Wednesday, July 31, 2013


Shrill sound song in stretch of throat,
feathered breast of bird released,
in softened tufts tumultuous notes,
dance through blossom's opulent crease.

Galleries of serried, branching trees,
where sit the singers of the morning choir,
cacophonic call on dawn's desired breeze;
each breath symphonic, just as soul desires.

In sumptuous supplemented source is found,
the glorious grace of life so vocalised,
in depths unknowing, raised from earthly ground;
a rampant rolled, rejoicing unto life.

In bright-beaked,  birthed becoming it is done,
with feathered fluff as shake of waiting wing,
and heads held high as harmony is flung;
eternal purpose  served as each one sings.

Tuesday, July 30, 2013

Small moments

Life is lived in the small moments,
and through those you love the most,
in the minutiae which collects, assembles,
through seconds barely known, minutes
half-remembered, days disappeared, months
of mottled meandering and years which draw
down into decades - from the very birthing
and through, until the breathless beginning
of the end, which holds it all compressed,
honoured; eternally, irrevocably real.


It lies unseen, unrecognised
this band which draws us in,
where mind becomes committed
to what the rest believes.
Belief will come conditioned,
be formed by what we hear,
and we lose independence;
no thought, we just repeat.
We think we make our minds up,
we tell ourselves it's so,
but often our opinions;
are just something bestowed.
We huddle even closer then,
the group has drawn us tight,
welcoming, receptive;
autonomy's dark night.

Monday, July 29, 2013


Multifarious imaginings have come to call,
standing in battalion dress as sanity derides,
messages which come from realms unknown;
synchronicities and symbols do abide.

Parading past the costumes, theatre's dress,
deciding who will stay and who must leave,
logic pounds the pavement of the mind;
as intuition laughs and Soul does grieve.

Marching to the hum of hidden drums,
falling into lines which are not drawn,
calling to the angels in their leagues;
watching reason huddle, lost, forlorn.

Shabby dress of logic, frayed and worn,
tattered from the wars and battles fought,
holding on to banners of defeat;
flags of hope still droop; the Self distraught.


Sunday, July 28, 2013


The scythe simplicity does cull
Complexity at root,
Cuts with sharpened focus,
Illusion’s bounteous fruits.


The sea in soulful slide and suck
does wash upon earth's carved and cradled breast,
in liquid sighs so somnolent and  patterned,
caressing kiss in salty slough surrendered;
that all may drink the draughts of offered life,
to see creation brought to birth and scattered.

In sylphic slow remembering each wave,
does crest upon the moment unto waiting death,
and hold its breath upon the edge of hollow, dusted air,
as gristled soil and rock do shake into new forms;
with water in an endless push and breathless pull,
does drive with hidden purpose; gifts to share.

Such oceanic surging writhes and rolls,
fluidic flow which seeks and soothes and heals,
a planetary sap in aqueous stealth of rivered, driven being,
wherein the source of life is held and given;
elixir in elusive flux fulfilled and held,
until it breaks upon the sand in drench of tears.

Saturday, July 27, 2013


Refracted light reveals itself,
bright and brilliant dance,
upon the mirrored eye and mind;
molecular as chance.

Creation's song and signature,
colour in all forms,
magic touch of sacred brush;
beauty is true-born.

Once again, I had to go on - there is a longer version which is not eligible but I include it here:

Refracted light reveals itself,
in bright and brilliant dance,
upon the mirrored eye and mind;
molecular as chance.

Through vivid, deep imaginings,
in shrill and purpled call,
drowning waves of shimmered blue;
huddled greens do fall.

Scarlet screaming, raging reds,
yellowed wash revealed,
orange laughing at the edge;
pink in pouting seal.

Browns in sullen, surried roll,
grey in distant rise,
white complete and purely born;
black, where all's denied.

Creation's song and signature,
is colour in all forms,
the magic touch of sacred brush;
where beauty is true-born.

Dance of many colours

Refracted light reveals itself,
in bright and brilliant dance,
upon the mirrored eye and mind;
molecular as chance.

Through vivid, deep imaginings,
in shrill and purpled call,
drowning waves of shimmered blue;
huddled greens do fall.

Scarlet screaming, raging reds,
yellowed wash revealed,
orange laughing at the edge;
pink in pouting seal.

Browns in sullen, surried roll,
grey in distant rise,
white complete and purely born;
black, where all's denied.

