My friend came by the other day.
As a leaf in the wind he has blown
From street to street
            Town to town.

A wanderer he may be
but not at heart.
He longs to be attached to a tree
                             Any tree.

In spring and summer the leaves are green
                                        And
       attached.

Summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                      Prepares for winter.

My friend, the dry brown leaf
Blows in his perpetual autumn.

We all grow in our own time and season:

Winter dormancy

         Spring regeneration

                   Summer fulfillment

                             Fall  preparing for the
                                                  
            Inevitable
season of death.

These  seasons of the soul
Are the very essence of our existence.

They teach us

                        Temper us

                                   Fulfill us.

But there are those who do not see
The purpose of the seasons.
To them winter means only

                             Cold

                                       Snow

                         Desolation.             

Spring means only

           Rain

                    Mud

                               Flooding.

Summer means

                             Beauty to mock
                                The heart in winter.

I trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
Nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

Let the l
               e
                   a
                 f
fall to the ground.
Let it rot into cold

                                  Stark

                    Winter

Desolation.

Spring will come.

Bleak gray will become bright colours
                  Of spring.

The beauty will fade again but will
Reappear in winter's own stark beauty
Though it may be cold and gray.
Then spring will come.

          Spring will come!!!

A little girl in handmade dress.
           Black shoes with  
White knee-high stockings.
                       Shy eyes framed
By and hiding behind
            Long  curly
            Blonde locks,
Waiting with me at
                   The bus stop
Each school morning.

Vulnerable  
             Protected from the harsh
Outside world.
               But nothing can completely
Shut out its
                             Cruel essence.

The outside
                       Can creep in or the
Inside holds dormant
                      Outside influence
Like the eggs of the proverbial tree
                      Lizard laid among  eggs in a
Bird's nest  
             Remaining dormant to eventually
Hatch to feed on the newly born fowl.

Faith soothes the pain
                     By daily standing
On the sidelines
                     Of the pantomime
Of the mundane

As lush dense
Ivy reaches
                         For the sky but must
First slowly crawl
                              Over a cold
Gray wall of stone  
                               Reaching
For dreams and ideals
                          Once clearly seen
On the horizon of the
                      Unobscured  plains
Of childhood.
                    A bit harder at the myopic
Foothills of youth.  
                       Now harder than ever

At the jagged  
                  Snowcapped mountains of
Adulthood.

The curly locked
                             Little girl still lives
After all these years.  
                             Lives on to
                         Balance the weight
Of disappointments
                    Compressed by daily
Reminders of that

Once dormant inside
                       Influence unleashed
In the innermost
                      Sanctity of trust.

Lives
In the security
                        Of ideals gradually
Becoming reality.

                       That place in the heart
That no one can touch  
                             That no one can
Invade.

Thank God that home is where the heart is!

                     ¤¤¤

Yesterday
The streets were wider
Now they're narrow
I would go
To the place of mystery
Is gone

Truths revealed
The wide-eyed wonder
Of a child has seen
Into the eyes
Of that distant dream
I had dreamt
The visions
Of a peaceful life

I live
The remnants
Of that child's
Dreams come true

Take my hand
And take my feet
On the paths
That no one
Has tread before
No one knows the pain
That dreamer's feel

I cross these rivers
Deep and wide
I search through
Valleys deep and wide
The other side starts
Where each new day begins

Now today
I will walk the streets
Of yesterday have passed
Into a new beginning
Is in what I see

From the bridges
On the rivers
That flow from yesterday
It's clear
That I am dreaming
My reality

Dreams are real
Make them happen
As a child
Plays the games
That are reality
At any age.

The wishing well has done its part

Now still its water's lie.  

The reasons for the darkest nights

Come as the Dawn draws nigh.

Here I am bleeding again
Taken aback by mortal fear.
                     Staring at faith
                   Staged by hope--
Pouring rain on visceral cage–
               The sound of deep
                       Calling to deep.

Repressed feelings buried by time.
Epitaph reads on the forgotten grave:

"Here lies the child now grown.
  His hopes and dreams
       Dashed to pieces.
  This is where the child died."

I often hear the Mystic Keeper
        Calling from night
And tradition calling from artificial light

As I run through scorched barren
                          Fields of doubt.

Walking barefoot over these coals
    Crouching low
                   To hide my eyes

As I run    
         And as I hide    
  From what has already been revealed--
The tombstone says it all.

When I am out on the water
Lost in the Channel fog
I often see fleeting glimpses of
                White cliffs of hope
Like the white cliffs of Dover
Shining on the edge of Melancholy Sea. 
But they often turn out to be
Withered white
     Seeds of religious platitudes.

      And then there is the ready reflection
Of the looking glass
        That often tricks the beholder.
For in it truth is not seen.
What is seen is graffiti of soul
       Hiding the crumbling
                         Cracks of age–

The threshold where
         Sanity meets its end.

Isolation has become
       A shining steel blade
Cutting deep
    Into the heart of hearts.

Nothing lives after amputation.
Depending on emotional prosthetics--
Phantom pain
                  When nothing is there.

But in the midst of these devastations
I am learning to take--

     Howbeit reluctantly--

The hand of trust and grace;
Allowing
            Hope to build
      A fortress for dreams…
Set boundaries better
       Than no control at all.

Our tidal orphan has but
Reflected light to offer
As does a monolithic orphanage
With cold harsh policies
Being furtively undermined
By beautifully wise children.

And you and me are still
Young enough to really live
We are simply melding
Into another season of emotion
The years are just beginning
To gray what they have claimed
And have been allowed to claim

The wind blows away what it can--
What cannot be tied down

Keep whispering
Your soul into my soul
Keep primal scream tears          
Falling into my primal soul

Keep filling up the empty spaces
Keep creating empty spaces

Tearing down the vacant walls
Building up new walls

Opening locked doors
Locking others in turn

As we forever transform together
Under the aegis of the Immortal

As we grow like the roots
Of the banyan tree

Hanging down with the branches
Helping to provide shelter
As we slowly grow closer
To the sweet earth
In silent anticipation
Finally touching
Slowly penetrating
Gently pushing deeper
Until we are of one purpose

Deeply rooted by the banks
Of the Eternal River
That descended from heaven
And flows through
Human spirit transformed

Life-giving water running slow
And deep the source of your whisper--
True essence in deepest longings

Flowing into my source
Pockets of holy energy overflowing
Slowed down to a trickle at times
Going full circle and
                                     Back and forth
From out of reach channels

That something deep beyond
                     The starry masses

That something some call love

That something some call God

That something flowing & living
                                  In me & you.