Throw the thoughts

Throw the thoughts beyond
the rim of mind, let nothing
dribble back along its edge,
for in dismissal we can make

our way, refusing to be held
to broken pledge. In life we
have the option to believe,
or not, as we would choose

or wish to be, and in that
act of independent thought,
we weave the ladder which
can then slow draw, us to

the top, of this engulfing
pit, whose promise has
been written truly deep, by
others who would tell us

who we are and what we
are allowed to be, tight fit;
for only in our stitch and
trim of self, will we find

truth, and shape to haul
beyond this place, in full
redeeming of our natural
cause; lie naked at the top

in sweating flesh, where
mind and soul embrace
in deepest love. So does
the pit still beckon, even

as we rest above. For
always is that drop into
the depths, beside us, in
a breathless wait of time-

such is the way of life and
surely death, and ever was
from truly ancient rhymes:
forgotten they still sigh.

https://dversepoets.com/2020/04/30/open-link-night-we-are-listening/#comment-215509

Locked

The walls confine collected,
in times of troubled days,
revealing lines defective,
within my mind and ways.

Song

Song of life is singing,
carolling uncontrolled,
careering through the
senses; sanity absolved.

Impermanence

Did I know, in that
first moment, it
would not last, and
that each beat of
the dream, was
being counted by
the Fates, in sure
steady diminishing
of what was? How
can anyone know
what the future
holds, or if, the
deep being of this
Now will endure?
It is in the green
fields of the wild
unknown, that we
lose ourselves, as
we must on this
pure, painful, and
irrevocably human
voyage of becoming.
To know is to lose
the ways of dreams
and hope, and to tie
ourselves to some
thing which may
be no more than a
sojourn on the path
of our lives. That
which makes our
hearts beat sure
and steady, cannot
be known, for then
time stops....... and
the gift we have is
in collecting those
stopped moments.

Red Rose

Drowned in scarlet
is the rose, releasing
sweet perfume, calling
to the butterflies, and
serenading bees. So
this ancient flower,
fluffs petals to the
wind, unravels from
the bud, blossoms on
a whim. Delicate but
strong, rooted to the
earth; spiked through
stem and twig, glory
surely birthed. Aeons
in the making, ages
lost in dreams, so the
rose in redness spreads,
opens wide; redeems.

https://dversepoets.com/2020/02/18/poetics-to-be-a-flower/#comment-201578

Called

The moment called,
convincing, with
resolute disdain, of
shattered hopes and
fantasies, where no
thing did remain.
And so the hours
quiet, the minutes
in tight step, as days
disdjointed cowered;
with sanity bereft.
The moment called,
forgiving, with no
thing to be read, and
yet the face of death
revealed, so much was
left unsaid; remote
and falling quickly,
through lost and
torrid times, the step
was taken slowly,
toward new life,
new mind. As if
within the calling,
all tears were left
behind, with little
to remember; and
so is fate enshrined. 

Bushfire

Consuming and devouring,
the fire chews through the
land, and belches black
envelopings; allows no

life to stand. For in the
raging moments, where
blazing roars to life, we
are just puny humans, in

Nature's burning hands.
As awe does rise with
courage, they hold the
flimsy line, defending

and preparing, to flee
in given time. But in
those very moments
Australians we stand,
and face the truth of

fire, as it transforms
the land; in greedy
dance eternal, it has
brought what we see,

and made us all its
servants; this land of
fire and dreams. Where
smoke is but a garment

some seasons always
wear, and aeons of
this story, still written
deep, declare, that

in the great South
Land, the god of fire
bestows, both misery
and blessing, on all
who call it home.