Creation's song and signature,
is colour in all forms,
the magic touch of sacred brush;
where beauty is true-born.

Blessings counted

Mind in maudlin misery did call,
for memory to hold the hand of hope,
remembering that life still has its joys;
counting of the blessings stroke by stroke.

Magpies in mellifluous morning  call,
deliquescent song of honeyed streaming light,
trickles through quick-fingered dancing dawn;
dressing sullen day, sensation bright.

Perfume pull of blossoms slowly blushing,
cascade of captured colour in bright fall,
creation caught upon the hem of morning;
iridescent beauty to behold.

Crumpled cries of sun in shadowed calling,
waltzing through the cool enveloped shade,
laughs in silence as the day breaks open;
gifts beyond imagining displayed. 

Friday, July 26, 2013

Nature does not lie

Nature does not lie or pervert
the truth, said Paracelsus.
But when men made God
in their image, it was easy,
to use words, to distort
the truth of Nature and,
of this world, and everything
in it. Creeping through musty
corridors of theology and
power, writing with cramped
hands and crimped quills,
on dry, unforgiving parch
ment, they fabricated.

As they felt, denied the material
world, its truth; the universe
of Mater, Mother, which
brought forth and gave birth,
to all they were, and was the
source of Spirit, until in time,
veracity had been disguised,
and ego held court in the
minds of mere men, where
that which was not understood,
could be dismissed, as being
of no consequence, and only
that which could be labelled,
rational, empirical, cerebral,
would be accepted and respected.

But Nature does not lie or pervert
the truth, and it is in the nature
of that world which gives birth,
to us and all that is; which
supports and nourishes and
contains creation in all of its
manifestations, that if we hold
an ear to the ground, like Paracelsus,
the whisper will gain strength,
and once again, Sophia will smooth,
her  creased and dusty dress,
and speak all that, which we
so desperately need to hear.


In gratitude we open arms to life,
embracing in the moment what may come,
that first awakened creep of smiling, softened dawn,
the stretch of limbs releasing  into grace,
awareness as we're drawn into new mind and vision;
a step on solid ground which sends us forth.

Droop of fading flower in beauteous death,
abandoned in surrendered, pink, pure petalled limbs,
velvet sighs in fall upon dark polished, unforgiving wood;
a faint perfume of soul seduced by night;
as watered morning showers in crystal drops, begins
the cleansing drench of dreams not understood.

Dance of dress in waltz to welcome day,
as costume calls persona to present once more,
and sole is shod in that which will protect, preserve,
smooth of tangled soul and hair  arrayed;
as nature's choir in syrup song beats wings reborn,
and small, delighted birds once more are heard.

Sip of sugared tea and crisp of toast,
as golden marmalade  does swim in shining sea,
redolent of aromatic citrus and the burn of summer sun,
light in layered rays on freshened breath of skin;
the smoke and sultry presence of brewed leaves,
as memory and moment rejoice, in what's begun.

Wash of iridescent sky-blown searing blue,
as trees in dappled spread play games with light,
and jasmine creeps in tease of slow, addictive luscious clouds,
and crush of gravel sings  of dusty path;
floral race of colour holds the edge of  folding flight,
in blossoming, which joy in thanks, does so devour.

Thursday, July 25, 2013


Kaleidoscope contemptuous revolving,
in coloured mirroring of all that was,
as mind sought reason in the chaos turning,
as universe revealed intensive love.

Through flickered days and nights
the sure reflecting, of psyche and of
soul and inner worlds; as dreams drew
deep in realms of hidden meaning,
creating what could manifest as sense.

Kaleidoscope contemptuous revolving,
in vivid shape and form of all that was,
as Self sought purpose in eternal yearning,
as Soul revealed the path which led to truth.

Dawning times

I watched you in the dawning times,
when light was still to breathe,
and saw the rest and rise of you,
so small, so new and yet to be,
what days and months and years,
would bring, as time, would sure
dictate, and take us through the
drifts of fate; finally to meet.

The ants would creep in silence,
the birds would sing sublime,
and creatured life would carry us,
through that which had been drawn,
and not yet cast upon the face,
of space, reality, and yet which
charted carefully, the paths for
you and me. How dark the days,
and bright the nights, and harsh
the clouds become, as trailing
through the detritus, you found
your way, my son. No words could
ever trace a map, delineate, reveal,
the way that life would take you,
or just how I might feel.

