Sunday, October 15, 2017

Possible




The route we take is written,
no dearth of chances there,
what's possible is limited,
by natures individual, the

bulk of being long decided,
the stars do tweak the light,
but some pretense can drug
our minds, and challenge

who we are. It is in time
still teeming, the challenge
of our lives, we jump into
our being, and shock the

stories blind. For who we
are was long ago, the story
that we wrote, and sealed
in life material, on which

we make our notes. The
play of life is staged and
set, as we decreed and so,
each soul incarnates now:

we live so we may  know.

https://sundaywhirl.wordpress.com/2017/10/14/wordle-322/

Friday, October 13, 2017

The ground


I stood upon the ground where they had been,
among the fallen stones and dark timbers,
and dreamt of life as they had known it once;
now gone, all broken, dispossessed around,
as detritus and ruin of a home once loved.
So did my ancestors still speak through rubble
and whisper dreams in ever-spreading dust.

There was no trace of life as they had lived,
mementos gone and attributes of being, all
carried off, or broken where they stood by
driven days and yearning years, held up in
mortal months where lack of human hand
decreed, they could not last and hold their
shape, no matter how much one may wish.

Cobbled into being through the mind and
heart, scrabbled from the ebb and flow of 
dregs, imagined shape of something now
long disappeared, was all which could be
summoned from the screed past did fling
in casual summons at my feet; daring me
to bring back what was irrevocably lost.

Only in the whims and dreams of fancy
can we recreate our history, and even 
then it holds no true form beyond poor
imagining and futile yearning, for what
is gone is always gone, unless it lives
eternal in a place beyond this jigsaw of
material, and for that, there is no proof.

https://dversepoets.com/2017/10/12/chaucerian-stanza-or-rhyme-royal/

Tuesday, October 10, 2017

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.

 

Sunday, October 8, 2017

Feast


 

 

Feast of life does generate,

 the way to study time, and

 then to laugh and find escape,

 to sack the days not born.

 

The veins of soul lie empty,

 the Self no more than ghost,

torn the days of memory;

 heart's engine, broke and lost.

 

 So do the years then gather,

 rejoice in all that's been,

 call upon fate's angels,


 to close the gaps between.

Tuesday, September 26, 2017

In the missing

It is in the missing that I find you,
in that place of absence, the shape
of loss, the void which remains
when you are not here, which holds

to itself, your form and substance,
moulded into my very being, drawn
finely with the hand of love, ensured
in firm presence of remembering -

that place which holds the truth, not
so much of who you are, but of who
I am, in ways which do not exist for
any other person I have ever known,

born deep in mutual liking, enduring
passion, connectedness through many
years and eternal moments, enduring:
it is in the missing that I find you.

Friday, September 22, 2017

Unity


Unity curls beckoning finger,
summoning psyche to attend,
requiring that Self and Soul
be joined, as one, and where

the many can be made as
one, united in that universe,
of human nature, that sure
reflection of consciousness

made manifest in the unique
and the particular, of many
worlds joined in circling
certainty, turning star-like

around and around in the
galaxy of eternal creation,
where the wonder and the
beauty of you and me is

drawn into meaningful
and purposeful, expression
of particularity and the
personal; from the source.

https://dversepoets.com/2017/09/21/open-link-night-204/

 

Wednesday, September 20, 2017

Questions

Is this world exactly as we see it,
or is it as we think it should be,
and in the doing, make it manifest
in ways beyond our imagining?

Is there such a thing as sound if
there is no ear to hear it, or is what
we call sound, no more than invisible
waves, rolling out from circumstance?

Is love real in the ways that we believe,
or, is it a need, desire, determination
to connect, hardwired into us before
we are born and in need of a name?

Is the past a reality, formed and held
enduring, in some unseen place, beyond
our ability to know other than fragments
of that which we call memories?

Is there anything which we can claim
is absolutely real, or is all that we feel,
see, experience, no more than intangible
workings, which blink in and out of being?

Is there an answer to all of our questions,
or, just more questions, lingering in the
darkness, waiting for the light of curiosity
to shine, brightly but briefly upon them?



https://dversepoets.com/2017/09/19/the-answer-is-42/