
but not to create.
It's surprising really,
how much strength they have;
brought to birth,
in great, breaking gasps,
and deep, surrendered
sighs and sobbings.
It's surprising really,
how suddenly they come,
and then, how suddenly
they can stop, as if
the heart drew one final,
aweful breath.
It's surprising really,
how, those drenchings of
pain and grief which,
like waves within the sea,
leave us washed and clean.
Or perhaps it is not.

A mother's heart

The heart holds on forever,
though distance intervenes,
of mind or the material;
of all that comes between.
A mother's heart is constant,
the bond in blood long-drawn,
and endless silent moments,
before the child is born.
There can be no escaping,
the ties which will endure,
beyond the rifts of time thought ;
beyond the depths of pain.
In hidden chains of love and hope,
connection is ensured,
and it will hold eternal;
though life and time demur.
Beyond the visible and known,
the two remain as one,
expressions of the miracle;
a woman's gift and curse.

Sometimes love is not enough

Sometimes love is not enough
to keep me in your life,
and yet it must be all and more,
to help me stand aside.
No matter how the heart does hold,
and years have firmed the bond,
there can be times when we are wrong,
for those we love and know.
Then stepping back is best advised,
and waiting till the time,
when once again I can return;
your life now re-defined.
The hurt is great and grieving,
but it can be a fact,
my presence does not help at all;
it causes pain - detracts.
There is no understanding,
or explanation made,
it is just life unfolding;
and it may, or may not, change.

Thursday, January 24, 2013


We talk about ourselves in ways
which could be said to brag,
and yet polite receptance,
is most that will be had.
But sometimes it is icy,
and then we surely know,
that boastfulness is rudeness;
our words in ego grown. 

Brag; verb: Say in a boastful manner; noun: A boastful statement; an act of talking boastfully; adjective: Excellent, first-rate (informal).
Icy; adjective: Covered with or consisting of ice; very cold; (of a person's tone or manner) very unfriendly; hostile.
Polite; adjective: Having or showing behavior that is respectful and considerate of other people; of or relating to people who regard themselves as more cultured and refined than others.

Wednesday, January 23, 2013

Before and After

Within the moment grasping,
time held proffered hand,
to Then in shadowed grieving;
creation brought to plan.
In cosmic co-creation,
it all revolved through mind,
before and after wedded;
their fate so clear defined.
The seed in settled earthing,
will carry in its soul,
the tree in broken barreness;
the death in life's firm hold.
Each breath is a beginning,
and yet is barely born,
before it is released;
the past to future called.
In holographic weaving,
this world is brought to form,
where all remains eternal;
where Now is all God knows.

You can write about that moment, or the whole, or concentrate more on the after. Start by listing as many befores and afters as you can think of -- yes, all life is a before and after, but put that into words.

Tuesday, January 22, 2013


 In liquid, salted offering,
we weep so many times,
without us ever knowing;
just how or even why.
Tears cannot be summoned,
they make their own sure plans,
and fall when they determine;
when we agree they can.
You cannot make yourself cry,
in any heartfelt way,
but just allow expression;
and let them fall and stay.
They ride upon the crest of heart,
and hold the reins of mind,
this oceanic grieving,
where healing hurt entwines.
It's love which is the birthing place,
where feeling throws the stone,
which ripples on the lake of pain;
and let's the truth be shown. 

It's a Bitch

There are those very moments,
when life is so unfair,
when others don't appreciate;
nor even truly care.
We want to be successful,
we want acknowledgement,
but cleverness won't make it so;
and failure does result.
In truth it's not important,
what others think of us,
but it's a bitch when we condemn
ourselves for what we are.
For everything's opinion,
and most count all for naught,
and being praised is meaningless;
what matters is our path.
The talented will be ignored,
success will find a place,
with things so very ordinary;
it's just the way it is.
So live your truth with courage,
and know that it  provides,
true meaning and great purpose;
your Soul's gift justified.

BITCH (noun)
1: the female of the dog or some other carnivorous mammals
2 a : a lewd or immoral woman
   b : a malicious, spiteful, or overbearing woman —sometimes used as a generalized term of abuse
3: something that is extremely difficult, objectionable, or unpleasant

The creep of unknown feeling

The creep of unknown feeling,
the drift of hidden fears,
the wondered thoughts appealing
still dog through unshed tears.
In morning's stark awakening,
they stand beside the bed,
and guard the hopes of yesterday;
reveal what is unsaid.
I watch with sad acceptance,
such things ephemeral,
and know they fly on other's dreams;
to shadow every step.
In truth they don't belong to me,
they have another cause,
and yet they trace across the world
because our hearts are one. 

Monday, January 21, 2013

The days demanded homage

The days demanded homage written large,
in scripted turn of phrase and worded play,
time took the moments as they gathered pace,
and told their story with synaptic grace.
The pages were unfolded one by one,
as life drew needled pen from fate's deep case,
and scrawled forgotten truths upon the years,
which drew in strangled blots upon my fears.
The letters dragged and danced upon my mind,
and flung themselves into an ordered whirl,
which others might decipher given time
and yet which Soul and Truth could barely find.
It was as if the tale had found new forms,
which rose and fell upon the wash of lines,
and led each word into a settled place,
and brought to birth the Self, at last displayed.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Life et Mort

Car c'est seulement dans
les dernières heures
La vie peut être portée à la naissance,
Et c'est seulement dans la mise en avant
La mort peut révéler sa source.

For only in the dying hours
Can life be brought to birth,
And only in the bringing forth
Can death reveal her source.

NB: My French is very basic and does not get used much these days.

Beware the art of love

Will bone beware the art of love,
in filaments of charge, which call
in sticky pearls of dream;
as air knocks light as art?
When skin and heart are tantalised,
the body gathers mind,
and  crawls into the lover's cell;
where life is re-defined.

bone, art, pearls, sticky, filaments, call, air, skin, linen, beware, charge, cell, knocks

Saturday, January 19, 2013


The heart holds hidden danger,
which dogs our every step,
and draws us into suffering
because we're made to care.
The warning signs are many,
they line the paths of love,
and threaten us with misery,
proclaim the hidden costs.
And yet there is no other way,
that we can truly be,
if we are to find Soul's delight,
than risk our destiny.

Present danger.  Past danger.  Imagined danger.
 Think about an experience you had that was dangerous.  Think about a time when you sensed danger.  Or when you imagined danger!

Life is a flower

Petalled, thrown beginnings
as life is drawn to bloom,
and open to the call of Soul;
the flower of hidden truth.
Then soon will be the moment,
that liquid sweetness falls,
as love is slow created;
as joy is gently born. 
From bud of cosmic birthing,
all consciousness is set,
for flowering so bountiful
that honey drapes our lips.

Life is a flower of which love is the honey

Poverty's child

In corrugated, crippled world I wait,
until the dream has broken into life,
where scattered dust of hopes reveal,
that holding fast will root in deepest need.
In places, bent and wired and woven loose,
there is a call to wish upon the night,
that something more will settle on the earth;
that I may ride my way to greater birth.

R.Ross 19/1/2013

Dream girl

Photo: Bruno C. Art Photos.

In corrugated, crippled world I wait,
until the dream has broken into life,
where scattered dust of hopes reveal,
that holding fast will root in deepest need.

And now, on to our Trifextra.  We want you to choose one of the pictures below and give us a 33-word response to it.

The place of pain

Life in very being
is born in full desire,
wanting things is natural,
it is the way we're made.
But misery will make its mark
when we turn to demand,
and dictate what must be;
reject the greater plan.
It is within this needing,
that doors will open wide,
and take us to the place of pain;
our suffering ensured.
When we live with acceptance,
embrace what comes to us,
we settle into peace of mind;
and welcome joy's deep grace.

Friday, January 18, 2013

Mothers and sons/fathers and daughters

There is an inner urge
which links a parent
to the child, no matter
all the years or time;
connection will still hold.
Until the time when they
have found, someone
who loves them true,
and then they are released;
no need to still endure.
For mothers it is with
their sons, the bond is
strongest yet and fathers
hold to daughters,
until someone connects.
It is as if the male/female
is twinned by cosmic truth,
and daughters hold
their father's hearts;
as son's their mother's too.
Beyond the pure material,
we live with metaphor,
with archetypes and with symbols,
which make us who we are.
So many myths have detailed,
it all, so many times,
that we should surely recognise,
it cannot be denied.

R.Ross. 2013


Something holds me locked in pain,
this prison of my making
which strangles all I hope to be
and cruel defines my fate.
What blow will break the bonds
which hold me in this way,
or must I simply smile and fold
my anger to my breast to know
that bonds are made by me
and fall at my request.

To rhyme or not to rhyme, that is the question

Call me a Luddite but to me poetry has always been form and rhyme - real poetry. I can appreciate what is called 'free-verse' but to my mind it is simply creative prose.

Poetry by its very nature is song-like and the earliest bards not only spoke their poetry they sang it. The era of free-verse has been interesting as an exercise but I don't happen to believe it has added anything at all to the rich trove of poetic expression. The greatest poetry we have ever known has form and some rhyming capacity and therein lies the template.

Because poetry, like music, has a rhythm, a metre, a 'beat' there will be, as with music, always a basic and traditional form and the future may bring variations on the theme but nothing substantially different. There is a structure and order to mathematics and music, and the two are closely linked, and I believe poetry is the same.

There is a reason why in ancient times poets or bards were not simply honoured, but revered. They were seen as links to a sacred expression at work in the material world. Beyond everything else I still believe that is the true foundation of the poetic template.

Thursday, January 17, 2013

Just waffle

It was a dismal moment, 
when you refused to say,
if you would make a life
with me; just waffle, it's
your way. And yet the 
offering remained, 
in luscious tease of time,
and I could only wait
and watch, until you 
made up your mind.

Dismal; adjective: Depressing, dreary; (of a person or a mood) gloomy; (informal) pitifully or disgracefully bad.
Luscious; adjective: (Of food or wine) having a pleasingly rich, sweet taste; richly verdant or opulent; (of a woman) very sexually attractive.
Waffle; verb: Fail to make up one’s mind; speak, write, especially at great length, without saying anything important or useful; noun: A failure to make up one’s mind.


Slivered soak of weeping flesh,
is sculpted deep and true,
to show the face of suffering
which I will wear for you.
The cross of life's confessional,
is carved upon my soul,
and written deep in gentled arms;
nailed firm to history's wall.
Raised high upon ancestral trees,
sunk deep in bitter earth,
my pain is layered dreamily;
revealed as Shadow's curse.
The crucifixion is complete,
my destiny assured,
as cloven hoof and budded horns,
bear witness to your cause.

N.B. I first encountered this as a child when my mother disappeared into the nether world. For anyone who has personal experience of this I am not saying that others are to 'blame' but merely that those who resort to self-harm are in some ways a 'scapegoat', albeit unconsciously or subconsciously, and they 'carry' the suffering for others. Seeing it symbolically in this way helped me to process my experience with my mother. And on the basis that we are all 'connected' - what one is, we all are; what we do to ourselves we do to others and what we do for ourselves, because everything we do meets some need, we do for others.

Here's the key.  How often do we happen upon someone we care about when they aren't aware of our presence?  Write your poem of such a moment to both describe the physical elements and your own emotional experience of that scene.


Beauty butterflied my mind,
stroked soft across my smile
came light to rest with endless
grace, wings folded round my soul.

A moment sitting silent,
brushed gently by life's breath
and then she soared to sunlight's song
and left my self bereft.

Roslyn Ross. 1990.

Wednesday, January 16, 2013


From turn of trunk
to tabled form,
the tree has taken
shape, and now resides
in shining arms
to hold with ready
grace. This bowl
has been in rooted
earth, and born
through steady hands,
as time and patience
bring to birth, a new
form; life returned.

Wander through your house, or office. Look around you. You are looking for an ordinary object from your everyday life, inside or out, something you are fond of, love, feel passionate about, or get a kick from, despite its everyday-ness.

Life ties itself

Life ties itself with trembling thread
 to very self and soul and packages
the world we see, delivers it on hold.
Held tight in close possession
each package trimmed and bowed,
holds worlds of stark procession
that only one can know.
And when fate nods its awesome head
shakes languid locks and calls,
each one to follow close behind,
such packaged worlds must fall.
They sit as sorry evidence,
some trimmed and tightly bowed,
but others open, disarrayed;
their useless selves to show.


Love is but connection,
a drawing, holding close
an energy in heart and mind;
the glue, the truth, the hope.
And sometimes it can loosen,
the sinews not so strong,
as time and distance dictate,
that certainty is gone.
But still there is this yearning,
for bonds which will be true,
connecting through eternity;
for love which will  endure.

Tuesday, January 15, 2013


It was no idle comment
so many made to me,
that I did not contribute;
my presence did not pay.
And yet they did not understand,
the role I sought to play,
of being in this world of ours;
not doing every day.
It meant I needed their support,
it made me vulnerable,
and yet my laziness did bring,
their strengths to sure unfold.
So much was shifted, less and more
to work within my world,
that they became more than they might,
if I had met their goals.
There was a clear perception,
that I had failed and yet,
the gifts which being idle brought;
were full distributed.
1: lacking worth or basis : vain <idle chatter> <idle pleasure>
2: not occupied or employed: as
    a : having no employment : inactive <idle workers>
    b : not turned to normal or appropriate use <idle farmland>
    c : not scheduled to compete <the team will be idle tomorrow>
3: a : shiftless, lazy

Monday, January 14, 2013


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.

this week's prompt, naked.