For in the living, is the task, the
mirror we have brought; reflecting
back the plans we made, before
we're ever born. This work of soul
demands we hold, to trust, and
love and faith; seeking ever
courage, finding grounded space,
and knowing that each grain of
sand, earth leaf, each drop of rain,
is all as perfect as we are;
it's just the way we're made.


The story told in furrowed fields,
where hearts fell fully silent,
and blood dropped slow caressing,
as soul in soil did drench.

Sharp ash on cloud becoming,
the bard walked lightly on
the minds and limbs of history;
the song was sung profound.

In crackled fire the day did end,
the burning pyres of hell,
as time wrapped cloak around itself;
just stories left to tell.

And in the ancient wanderings,
the tales were stacked and held,
that we could be reminded;
our past could be revealed.

Black hole

In singularity I'm sucked,
there can be no escape,
in realms of the daimonic;
worlds where rules do break.

Bent back in black becoming,
in nothingness is crushed,
the truth of who I thought I was;
as time is slowly hushed.

No form can be deciphered,
I'm frozen in this place,
as mind dissolves in universe;
the Self no longer traced.

The black sun barely rises,
the curve is cruelly shrunk,
until the portal opens,
as death to life begun.

Wednesday, July 24, 2013

Mechanistic world

Cerebral the circumstance
of mechanistic world;
material made manifest,
rejecting truth of soul.

Intuition is despised,
feelings seen as base,
man is made robotic,
denying inner grace.

Mind is made superior,
heart a mere machine,
thought becomes dictator,
love is barely seen.


Communication is the key
to living in this world,
for only in connection
can Self return to Soul.
Without the reaching out,
and reaching in as well,
we stand as mere shrouds;
pure emptiness distilled.

Tuesday, July 23, 2013


The crucible does cradle sulphured soul,
demanding that it melts and blackened holds,
new form until the moment then is drawn;
with alchemy to charm and be reborn.
Creation in the fire does surely groan,
the secret simmers slowly for the stone,
awareness so diffuse will be the source;
as focussed consciousness does run its course.
The magic mirrors unity and golden grace,
that truth may be remade in surer place,
through volatile and fixed the work is done;
in siren song the gift of life is won.


In crucible connected,
Mercurial the mould,
As heart in leaden treasure,
And mind is sure dissolved.

Retort of love hermetic,
In secret, simmered draught,
As fires of pain hold constant;
The alchemist’s pure task.

Monday, July 22, 2013


I feel therefore I am has deeper notes,
and more profound the touch on mind and heart,
in ways that thoughts and words can never bring;
the harmony of life's pure soulful chart.
The song of self is sung in purest tone,
when feelings sound the music of our spheres,
and resonate in particles and waves,
through smiles so sad and drop of joyful tears.
It's when the body, mind and soul are one,
symphonic in the breath and stretch of being,
which echoes through the realms of heaven's grace;
and calls us to the truth of worlds unseen.
So then is knit the bonds of all we are,
material and spiritual connect,
and Eros sounds the trumpet so renowned;
archetypal marriage once again is blessed.

Cross of caring

The cross of caring can be light,
when order holds the day,
and yet be crushing, in the night,
of bitterness and rage.
We care and that means loving,
we hold, we reach, connect,
and so are bound eternally;
until someone rejects.
In times of cruel abandonment,
for reasons hardly known,
it's love which crucifies us,
with feelings brutal nails.
The curse within a precious gift,
means hurt does hold the hand,
of joy in all relationships;
and both together stand.
Remembering in deepest pain,
that just a step away,
waits reconciliation's glue;
the broken, then re-made. 

Love demands

So often love demands
release, a letting go
of those, we hold within
our hearts and minds,
and yet who cannot stay,
in ways they did before
a time, when life and
soul decreed, that they
must walk alone awhile;
that we're not what
they need.  There is
no holding on to that,
which must stand full
apart, and do the work
demanded; pursue
their own bright star.
It hurts to loosen ties
of love, the pain is deep
and dark, and yet there
is no other way - they
have their own true path.

Sunday, July 21, 2013


In sacred, pure accounting,
archetypal and profound,
does number lay foundation;
creates eternal ground.
From zero to infinity,
above, beyond, below,
these energies are waiting,
their mysteries to know.
Universal building blocks,
they gather and array,
to hold creation's destiny;
their part in life to play.
Solo, sets and synthesis,
they stand beneath it all,
vibrations pure expression;
God's sure harmonic call.

