Why am I hear ?
Why must my body endure this ?
I know what I must do
Shut it all off
That's what I must do
What i always do
And I'll do it
I keep staring into space
I feel lost
Usually my mind is everywhere
Now I can't find it
Just like my emotions
Just like my humanity
May life on this earth carry you on its wings through its storm,
May it let you drift on its gentle breeze,
May it nurture you like a mother her child,
May it caress you like a lover holds another,
May it open your eyes to the beauty that is all around,
May it fulfil you, spreading through your body like the warm glow of the sun,
May it be yours, your adventure, your journey of freedom and unforgettable beauty,
May it let you grow, give you roots and allow you to fly,
May it show you how to dance in the rain and swim in the deepest Ocean,
May it let your heart find unconditional love, within itself, within another,
May it give you pure bliss, peaceful moments and an endless song of laugher,
May it be the journey that leaves the most colourful tattoos on your soul.
There are, dear daughter, oceans between us
(At your insistence, though I say this without rancor)
A buffer from the memories of our sad antics,
Pottery reduced to shards, doors slammed in such a manner
That the very jambs ached in regret,
The hinges wept in the weight of their sadness,
Though the human heart, mapped by its own wan geography,
Is immune to such trifles as mere distance.
We have tarried in foul gardens of sophistry,
Engaged in predictable shows of dramatics,
As if our outbursts can be measured in some calculus
Seeking to ascertain our devotion
In the rending of garments, the shrieking collapse upon the floor,
For it has been revealed to me
That the spectacle of our grand lamentations,
Worn by us like the finest silver-threaded garments,
Are no more than the strutting and preening
Of some noisome, foul peacock.
No, we must accept, indeed embrace, the notion
That our love is as imperfect as our selves,
And that we must approach its altar
Not with grandiloquence and haughty pomp,
But meekly, bearing the simple gift our person
Modestly cloaked in the simple black gown of humility.
this morning started in Italic-
rivulets of soft rain rebelling
joining forces in a barrel
sounding an echoed chant
bold-print and sun bright be
when magic, through fingers, slips
and those fairy wings feel clipped
let go that pitter-patter of pity
Ariel, sans-serif, bound no more
a lion, lambent, unto its end's
into a flight of clouds and more
grasping as above, so amend
We're sand, you know
Slipping through splayed fingers
Are but ash filled bubbles
Carried upon the lilac,
rough winds of May
Blown by peach faced children
Sensitive to the human touch
Grasped too hard,
And a poets heart
Should we fall,
As we so often do
We can't be caught
Promiscuous in our words
Faithful, in our dreams
Ash filled bubbles
Eternally in May and lilac~A
Still pale grey earth is turned,
Deep is the loam moisted,
Lone by the Ploughman.
The rows of the brushed patches,
Sweating the breakneck blood,
Are painted by labours.
Messiah doors out cathedral,
With iron plod anoints the soil,
Exposed unto mercy sun.
His hands are knobbed in stone,
His eyes searing of the star,
His face dark as deep loam.
Each day ablutions of sod earth,
Heaved out tilling unfree wills,
Burdens of harnessed beast.
Dark is the turned loam moisted,
Water flame heat of veined mist,
Seeds sown explode to bloom.
After thorny works, crowned blood,
Sun leaves to wine red fruition,
Ploughman maker is done.