Freedom

 

 

Life leads us on with thoughts

and dreams abundant,

Then drags us back to what

this world would be.

Confined in the material and all

we know as physical;

So do we strive for that

which sets us free.

But freedom is yet also

an illusion, a fantasy of something

we perceive, yet all the time it hovers,

as a future, when Now is all that

we can ever be.

 

Chiselled

 

I chiselled at your image,
revealed the puzzle clear,
made luminous your heart,
left nothing else to fear.


Dumb were left the angels,
superior and wise,
lucid was my loving;
hollow were your smiles.


Foreign were the moments,
feckless were your aims;
drank the wine of sorrow,
saw the darkening stain.


There would be no winner,
once the die was cast,
drunk on sour misery;
mourn our time now past.

 

Purpose

Eternity does cradle slow in forming fractalicious shape,
that dance of pure becoming wrought in silent, perfect steps,
and in the doing so creation does display and twist as minuet;
time holds out the baton, determines when there will be rest.

Within the cultured moments of the endless active hours,
there comes a perfect balance  then made manifest,  revealed,
in purpose calligraphed upon the heavens truth has wrought;
so then is meaning, purpose and intent no more concealed.

Slow breathing into being is the call from angels sung,
and trusting that the process will endure, forever moving on,
then does the mind of God incarnate in the material world;
so are we birthed to our becoming, whether short or long. 

Who Am I?

To search within the almost seen, scramble in the mind,
to rummage through the coats of past, seeking so to find,
who I am and who I was and who I still might be;
so does love draw gentle hands across eternity.

Who was I then, who am I now, and who will I become,
so do the questions roll and taunt when certainty is gone,
and who I might have been, or could, has drifted on the wind;
so do potentials reach an end, before we can begin.

That morning when I woke in fear and huddled into Self,
as dreams and deep imaginings were tumbling from the shelf,
so then I saw in scattered wreck the tramplings of my heart;
and realised, that who I was, had never played a part.

And yet it had been written, this tortured, searching path,
which led from birth and on to death, as pure and soulful art,
for in the journey to become, to know and render true;
I learned the shape of  what was me, perceived, what was called you.

https://dversepoets.com/2016/11/17/openlinknight-183/

Poems

http://indaily.com.au/arts-and-culture/2016/10/19/poems-hiareth-home/

Plant

Plant a thousand memories,
let them birth alone,
thrive in deepest darkness,
delve through mind and soul.

And when the days are spent,
let them break asunder,
bounce through sudden dreams,
wake the hidden world.

So the way leads ever on,
when the hours are sent,
holding to the spirit's course;
all is recompense.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/10/23/wordle-271/
 

Bridge of will

Needles threading
slow through love,
trip of life does trim,
and fill, embroiders
view of mist and trail;
colours breeze so still.
Sky does sob in
sympathy as the work
is done, washes clean
the soil, makes
a bridge of will.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/10/09/wordle-269/

Razzle Dazzle

Showiness astonishes,
dazzles through the days,
amazes and inspires,
sparkles now at play.

Vivacity entrances,
brightness is bequeathed,
glitter does excel
glory surely breathes.

Razzle through the dewdrops,
shivering at play,
quivering in glint of dance;
nature does display.

https://dversepoets.com/2016/10/04/razzle-dazzle-me/

 

Spring

Grey, brooding, unconscionable clouds,

Sodden, weeping, teething winds,

So does Spring spit irritably in our face;

Drenching still the skirts of fallen Winter.

No more

No more than a speck of dust upon the fleeing moment,

No more than a silent breath upon the wind,

No more than a forgotten seed that breasts the unforgiving earth,

No more than all the words that lie unsaid.

 

For this is life, and this is how the moments draw and creep,

When hope and meaning hide themselves away,

And dare to taunt that all is nought but shadow,

That who I am is fantasy and dream.

 

And yet each speck of dust is borne on dreams,

And silent breaths can carry words across the world,

While seeds that strive through soil to reach the sun

Will always speak of God, of life, of love.

BLACK CHILD

 

The black child brought to birth at last

And suckled at the breast,

Drinks greedily of that which is denied.

Yet, withered dreams are milked as well,

And drop by sour drop,

They turn away what might have been.