Saturday, July 20, 2013

Ring, water, stage

Let circled water ring on life's dry stage,

to sound the mellow notes of  settled time,

and bring to searching Soul an echo clear;

the song of Self  as angels long ago divined.

I wrote the poem below, forgetting it was for 33 words, but will leave it here all the same and submit my second effort which is 33 words.

The ring of water grew slowly; washing,
in circling, funnelled, constancy,
against the earth on which she sat. The
floods had come, both literal and symbolic,
watering the dry, hard ground of psyche and
of  soil. It was, they whispered, just
a stage that she was going through, or was
that growing through? In the silence,
on the edge of fallowed fields of broken
grain, she could almost imagine that
the land would be swallowed by that suck
of snaking river, released, when dams
broke, further upstream - in places she
had never seen and of which she could
only dream. Dust settled between bare
toes, and sighed in dark sorrow at
the edge of sole, until, at last, as the
sun fell limply into stubbled fields,
she dropped her feet over the edge;
and washed the grains of dirt and memory
from all that she had become in that
time, at the edge of aging worlds.

Friday, July 19, 2013


The eye and mind
in management,
took image
and made sense,
where nothing was
quite as it seemed;
we saw what was
not meant.
In slow and sure
the message was
in bounce of
spinning atoms;
reality was born.
With pen and brush,
the picture drawn,
displayed, and all
revealed, and each
so different from
what was - or what
we did believe.
Perfection sourced
in chaos, the facts
so clearly worked,
to indicate variety;
each saw their
own pure truth.

Thursday, July 18, 2013


In mirror mocked reflection
the paradox was brought,
to eye and mind, reality,
I was not what I thought.
Or felt, or sensed, or knew
within, the truth of who
I was, for physical made
fantasy, of ageless realms
of thought. Within that
place of Self I stood,
and knew that nothing
changed, that I was always
who I was, no matter
how I aged. This body
was not what I was, nor
held a certainty, but
stood as merely costume;
the dress this world did
need. There was no change
within that held,  authentic
or exact, and image merely
shared itself; as something
to be shed. The core of Self is
ageless, the truth of Soul
no bounds, reflections are
illusions;  can hold no solid
ground. For facts are just
perception, the mind makes
what it sees, and gathers
what it knows is true;
our own veracity. To hold
unto the spiritual, the Self
which does endure, means
this is dress material;
to keep as we do need.


Why did the littered trail lead through leaf
and broken stone, across buried branches
of memory and time, and on through chilled
creeks of decadence and decay, until she could
no longer remember, where she began, or why?
Did the voice cry out the question, or did
she hear it as a sobbing unto life, a plaintive
keen of desperation, driven deep into the heart
of child and woman grown, who never knew,
that the bush would be so deep and dark, the
deserts so dry and dusty, and the sky so
unforgiving and relentless, as it pressed upon
her mind? They gathered, all the questions,
like silent sentinels, sitting or lying by the
side of bits of time, as if to mock the hopes
and dreams which dragged, belatedly behind.
Watching, waiting for that moment when
a stumble, one foot, so poorly placed upon
the hardened earth, would send everything
back to the beginning; the body brittle, broken
and bruised upon unseen ground; eyes closed
because there was no more that she could bear:
ears blocked with the dust of regrets and heart,
beating slowly, in time with the pain, driving
small, steady, explosions of dirt into memory.
Lips, dry, dressed and cracked with all that
was unsaid, could only mouth, against the
mother's breast, in spit of soil and sodden ash
the one question to which there was no answer:

Wednesday, July 17, 2013


So much modern poetry is just word contortion and pretentious prattle. I thought I would give it a go.

Sticks settled

between toes,

forced deep in wet


ocean washed

with cuts like shells,

broken on the

beach - marooned, on

pebbles, smooth, bright,

as if lost - forgotten -

seaweed drowned, dappled,

fallen salted fronds - a dead

fish, yawning mouth, small

teeth, rotted flesh, embraced

death - pitted against the

detritus, plastic bottles, sliding

on the crusts of wave - mocking

towels strewn in disarray-

lost by fading swimmers, long

since gone away.



Season spoke in searing teeth,
as suffocating smile, to suck
the breath from earth and air
and would not be denied.

In raging grasp of vicious red,
and golden, searching dance,
the fiery waves in blackened fall,
screamed in the face of chance.

The earth in fallowed heating,
the timbers stretched by fire,
the grass extinguished - shattering,
a world where death drank life.

