Dreams

Cavalcade of dreaming,
darkest night careering,
spinning ever onwards;
falling into meaning.

Houses without rooves,
horses without ears,
dogs with purple fur;
realms of deepest fears.

Faces without form,
falling without end,
demons send us fleeing;
consciousness pretends.

Running without clothes,
naked in all sight,
horrors in the dawn;
desperate for the light.

http://margoroby.com/2015/06/09/poem-tryouts-dream-symbols/

The sound of noise

Endless in vibrations,
constantly they beat,
frequencies berated;
loudly do they meet.

Slowly in the gathering,
sounds do fully rise,
turning into noise;
why are we surprised?






https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/09/noise/

Obscure

Obscure I found your message,
uncertain, not defined, and in
the shuttered meaning, your
thoughts were not refined.

Communication limited, in
words which could not reach,
like buried stars in galaxies,
the black holes did beseech.

Guarded were your utterings,
implied and deep concealed,
ambiguous and shrouded,
our love could never heal.

Those covert sullen memories,
and cryptic, private thoughts,
were held in realms divided,
no matter how I sought.

In enigmatic wanderings,
I followed you so far and
lost myself in darkness;
remote and selfish wars.

Undisclosed and undivulged,
was how you really felt,
passions blocked and dying;
all hopes did slowly melt.

Impassable the boundaries,
disguised the limits known,
secluded in my agonies;
the future cruelly gone.

Days were deeply buried,
nights were camouflaged,
hours were hushed eternally;
I wept in veiled quiet.

 

childhood

Trying to make sense of a world
where things changed, and so
did places and people; new homes
and different emotions and responses,

unexpected, unexplained, and where
the child was often mother, caring
for the mother, and the children,
separated from the games and the

opportunity for playing; held in
realms of imagination as she washed,
scrubbed, polished, cooked and
tended to younger siblings, only

rarely, realising the sun shone on
bare skin and the clouds shook
themselves against glorious blue,
folding in and around with a soft

caress, and tender gathering, like
the blossoms on the fruit trees in
Spring, and the golden shudder
of leaves falling in Autumn, and

all of it compressed into tight,
cold Winters, huddled next to an
open fire, knowing the worn lino
would be freezing to bare feet,

each morning, and the gas
shower would explode in rage
when lit, thundering into being
like so many others in that world

of the child, in that place where
laughter could catapult through
tender bellies, and smiles draw
wide enough to let in hope, and

allow forgetting, even as raw
chillblains throbbed on the long
walk to school, and dreams kept
step to hold the days in place,

to stitch with steady thread, the
liquid, crystal song of magpies,
and the redolent perfume of
eucalypt: memory embroidered.








How did you spend your childhood
and early adolesence? Let’s hear about your

https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/08/theres-no-place-id-rather-be/

Gift

Place within so hidden,

abstract, yet defined,

intensity of being;

so is the Soul refined.

Life can maim the senses,

reduce the self to nought,

render us defenceless;

so our fate is brought.

Embossed is inner mind,

with psyche surely split,

corroded is all hope;

revealed the hidden gift.

https://imprompt.wordpress.com/2015/06/06/build-your-own/

 

A rose by my name

Photo: Starting school at age five.

A ROSE BY MY NAME

My name means rose,

a flower of succulent

beauty, nestled above

sharp thorns, ready to

protect and preserve.

 

Roslyn, as the Brahmins

say, the Almighty has

permanent abode, in

the heart of the silver

Rose, and it connects

 

to the Solar Wheel of

the Horizon, and holds

as Virgin Sophia and

the Rose of Sharon, to

ancient realms and as

 

a sign, of heavenly grace,

a name my mother saw

on a signpost near home,

as Rosslyn Place, and

deemed it right for her

 

first daughter, removing

one 's' to lessen confusion

given the surname was

Ross, although, even then

she had gifted her child

 

a name to confuse others,

when it was shortened,

as names always are in

Australia, to a repetition

of sound and syllable,

 

as if, somehow the name

might be forgotten, or

for the sake of soul-work

needed to be repeated, and

consistently affirmed. 

Ros means dew, and hill;

that place where the white

horse roams, and Urus, the

bull, carries the Christ child,

as Horus of the Horizon.

Behind it stands Hilda,

the goddess as guardian,

and warrior; she who is

known as battle woman,

saint and protector - a

 

name gifted from both

grandmothers, although

one long dead, before the

birth, and the other, just

a few years later when

 

barely known, but still

recognised. A name to

be hated as a child and

honoured and appreciated

as an adult when the true

 

meaning had been found,

and that sense gained of

maternal guardians always

on watch, to collect the

petals as they slowly fell,

 

and to nourish each new

breath of bud and life,

blooming as Ross, that

headland of Soul, blood-

red promontory of being,

 

drawn from the Gaelic,

through Russian and

Greek, and known by the

Norse as Hrossay, horse

island, and also to others

as the rough, scaly matter

on the surface of the bark

of trees: all gifts woven

as spells in the life of a

newly born girl-child.

NB: Written for a prompt asking about our names.

Divinity

Absorbed the inner moment,
intensively engaged, engrossed
in soul creation; utterly required.
Deeply drawn to hidden depths,
places dark and wild, thus the
Self is sourced; thoroughly derived.
Frantic is the journey through,
fear walks by her side, as mind
is made eternal; divinity inspired.
http://www.threewordwednesday.com/2015/06/3ww-week-no-430.html?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=email&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+ThreeWordWednesday+%28Three+Word+Wednesday.%29