Then, belly full, and bubbled lip

The child is drawn to sleep,

That she may walk the dreaming path.

The time has come, and darkness turns

A new and shining face,

Upon the black child newly found.

For life will have us suckle, however

We may find, the offered breast,

The ancient milk … our destiny defined.

The split

The split  in Self is seen so clear,

And yet recoils in mortal fear

From any touch that seeks to bring

A healing to the wound within.

Twixt good and bad  the players set

And rise to make their triumph, yet,

A tiny voice keeps up the cry

That truth is found within the I.

So peace and wisdom, love and truth

Stand on one side, placed well aloof

And rage, and vengeance, basest thought

Will hold their ground, no matter what.

The ‘I’ rides grace and then will leap

The fence to fly upon deceit

And all the while knows neither can

Hold sure, swift hoof on flimsy ground.

That day will come when each will find

Then disappear in new-born mind,

And truth of each is made anew,

The ‘I’ becomes, eternal ‘You.’

Disguised

I found myself traversing,
a strange and yet known place,
with who I was, now hidden;
disguised, no visual trace.

And in the midst of losing,
the sense of my own Self,
I glimpsed a distant image;
but shape I could not tell.
 

Bitch crucified

    

Through creatured screams rise deathless cries of pain,
full tortured on the sullen, restless breeze
that plays around Luanda’s littered veins;
as bowels open, children laugh and metal bars are raised.

A cry unearthly, streaming through the cloud of dusted skies,
to settle grimy feathers at the door;
as mercy calls in broken-winged appeal,
with voice full human, terror-drawn through teeth canine.

In serpent shriek, death’s fingers tease life’s song,
upon the lyre of Africa’s cruel heart,
where trickstered being rules the world
and flesh of dog or man may wear the welt of striking rod.

In childish dance, creeps laughter, light-limbed in horror’s world
in pebbled strike upon the broken form,
teasing bloodied paws from unforgiving edge,
in joyful celebration of cruel sacrifice; the figure flayed and scorned.

And in the dying moments, when screams are whimpered births,
then wiser, older voices call an end;
cruel ignorance takes breathless flight
and day draws dusky gown to shroud the awful truth.

Dark night creeps slowly, pleading touch upon the bloodied brow,
as Sun burns fading light upon the wounds
in shadowed fire, and healing kiss,
upon the cross of shattered limbs; upon the sacrificial Now!

Visits

Appearing, disappearing, arriving and then leaving so it goes,

you visit and depart through mind's long shadowed halls,

and in the doing test my heart for all the feeling long unknown;

reminding me that love can never be denied and always calls.


Those images drawn in sharp and indistinct demand of thought,

and huddled in between the taunts and shapes of grief,

are somehow like you and yet not because they are not caught

in all reality would have you be, no longer here in stark relief.


To touch and feel material and what the senses fully know,

imagination cannot bring what is not here in this material world,

just glimpses, presence, senses and that feeling that was shown,

as you in this world, standing here, your Self in flesh; not just Soul.


In yearning for return of what was once a part of life in form,

desiring that once more the warmth of skin and smile be seen,

is natural and part of all that human life would have be born;

and yet the fates decree it is not so for now; you are just dream.

Heart

The heart holds close to soul's eternal play,
and weaves with love the sources of our Self,
knows that all is part of something greater;
calls for pure connection, leads the way.

There is within relationship that worthy goal,
of drawing in and knitting tight together,
those people who were born to understand;
so do we keep in touch, though tenuous hold.
 
The field does spread beyond the body mortal,
embraces all who come within its path,
completes, ensures that two become as one;
keeps open heaven's doors, reveals the portal.

Real love

 

Real love runs deep,

Digs its own course;

Fills hidden aquifers.

Religion

What comforts in this vale of tears,

Are dreams of what might be,

And so religion gains in lure,

When life denies our dreams.

Age

Softened, gnarled, rubbed

loose by years, wrinkled,

worn, revealed; laid bare

in truth once hidden, so

does age make real.

Crack of time

Crack of time did open,
slick the memories,
lock the day in sadness;
succumb to what has been.

In the thrum of grieving,
hope did irk the pain,
shine a spark immortal;
luck would come again.

Crumble did the moments,
lock in space and time,
optimism was my chum;
friend which did remind.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/07/17/wordle-257/

 

Softly

Softly came the knowing,
understanding reigned,
holding on to reason,
truths were full proclaimed.

All that had been hidden,
now revealed at last,
scattered through the days;
remnants of my past.

Knitted into costume,
finding place to be,
healing like a second skin;
the scars which made me.

Bird of love

Laugh lightly at the end of days,
weep deeply in its warmth,
spice of wit dilutes the shock;
the bird of love released.

Memories hold fast, in place,
sure twinkle in our dreams,
to  grow a quilt of trust;
and soothe the hours of grief.

Let love lift up its voice in song,
to smooth life's coverlet,
so time can bring its healing;
acceptance takes small steps.

The wren of hope sings quietly,
in words we may not hear,
but sing it does, eternally;
reminds us not to fear.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/07/09/wordle-256/
 

Sweep

Sweep the scattered memories,
into piles of grief, shimmering
in fury, boiling rage released;
as the ripple gathers, paint the

moments clear, watch the future
rise, erupt in new born fears. So,
the days are rendered, fresh paint
brought to bear, park regrets and

leave them, surrendering all care.
As the shadow lightens, swarm
of hope reveals; crow your triumph
loudly - time will always heal.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/06/19/wordle-254/
 

Last leaf

Last leaf falling from the twiggered arms
of wintered tree, riding soulful, senseless,
down to waiting ground; dried breath of
seasons, crinkled edge and colour dying,

so do we all, follow, in slow, descending
footsteps, toward the beckoning grave,
into the bosom of deathly night, where
the sun shines brighter in that blackness,

and shuddering forgetting takes hold, to
soothe the pain of relentless years, and
to whisper again, those songs we once
knew, and could sing, but had forgotten.

Did you hear me?

Did you hear me, when I called,
from that soft spot in deep night,
half asleep, half awake, wondering
if it was all real, or merely some

imagining, and still you were there,
waiting, in the belly of expectant
day, to resume the place you had
held, in my heart and in my life?

Tender self, how you wept through
languished days, and dried your
bitter eyes in sullen darkness, hoping
that the pain would ease and heart

would once again begin to breathe,
steady, softly, slowly, as if it held
to hope, encouraged by the sudden
tweetings of awakened small birds,

struggling through dawn's embrace,
holding to the hands of angels,
whispering through neatly sown
dreams of endless possibility.

Passing years

Through passing years the self is constant,
remaining in that place of known being,
no matter what changes are wrought upon,
flesh and face and outward appearances,

feeling always as the I and Me of identity,
whether six or sixty, or girl, woman, wife,
mother, sister, daughter, friend, cousin, or
any of the names we tie to ourselves as we

pass through time as the unique being that
we were born, and do remain, even as the
costume of our material self, wears, and
softens, folding, relaxing, feeling into new

places of physical shape and form, and as
roles change, and labels become worn and
shabby, and even gender loses meanings it
once held, and we return to the place where

we began, knowing it for the first time as
self grown, fully ripened, ready for bursting
into death, broken asunder, the seeds of
futures filling, within the quietened mind.

Trap

Creep of vine to chill the trap,
hide the crack of time,
bury diverse past and hope;
tassel cold, mad mind.

Plaster full the monument,
mist the memories,
lucid is the epitaph -
grave holds who we've been.

Tawny is the sunset,
at the port of death,
born again eternally,
sufferings at rest.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/05/29/wordle-253/

Autumn

Shivered shedding shrugs on high,
listing, drifting, sullen leaves,
falling down and down to die,
so the end that Autumn brings.

Brittled green of frozen grass,
huddled into sodden earth,
bearing full the frozen task,
waits for Winter's heavy birth.

Straggled, struggled branch and twig,
sulking dark to threaten sky,
looming, lusting, overhead,
frosted tears on singed bark sigh.

Waiting always through the days,
holding deep the hope of life,
so does nature plan her ways,
readying, to claim her tithe.
 

Raw

It was raw, that place, where you wounded me,
even though you had no understanding of the blow,
nor that words had become a weapon which could
injure, even kill, and time and distance blinded

eyes, which could no longer see, and yet, I
dreamed of vision being restored, of time
opening up to savage you with light, that the
reflection could spread around and beyond

the weeping sore, and whisper healing breath
upon the seeping flesh of heart, and soul, and
mind, of all that I had ever thought myself to be,
and yet, without it, the pain became a force which

pushed me on, seeking for my own sure bandage,
something which could wrap around and hide for
a time, the truth of what had been, a salve for hurt
which had no name; such are the raw moments.

Mission

We stand upon the edge of life
and search the track for sense,
itch of time is in night's pay,
the bell sounds recompense.

The willing start the journey soon,
with mission not yet known,
and in the deepest part of mind,
desire to learn is born.

Gloss of hope can be soon lost,
the gleam of distant truths,
no longer spring eternal;
for age has outlived youth.

So take the time to ponder well,
the path that you will walk,
life's mission takes some pondering,
to reap the best rewards.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/05/22/wordle-252/
 

Watching me

Watching me. Did I see those eyes,
holding deep in bitter iris, the word
' yes,' as if they promised something
I did not deserve, forming only to

mock, as if betrayal were a badge
I wore, unseen only by me, marker
made invisible by denial; disguised
tattoo, carved, curled, stabbed ink

into flesh, waiting, desperate, for
a sign, a symbol that I existed,
even if only in the arms of pain,
even if only in shallow hurting;

slicing flesh as I had done myself,
so many times, nicking and then
cutting deep through bursting blood
and patient flesh, searching down,

down, down, hoping to find in
the roil of bleeding, a surge of
life which would tell me I was
real - made manifest in and of

material being, formed solid so
a hand could touch, hold and
know truth of Self, surely enough
for heart to whisper: 'This is me.'

And yet, in those times of sullen
sleep, those dark days and bright
nights, where all blurs in deadly
weeping, the voice calls ever

louder, that the heart too can lie,
that nothing can be believed in
any certain way; that I am only
real when I am watching me.

https://dversepoets.com/2016/04/28/golden-rooster-stands-on-one-leg/

Siren

Siren sounded mournfully,
fragment of my mind,
salty wreckage drifted;
swollen whole in time.

Still the heartache lasted,
long the keening cried,
streaming tears of anger;
so my dreams denied.

Sails held on horizon,
sucking at the winds,
love moved ever distant;
my life alone begins.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2016/04/27/six-for-wednesday-3-2/

Sin

Hills hide vision silently,
soul climbs naked high,
lights the sin decisively;
prophet dims the fire.

Close the angels gather,
heal the scar of life,
embrace the self unholy;
bring an end to strife.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/

Dawning

It shouldn't matter,
but it does,
the way the light
bursts across the
edge of curtain,
sharp, bright,
unannounced in
dawning time,
as morning, when,
just for an eyelash
moment, I thought
it might be an
angel, dreaming
her way into my
world, smiling
sadly, as if
she knew what
the day would
bring, and hoped
to soothe my
unconscious fears.

Bereft

Bereft, bewildered,
bestowed this pain
from wanting some
thing other than
what is, where
desire becomes a
demand, a need
so deep it feels
as if the heart will
break, and tears
will fall in shocking
drowning, washing
away nothing, but
the dust of love,
leaving the hard,
hurting, wanting
to hold its ground,
in ancient wound.
 

Curls

I will give you curls,
my grandmother said,
just like the Princess,
whose photo you saw

in a magazine, and so
I gave myself over to
her hands, and the
process of taking the

fine, ever so straight,
hair, and making it
fall in silken curls,
just like the image

I held in my hand,
and yet, once it was
over, and I was set
free, and the hair

had dried, there was
no silken curl, just
a mop of frothing
busyness, bursting

around my head,
and even the hours
spent rubbing and
rubbing, against the

carpet, could not
soften or tame that
wild, determined
shock of hair. Only

as the weeks passed
did it stop mocking
me, and slowly fall
from grace, to

become again, what
it was only ever
meant to be, laying
forever to rest, the

dream of being,
in some small way
a Princess with
soft, silken locks.

Final solution

Raised across the parapet of mind,
words frowned in distant gathering,
horizon-huddled holding to the edge
of possibility defined, waiting for

release upon the brooding ledge of
endless misunderstandings, restless
as they honed edges to deadly shine,
ready to cut without mercy; wielded

in a winnowing of mechanical fear,
compressing dry, cracked stalks of
hope into bales, tied for distant, ever
imagined Winters where life could

chew listlessly at  dried remnants
of what had once been lush, ebullient
green salvation, thrust from fallow
earth, reaching always for the distant

anxious sky where sullen blues held
court for scattered sunbeams, tripping
through realities which danced slowly
at the bidding of bestial breeze, and

delicate, whispering winds which
rattled hollow husks, bereft of fertile
grains, abandoned, sterile, grieving
in those fields of futures known,

and unknown, where Occam thoughts
spread like scythes, laying waste,
rendering, reducing potential harvest
in death knells of dusty, dirty dying;

so did the paddocks sigh piteously,
deprived of all which had been
promised, before the war within
demanded one last, final solution.

http://dversepoets.com/2016/03/03/open-link-night-167/#comment-107609

 

Aeons

Through the ancient landscape,
dust did slurry songs, calling
through the smooth, rubbed
hills - beckoning us on.

Scrabbled were the eucalypts,
raddled were the stones,
sucking heat from destiny as
demons danced and sang.

Footsteps fell in slow silence,
dressed in powdered years,
drawing through the soil unknown,
truths the heart could feel.

Bequeathed in endless images,
stories trailed through earth,
clay clenched drowning water -
painted face and breasts.

Distant was the inner yearning,
mournful was time's cry,
joyful was life's great promise-
no sound, but sandy sighs.

Lost in aching age of meaning,
driven deep beyond the cities,
so we walk with shuttered eyes,
curse and bless as we do grieve.

Through the ancient landscape,
back out beyond fear and dreams,
world's soul beats in rhythm-
truth licks lips and seals.

Watching me

Watching me. Did I see those eyes,
holding deep in bitter iris, the word
' yes,' as if they promised something
I did not deserve, forming only to

mock, as if betrayal were a badge
I wore, unseen only by me, marker
made invisible by denial; disguised
tattoo, carved, curled, stabbed ink

into flesh, waiting, desperate, for
a sign, a symbol that I existed,
even if only in the arms of pain,
even if only in shallow hurting;

slicing flesh as I had done myself,
so many times, nicking and then
cutting deep through bursting blood
and patient flesh, searching down,

down, down, hoping to find in
the roil of bleeding, a surge of
life which would tell me I was
real - made manifest in and of

material being, formed solid so
a hand could touch, hold and
know truth of Self, surely enough
for heart to whisper: 'This is me.'

And yet, in those times of sullen
sleep, those dark days and bright
nights, where all blurs in deadly
weeping, the voice calls ever

louder, that the heart too can lie,
that nothing can be believed in
any certain way; that I am only
real when I am watching me.

Time

Time stood silent, watching;
all senses were aroused,
and in the moment keening
my soul the day devoured.

Spirit did then languish,
lost in space and hours,
all sanity was vanguished,
full madness did carouse.

Nothing was remembered,
all that lived was dead,
destiny had driven deep;
the page completely read.
 

Abandon

Abandon hope, they cried,
and yet my heart asked why?
Why should, or could, or
would we ever abandon hope

when it remains the door we
open, to usher in the light,
to allow bright streams of
sunshine to wander in through

shadows, to warm the soul in
places dark and fearsome; to
allow us to stand and walk
outside, away from the place

where we have hidden, and
huddled against hope, denied
the truth that wherever we
might be; whatever we might

feel, or hear, or sense, or even
know, that there is always
hope, waiting; eyes shining,
arms open wide, spirit still

laughing in the face of grief,
our comforter and solace...
which cannot be abandoned,
even as we think it might.

http://margoroby.com/2016/01/12/poem-tryouts-abandon-ye/

Scent

The sense of it enticing,
full measure of delight,
the scents of it inviting;
perfumed dance requites.

In aromatic envelope,
your body lingers still,
drifts of distant memory;
grief can never quell.

In fabric folded gift,
clothes no longer worn,
you stay with me eternal;
lost life forever torn.

The sense of it enticing,
full measure of delight,
the scents of it inviting;
perfumed dance denied.

http://dversepoets.com/2016/01/05/scents-that-linger/