Words of ash rode whirling wind,
in burning, brutal tease,
which held mortality in grasp;
brought death as fate decreed.

Horizon held in brutal belch,
throughout the dying days,
until at last the flames were spent;
and night's cool hand was raised.

And then beneath a glittered sky,
the earth reflected black,
in shivered embers scattered far,
on suppurating tracks.

Tuesday, July 16, 2013


There is a dance within each offered word,
no matter if the sounds are ever heard,
for even in the writing is ensured,
a message carried surely to its birth.

Hidden, silent waltz of word does bring,
an energy to being, seen or not,
connecting thee and me for all of time,
linking hearts with silken twist of knot.

It is our task to carve the words in mind,
to craft and place and offer them with love,
and never know if they will be received;
they live, and will eternal - it's enough.

The crack

The crack was deep the process long endured,
to straddle chasms opened in the mind,
as psyche struggled with the gaping yaw,
which threatened sense and sanity devoured.

As reason wept and held to chilling edge,
so angels whispered, breathless at the side,
and Soul did hover helpless, but ensured,
and Self could only grip as madness prised.

So cold the darkness sucked beneath belief,
as truth's black, frozen fingers held the hour,
and courage  brought horizon's hopes to birth;
embedded in the ice, love's fragile flower.

The crack was deep the process long endured,
to straddle chasms opened in the mind,
as psyche struggled with the gaping yaw,
to bring to being life's eternal power.


3a : a narrow break : fissure <a crack in the ice>  
  b : a narrow opening <leave the door open a crack><cracks between floorboards> —used figuratively in phrases like fall through the cracks to describe one that has been improperly or inadvertently ignored or left out <a player who fell through the cracks in the college draft> <children slipping through the cracks of available youth services>

Saturday, July 13, 2013


Feel, think, write

Friday, July 12, 2013

Did you say you loved me?

Did you say you loved me, as your hand caressed
my thigh and stroked on hidden heart, or was it just
imagined? That touch, skin like silk appraising warm
receiving, where surrender was the only sense that raised
impassioned head, and in the doing, drove all reason
from my mind - all thoughts - all that I was, or
had ever been, in that moment of becoming. Cast upon
the ocean of imagination and desire; afloat on waves
of ecstasy and fear, wanting only to be all that you
would have me be, and more than I had ever thought
I was. Drowning in the memory of older, painful times,
afloat on doubt and hope and joy; descending into depths
as yet unknown, but glimpsed so often from the shallows;
where curdled surf did throw itself upon abandoned beach:
ah yes? There you were and there I was - for now.

Ah soul

Ah soul, you knocked upon the door in echoed call,
a ringing through the mind which I decried,
and heard instead as timbered stretching sharp,
that crack as splintered being seeks to grow,
so sudden, shocking, whether bright or dark,
just like the ancient wardrobe by my side,
that place, where lost in childhood, I would hide.

To turn away from signs and symbols surely given,
to hide my eyes from synchronicities which spoke,
was just instinctual huddling into the depths of Self,
in murmured wording which Denial did speak,
recorded without judgement or demands,
in patient waiting, knowing that in deep and sighing
time, the pull to individuation could not be denied.

Ah soul, you knocked upon the door in echoed call,
a ringing through the mind which held a tone,
those notes of full becoming which did harmonise,
and resonate as balanced being brought at last to birth,
because deceptions voice had now been put to rest,
and courage held out arms so strong and wide,
that falling into truth, gave nowhere else to hide.

Mantled morning

In mantled morning when sun shyly shone ,
the heart did herald dance of dawn sublime,
and muddled mind in misted thought was drawn,
on bended knee  where lingering love had torn,
the shroud of suffering from sorrow's face;
revealing raw and raddled, truth as grace. 

That moment when the light did linger long,
and trace the brittle brightness barely born,
so grief did gather glory in glad hands,
as something hope had hurled in full abandon,
in shivered, shining shawls of hate and hurt;
the drape of doubt in drench of bitter curse.

But day in burst becoming brought bare torch,
which shone upon the lies which littered, laid,
as blossoms bruised and blanched upon the path,
dropped by infatuation's fair and fickle hands,
which mark the map all lovers do demand;
to mock in memory mere mortal plans.

Thursday, July 11, 2013

The years demand we soften

The years demand we soften,
and pulls us from firm shape,
releasing through our being;
for otherwise we break.
The sag of skin is telling,
of how it's meant to be,
a loosening of our beliefs;
the absolute set free.
The implicate is speaking,
the explicate must act,
as time requests surrender;
our Soul's eternal pact.

