Sunday, April 23, 2017

Hollow heartbeat


Thrum the hollow heartbeat,
sigh the sodden mind,
court the lethal hurtings;
split the psyche blind.

Deck the soul with ivy,
strip the self till bare,
fight the row of sorrow;
murky glass of care.

Stay the moment lost,
hide the key of hope,
wallow in the grieving;
hang on bitter rope.

Friday, April 21, 2017


Sometimes the words just stop,
as if sulking in hidden corners,
resenting where they have been
taken, pouting in that soft-lipped

way they have, where the brutal
capacity is denied, and their
power is contained, because it
must be, even though the mind

does not understand why they
have retreated into that darkness
of isolation and surrender, as if
they have been chastised just

once too often, and now refuse
to make their presence known,
to allow themselves to be used,
as if to punish for what has been

done, unless, of course, it is a
reminder that sometimes it is
in silence that we find ourselves
and know truths beyond words.

Sunday, April 16, 2017

Stone did sigh


Stone did sigh in sympathy,
leaf did listen close,
ants in follow carefully;
taste the crumbs of hope.

Bird did reach in comfort,
dog in turn of love,
test the barrier of time;
release the pure dove.

Nail my heart to silence,
scrape my mind full clear,
taste the breeze of sorrow;
fill the trunk of fear.

Friday, April 7, 2017

End of life

Pure luscious wings of life are spread,
As feathered days on dusty nights prepared,
To herald now the passing of our slowly drifting years;
An honouring of all that has been shared.

Surrendering of day and known self,
Softened folding, drape and fall of skin,
We shed the images of old and sadly drooping dreams;
To show the shape so long  and truly hid.

What lives behind the shining mask,
Ego-polished with  soft, worn rag of mind,
that holds us,  back,  with bright, death-awful glare;
Blinding sight to what lies lost and rare.

Desire to seek lies limply lost,
There is no call to hear or strive to find,
No dream that leads us on to mightier, noble truths;
We wait, abandoned by the rule of mind.

Thursday, April 6, 2017

The bulls stand silent...

The fruit falls swiftly from the tree,
the bulls stand silent in the lake,
the figure crucified is seen
upon the framework of the dream.

With arms spread wide and silent eyes
they lift her high upon the boughs
and turn her face towards the south
where white-flanked cows raise shining knives
above the meek and pious brows.

With sure and steady strokes they strip
pink flesh from each initiate,
to bathe in sacred waters then
the raw-bled truth of god and men.

NB: These were dream figures.

And I extended the poem thus, but did not include the rest for this Dverse post, but thought I would post it for those who might be interested where I took the dream:

The wise man watches, monkey-faced
and clasps each paw in full embrace
around the pierced and bleeding feet
of Woman, raised … her Self to meet.

Then gathered in small, blackened arms
the corpse is carried to the edge
of water, sanctified and deep
wherein the Goddess counsel keeps.

To lie beneath the water’s chill
and watch through full and empty eyes
the blood-washed sacrifice above

has been her greatest act of love.

Wednesday, April 5, 2017

Love leapt

Love leapt light, ridiculous,
drew cartwheels in the air,
turned upside down and
spun around, delighted to
be here - that dance of life,
fantastic, that dream of 
song revered, that minuet
of madness - that gift
of you bequeathed.

Monday, April 3, 2017

Lullaby of grief

Crystalline the lullaby of grief,
in shining, blackened, arched
and keening sighs, vibrations
which do resonate with angel
smiles,  as spirit holds the
bucket God has given, to fill
with green and swaying leaves
of memory, budding, like the
waterlily, floating on deep
ponds, in scattering of images,
reflecting on the surface, opal-
glittered dreams of what was;

tattered pages, leaf by leaf,
of sacred verse, which holds
the pearl so precious of our
love, for soul to fish again,
for secrets, rocking in the boat
which heaven built, as ancient
hands keep writing, telling tales
of joy and great bewilderment,
while horses of new hope stand,
waiting by the plank which still
connects the drifting mind, to
solid, sure rememberings.