Where did you go?

Where did you go in those realms of mind,
those distant places where we, who loved
and knew you, and held you, cannot follow?
Where did you go that needed to be so far
from all you were and all we knew and all
that you had always been; familiar, sure? 
There is no answer, only the epic silence,
for there is no understanding when psyche
is called, pulled, dragged from the place of
the known, into the fields of Pluto, where
that which must die is put to the sword of
necessity and that which must live, is seeded
in drops of dark blood; brought to being
in damp, brooding clods of earth, where
cracks reveal the dark lights of Hades, in
waiting, for the certain earth to be torn
asunder, that you could and would be
dragged down, led through corridors of
possibility, stripped, separated, cut apart,
in that disconnecting way of Soul; hung
in pieces on the hooks of probability and
destiny, waiting for the time when demons
could become angels and you would be
slowly, carefully and surely - re-membered.

http://dversepoets.com/

Fire of thought

Fire of thought is smoking at the serried edges of  sanity,
twinned with madness in dual, Janus floating shadows,
deliquescent coiling as the oars of hope firmly bend still water;
the scenery of consciousness bright coloured by depravity.

Faithless Self blows mists across hope's sullen, stinking ponds,
fuels that loud cascade of potential and endless possibility,
listens for the trumpet of delusion's harsh and bitter melody;
life's gramophone still turning, blaring on and on and on.

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.

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.

Tree of Life - I The Sacred; II The Mundane.

Hung, like Odin on the tree, or Inanna, naked, hooked,
and the sanguine fool, upside down, still smiling, patient,
waiting for the healing, which must  and will come;
not to be resisted, but embraced; the lesson salient,
so is the work commenced and held in place that wholeness
may be found, created, birthed; the Soul made radiant.

The archetypes abound, reveal the lessons that we need,
as image, sense, dream and feelings so profound,
and still we fight relentless, holding onto what has been;
refusing to give way, relinquish long-dead ground,
where rotting corpses lie across synaptic, hidden waste
and death demands it's price, slow feeds the ravening hound.

It's only in surrender that the work is ever  fully done,
for fate does guide who will, and drags regardless, all the rest,
knowing that the call to being is the greatest, vital force;
life released, an arrow across time from birth to end,
for firm and feathered flight, eternity does surely measure,
then upon the cross of days, deep nails of night, the ego bends. 

http://dversepoets.com/


From the sacred to the mundane:

Tree of Life in Malawi

Trees sit in silence, heads removed, mere stumps
waiting for the next breath when life will bring
forth leaves; waiting for the next time, the machete
will come; waiting always to be reduced, cut down,
brought low because without such hacking and
removing, there is no charcoal, there is no fire,
there is no warm food, there is no life for the
people and so, in Malawi, forests can disappear,
steadily, singularly, sorrowfully, as branches are
removed, often in stealth, from any tree which is
at hand and in the sacrifice, the steady harvesting
of the life contained within the offered wood, there
is some hope, some future, in a land where only
wood can bring the nsima to the boil, that fruit
of maize on which so many live and only can
survive. In Africa the tree can mean the difference
between life and death and that is why only some
part of the tree will die, leaving enough life for it
to regrow, so that children will not starve and adults
have the strength to carry on, until, there are no
trees left to turn into the black gold which fuels fire.