Wednesday, July 10, 2013

Denial and war

How easily we go to war chasing dreams and demons;
how smoothly do we follow lies into realms of hell,
while telling those who listen, and ourselves,
that it is in a good, just cause and it is something
which is being done for  the benefit of all.
As if good could come through dull, dead eyes and shreds
of decimated flesh. As if good could come from lives
dismembered, as no more, than mounds of  bone and
meat; as if good could ever come from suffering and death.

But deception is a determined friend and cannot
be easily dismissed; although it can be easily denied.
And even as we stand by watered gutters where
the blood runs forcefully on its way, and the shadows
of gaunt, bitter, broken buildings cast their dark
shapes upon our faces, still we can hold the hand of
deception and smile into the crippled depths
of our belief. Still we can tell ourselves that what is
being done, in our name, for it is always in our name,
is just and does have purpose. Although, in the
splintered shatterings of night and reason, a small
voice murmurs it cannot be so. But small voices
are easily made silent, even though, they will echo
through time and mind, in ways which bring in
sickened, stark relief, images of remembering.

But deception is always there; cold fingers clasping,
holding firm, to the dying warmth of conscience;
whispering that it is not for us to change the world,
but to trust as the world is changing. However terrible
that change might be. The longer one believes in
the words which deception casts upon the ground
of cold compassion, the easier it is to keep believing.

It is only when the Soul sighs, deep and grieving,
that some will gather themselves up, from the rutted
furrows in which they have been planted, and demand
change. But the sigh of Soul is so like that of
whispered deception, that one must listen very carefully,
if it is ever to be heard, or not mistaken, for the wind.


Slow, soft, peeled surrendering,
lifts dried and crusted face,
the mother's bright blue shawl,
across the boards does drape.
That curl of edge has risen,
that flake of crippled age,
revealing perfumed timbers;
advancing on time's stage.
How silently the years do sing,
how cautiously they pull,
upon the base and riven boards;
displaying hidden truths.
The split in image is decreed,
in ancient, layered strokes,
which smile in sudden bursting;
persona cannot hold.
How gentle is this dying,
in suppurative sighs,
with certain, deep releasing;
in shreds of helpless lies.
There is no raging battle,
no angered grief or tears,
but only mere acceptance;
resigned when death appears.

Tuesday, July 9, 2013


To walk into the face of fear,
to stare down inner grief,
to let the rage of rumour fly;
suspending disbelief.
To hold the ground of sanity,
as time in sequence flew,
and lies tied tight emotions;
lost courage found anew.
So do we walk our inner path,
so do we trust our Soul,
to quickly take us to the edge;
to jump when Life does call.

FLY (intransitive verb)
1a : to move in or pass through the air with wings
  b : to move through the air or before the wind or through outer space
  c : to float, wave, or soar in the air <flags flying at half-mast>
2a : to take flight : flee
  b : to fade and disappear : vanish
3a : to move, pass, or spread quickly <rumors were flying>  
  c : to seem to pass quickly <the time simply flew>

Monday, July 8, 2013

If only we could fix it all....

If only we could fix it all,
set right the wrongs of life,
bring order out of chaos
and peace to all the strife.
But it would not be living,
and we would never grow,
for challenges do make us;
seeds the soul does throw.

Listen to the pressure


Listen to the pressure,
where orders smoke impossible,
to scare of what might be;
cause fear as life just happens.
To climb the voice of reason,
to risk all you can be,
is what the angels ask of us,
if we are to live free.

Sunday, July 7, 2013

Psyche's jigsaw

In puzzled, plaintive ponderings,
the image sure was searched,
of Self as deep surrenderings;
the pieces, scattered, hurt.
Finding shapes which fitted,
to hold the picture clear,
was Soul's allotted tasking,
to bring me into being.
It was not with understanding,
that all the work was done,
but finding the connections;
inserting one by one.
Through steady, slow selecting,
all would be found a place,
as psyche's jigsaw was restored;
and I could see my face.

Saturday, July 6, 2013

Mind dropped into morning

Mind dropped into morning,
fell through skirts of dawn,
huddled into memory,
sheltered from the truth.
Shaken through the dreaming,
pain did litter day,
scattered through deep fearing –  
hope had lost her way.

As such, this weekend we are asking for a thirty-three word free-write. - See more at: