The flower

The flower blossoms
too long a bud,
tied tight with leaves
of doubt.

The petals peer,
in timid touch,
the edge of world,
without.

The sigh of life
is stronger now,
to prise imprisoning
shell.

The petals stretch,
unfold themselves;
a crumpled beauty
still.

The flower formed,
arms open wide,
can only raise her
face.

Salutes the sun,
drinks wild the wind,
to savour life's strange
taste.

86

Love and hate

The bed was made and by the side
stood Love's companion Hate;
holding hands through passion's shroud,
Life's true supplicate.

It's when the heart is fully drawn,
in soulful, sundered shape,
that these two take their places;
observe, as we create.

It is in stark polarity they stand,
to balance out a middle ground for grace,
and hold their equal truths as absolutes;
that we may draw ourselves in deepest trace.

They are but different faces of the same,
pure pulled and deep emotions that we feel,
when linked and drawn together, made as one;
the truth of being human; being healed.

It's love which fuels the fire of grief and rage,
and tender passion holds the hem of hate,
reminding us that caring has a price;
and we have chosen what we call our fate.

I sought myself

My Self had wandered, cast adrift
on ocean's liquid time;
my ego sea-sick with the search,
such flimsy craft I sailed.

And then, my Self, stark silhouette
in vision's burning gaze,
for one brief moment, till I slipped
horizon's edge and day.

The winds that blew each brooding sail,
caressed each salt-licked vow,
and spoke shrill words of hope and fear
to drive me on to Now.

But Now was just a moment,
in epic journey's day,
my Self had soon set sail again -
Pray God she knows the way.

86

Seasons

The sky is blue, sweet summer's shred,
light-tied to Autumn's tail,
the sun is shining, smiling bright,
to warm the wind-chilled day.

And as both speak their message drapes,
cross cloud and curious breeze;
a banner brave and radiant still,
though clasping Winter's knees.

Shell of Day

Shell of day sings hollow now,
bright guest slipped away,
but time blows softly at the edge-
makes its mournful call.

Listening now ear-cocked and keen,
for sea-kissed sounds instead,
the whispering stopped -
no answer there, just echoes, hollow calls.

And day is dropped at water's edge-
eternal tide's new toy.

86

Spring

Spring-sownseeds in silent shower,
skip past rolling day,
touching wings as new-born dreams
carry them away.

Drawing breath and flinging free,
they climb to future's tail
and ride the currents carelessley,
from tree to fertile grave.

84

The dinner

God asked us all to dinner.
We found the table spread
with all the bounty life can bring;
a vow all would be fed.

But as we sat and ate awhile,
I saw a curious thing,
the plates that lay before us all,
were not so even filled.

As people turned from side to side,
to check their neighbour's serve,
the eating slowed, and soon was stopped;
each face grew fearful stern.

And then some laughed, began to eat,
devoured at furious pace,
while others put some food aside
to eat another day.

And some could not enjoy at all,
the food which lay before,
so carefully they watched the crowd;
no time for eating now.

And one man sat so far away,
I scarcely caught his eye;
his plate was meagre, holding just
the bare necessity.

His face was calm, his eye relaxed,
for he had nought to steal;
he savoured slow and steadily
and soon had ate his fill.

And then he rose and bowing slow,
bid farewell to the crowd, then
turned and slowly walked away -
I sat and watched him go.

And while I sat it seemed to me
that too much time was spent
as dinner guests, when courtesy
should tell the hour is spent.


84

My mother's Fears

Neat-folded fears in ordered row,
you hid with care and well,
with just a tear to streak the dust
of this your private hell.

Tight-packed they sat within the case,
that you had carried close;
an ink-stained piece of childhood,
that once had held your hopes.

But time had rusted worn the locks,
the case of pain was spilled;
cruel memory built your prison,
the hell you feared fulfilled.

Now you huddle in the corner,
the demons crawling close,
along the tortured passage in your mind,
with the door closed soft behind you -

the handle strangely lost -
no way the you that was can ever find.

84

Wisdom

Gentle touch on quivering strings,
strokes a soft reply -
calls the chords, new-washed and hung
on a different line.
Such notes were written long ago,
but breathed another tune,
a wiser hand now touches them-
sweet harmony is born.

Love and mortality

Love offers me eternity,
but in its wake mortality
keeps measured pace.
That steady tread
which shadows close
and nibbles at the heel
of love's light step,
reminds me now
of all I have to lose.
And yet the gift,
that Love holds out
will through the ages be,
one step ahead
and leading strong,
it's ghost - lethality.

87

The Dawn

The dawn crept close
and breasted sill
to spy on me awhile,
then gave a stretch
of freshened wings to
dress me with her smile.

The grey mist combed
each glistening thread,
soft frame for fresh-woke
face, reflected dawn,
then danced awry
upon my eyes instead.

The dawn crept past
and slipped from view,
soft fingers trailing still,
in slow farewell, with last
light touch, she blessed
what day would bring.

87

We walk in sleep

We walk in sleep and talk in dreams,
of things which are not what they seem.
Somnambulistic strides and then
repeat ourselves and drift again.
But sometimes through the creatured world
that occupies our time, and holds
us 'prisoned in vacuity, we hear a voice
which pierces clear, through nightmared life
and endless fear to waken us; veracity.
Yet in the night of endless days,
so many turn and settle still,
convinced the voice that pierced their dream,
could not have been completely real.

87

Soul

My soul is weary, are the words
which huddle at the edge,
of reason and of caring;
in love's most brutal pledge.
Transformative the season
which brings such raddled birth,
as soul and psyche straddle
the burned and wasted earth.
It is not something chosen,
and nor can it be stopped;
traversed the only option,
until the pain is crossed.
It is the darkness of the day,
the brightness of the night,
which swallows peace of mind;
demands the heart does hide.
And yet the soul is stronger,
when miles of grief are walked,
with heart and mind connected,
and meaning slowly sought.
No-one will ever understand
the depths of grief we feel,
but Soul as our companion,
will comfort, hold and heal.

Stories

We weave our stories constantly
to understand our world,
to spin an explanation
for all we don't control.
To find some deeper meaning,
to make our reasons sure,
we tell ourselves a story
which justifies our course.
It's part of human nature,
and valuable at times,
unless it is all fantasy;
with no recourse to life.

Advice

The maxims sound as mantras,
in robes of seeming truth,
the spiritual advice resounds;
step back from what's not good.
If someone causes suffering,
if someone causes pain,
if it makes you unhappy,
retreat and separate.
But can we really do this?
Does wisdom drive this act?
Or has our path been written?
There is no turning back.
When people are important,
when bonds are old and strong,
can we reject to suit ourselves,
escape from soul's demands?
Sometimes it's just not possible,
to leave such pain behind,
to walk away from those we love;
to close our heart and mind.
It is in times of grief and hurt,
that Love asks to be called,
to weave protective robes around;
to hold us to the cause.

Intuition

The gift of intuition
 is often full denied,
by mind and the material,
 by what we do decide.
And yet it is the heart
which speaks in feelings
and in sense; revealing truths
that we deny;
the soul's wise competence.
There's much which is not
rational, which cannot be
explained, and yet this
knowing is the source
of wisdom sure regained.
The words unspoken
hold a power, a gift
presentiment, which draw
us into common sense;
guide us in the present.
It takes enormous courage,
to trust these inner words,
of whispered faint imaginings-
against mind's shouted curse.
But once we take the leap,
we find that heart is fully bound,
to leading us to greater truths;
to firm and surer ground.

Shadows

Sometimes the shadows overcome
the bright, clear lines of life,
and dim the prospects dreadfully;
darken days and nights.
They drift within my consciousness,
throw echoes round my mind,
and suffocate the lungs of hope
where sanity resides.
In spectred dank imaginings,
they trawl the realms of doubt,
and hold in horror's clustering
the hopelessness of now.
With clammy, cold revealings,
they mock with edge distraught,
and drape the bitter stage of time
in curtained, ragged thought.
Confusion reigns in shadowed realms,
and holds the key to doors,
which hang in splitting, angry frames;
decay devours the source.
These demons drawn ephemeral,
dark phantom shades of fear,
will hover at the crossing;
as reason calls, 'beware.'