Monday, June 30, 2014

The way of words

The way of words directs ever onwards and discreet,
stepping light and gingerly inviting time, a pace to keep,
holding to the edges of gravelled paths and yet,
wandering through shrubbery, tangled and ill kept.

Through the shadowed drift of leaf and twig they hide,
revealed, then disappearing, vain and then so shy,
creeping slow through light, striding into darkness,
so can they bring justice and deliver some redress.

Dressed in garments light and heavy, hot and cold,
robed as angels, demons ... more do they unfold,
marching, weaving, dancing, flying into being,
carrying our messages as pure, symbolic seeing. 

Friday, June 27, 2014

Da, da, da

Da, da, da, danced leaping lettered life,
song-constructed, washed solid, born
in mortality, re-made, brittle clouds, as
blackened sun, turning through the
realms of wild imagination, powdered
tears, delightful fears; minuet of
moments made of ice, frozen in fire,
draining diamonds through the crust
of frothing leaf, obedient tree, waiting
for the sound of re-awakened death;
Saturn smiles in steady drum, da, da

The Path

The path within winds slow and tremulous,
pushing ever forward, following animal tracks,
lined with needled thorns of doubt and fear;
stained with tears of wine which drown lost facts.

The lamp is lit to cast ephemeral, distant shadows,
flickering darkly at the breast of sorrowed dreams,
washing joyful in that sweep of untamed grief;
so do we make our way, as grace does lightly keen.

The heart is held accountable in art's broad palm,
with whispered prayers to seek what has been lost,
until is found in strange and distant foreign lands,
the door which leads to life at all and any cost.

Inspired by words on:

 The path to your door
Is the path within,
Is made by animals,
Is lined by thorns,
Is stained with wine,
Is lit by the lamp of sorrowful dreams,
Is washed with joy,
Is swept by grief,
Is blessed by the lonely traffic of art,
Is known by heart,
Is known by prayer,
Is lost and found,
Is always strange,
The path to your door.

Thursday, June 26, 2014

October Evening on the River

They've taken down
the shining light,
and over-day the river,
has returned to its
blackened, hidden self.

In that place of dreams,
night beds down,
forgetting tides and flow,
calling to the darkness,
arched as innocent surrender,
true to sightless possibility.

 Nothing seen, just imagined,
sounds of suckling mud,
as it flows, out of sight,
drifting in that way 
of pure, and endless being.

I step into the dream and 
have no questions, for all
may yet be made ready,
for the chill kiss of dawn,
revealing what has been 
born in ebony caverns. 

 Ephemeral the figures move,
drawn from Akashic realms,
dipping trailing fingers 
into the wash of waves;
allowing the drown of 
becoming, to release, 
bequeath, unknown treasures.

'What have you found?'

 The voice rides liquid crests,
somnolent, searching, sighing,
at the breast of Soul;
deliquescent dressing drench
of formless, rich potential.

'I found myself.'

 Evening moon glittering
on strewn harvest of 
luscious river weeds.......


They've taken down
the summer dams.
Over-night the river
has returned to its
drained and naked self.

In a dreamscape of loss,
the river’s bed has been
abandoned by water hurrying
away to the ocean,
leaving the dregs of a
false lover's lust.

It is a bed of muddy stones.

Far out on the bereft channel
a silhouetted man bends,
picking up things,
examining them.

I step out across the slippery rocks,
and ask, “What are you finding?”

“Pretty stones,” he says, “Indian beads…
This river’s been running for thousands of years.”

“You’re finding Indian beads?”

“Ah, sure, “ he says,
digging in his frayed pant’s pocket,
extracting a bent nail, a penny,
a paper clip, a common stone…
"Guess they’re in my knapsack”, he shrugs,
gesturing at the pack on his back.

“Okay," I say, sensing it time to wander away.

As I step back across the rocky sludge,
he calls, "I found a diamond once…"

"All right!" I respond,
and look at the muck
of the river bed,

morning sun glistening off
the dying river weeds…


Shattered, sharp, discordant glint deciding,
holding pattern cruel, the truth deriding,
so is broken on the floor of bitter time,
that which once I held and did call mine.

Edges lethal, splintered, awful suffering,
displayed in chaos, grief in purest uttering,
in that jigsaw which is mind and self,
mocking all that was - fragmented hell.

Tears fell on the glittered, brutal shapes,
washing dreams reflected, out of place,
searing in that acid drip of mournings,
nothing left but deadly pieces - teasing.

Wednesday, June 25, 2014

To ripen soul

Tears are washing, sloughing memory, drawing blinds on swollen eyes,

cleansing the defective, rubbing omen stains through hours that ring

hollow in the emptied shell, that waste of love which life was steering;

the bitter fruit is silent, riddled with soft rot as heart's decay now lies.

Mind believed that soul stood by and spirit-filled they would be drawn,

no logic to it, no sure reason to defend when suddenly fear called,

how silly was that favourite word, so fondly said, so often - Sewanee;

pain like shell in ancient sandstone, flaked as useless,  crumbling walls.

The tree of life had grown, and gathered solid, perfect rings to hold

his image, but now, no more than mirage and nothing left but muted scent,

and the notch, he had carved, inside her heart which trust did once applaud;

how sodden all the words once said, how muddled and how cold.

Like touts, deceptive dreams did crowd around her natural, open self,

infatuation's eyes bright as shining lapiz lazuli, to tell a story captivating,

which then did transplant into waiting arms, a fantasy of what could be;

so were the stories of their love made library, arrayed upon the shelf.

So casually he crept into her world, as someone set upon such fruitful scams,

which clarity, if found would just deny, demanding shadows, darkest dusk  today,

in movements turtle slow, and barely seen, when what felt like an age had barely been;

so is it that hope can ham it up, sustains, and even as it does in time, so damns.

Regret then wrapped, in woollen shawl around her shouldered, chilling night,

rough, prickling, rubbing raw against the tender palms which had been bared,

and sorrow flowing slowly, sweet and tannin-filled, like steaming tea to please;

so was her self then vanquished, broken,  that soul might one day soon be ripe.