What is small
  with that I can cope
bigger than others
I don't ever hope

life should not be
a tight walking-rope
the garment of humility
in that I should always robe

The seas, the mountains, the hills the fields,
the trees, the flowers----they are their own inspiration-
they are unlike us humans--the strugglers
who end up in endless perspiration

It is over-doing
that results in
the undoing

Absent of force
    or will
    wisdom rises
    from being still

Beware of the mind
        much deception there
        you would find

Some search here,
others, there
ending up
in nowhere

the answer
is in the self
which covers
everywhere

Be empty
     it is fullest-plenty

There's nothing
to hang up
or anything
to lay down
words are paltry
they scatter as dust
in the wind of day
by night totally flushed
into oblivion

there's no reason
to explain nor
to attribute blame
life is just a nameless game
excuses and masks
are what people most trust
into such mould
we are carelessly ******

what's to be further said
of this perennial camouflage?
draw down the curtain
let's  shut up!

No hour
is fully lived
behind it leaves
a lacuna

incomplete
the kiss
too soon
parted are lips

joy slipping
through fingers
half sipped
it's all over

love shivers
doubts what's to follow
life shrouded in mysteries
none does truly know.

Love at 40 is different
from that of 20's
  at 60,  different from 40's
and,  at 80
  it forgets
  all that which went before

Too many options
should be undesired
they weaken in sequence
one or two is enough to be desired

attention to beauty, love and truth
should be steadfast and not be scattered
wavering, loosening or doubting
but leads to being smothered.

A drop in the sea
but felt and remembered
purified by the sublime
fortified by the sacred-

its home is where
love- and- beauty bred
time shall not look away
as its wonders richly spread.

But for denial
how many
would survive?

an inner fortress
built from deception
self-sanctified

reality is enemy
sharp is its teeth
too deeply it does bite

fair haven embedded
beyond the world's sight
the safest place to hide.

Would you be able
  to pierce your way
through the fog?

Force would not do
nor will---what is required
is your imagination

that cuts through reason
nestled in intuition
born from inner vision

clear the mind of mist and doubt
walk in the light and mystique of silence
the fog would fade away as illusion

Husband's winter poem
read to wife of sixty years
she listens in tears

Echoes of violin
drifting o'er mountain and field
fade in winter night

Baby is asleep
    soldier's wife re-reads letter
    tears well in her eyes

Barren winter beach
      waves lash at silent seashore
      flight of pelicans

Last flower on stem
     trees shaken by roaring storm
     piles of yellow leaves

Flickering night lamps
   bashing sound of winter rain
   mothers' lullabies

Melbourne is asleep
Covid lurks in winter time
night is freezing fear

Postman drenched in rain
rushing to drop the letters
he forgot his lunch

Peace reigns o'er village
    cottages with shut windows
    hushed children's voices

Early winter snow
  hailstones fall on lonely field
  hibernating birds

I shun every theory
    it always makes me teary.

Life is the manuscript
time is the narrator
only the individual
is the listener

the narrative changes
chapter by chapter
most do not speak
in favour of the owner.

Let us not come together
it would spoil the day
our thinking is poles apart
we argue over every word we say-

I should be by myself
though I err, here I'll stay
may fair winds guide your course
as we each walk our own way

The seen is less beautiful
than the unseen--as is love--
its outward appearance
is but a pale reflection
of the intrinsic
that is within

love should be
beyond words
it is most eloquent
in its silence

Pull me
into your tides.
I want to
get lost
in your water (copyright of Erin Riley)

May I add?

Let me drown
drown happily
unto that watery ecstasy
that is but you and me
the ocean never dies
and in that drowning
we are made eternal
love knows no dying

What is denied
is most desired

Am I the problem
or is it you?
'both' is the answer
nothing could be more true.

I like the mundane, ordinary and trivial
it saves me from waxing foolishly philosophical

Every poem of yours
is an enduring melody
in my saddest and loneliest hours
they soothe and comfort me.

The day
is a reminder
the past should
have been lessons learnt
but too often
we walk away
in apathy
we don't bother

weeds have overtaken
the neglected garden
once our most cherished treasure
we are loathed to revisit
we continue to live in error

the day
is a memory
of yesterday-
a litany of
broken promises
blemished hopes
ruins of dreams
that come together

the day
how do
I make it
my redeemer?

Christian, thanks for your comment.  I am patient and humble, so I learn--all the time. Poetry, as life is, is an unbridled democracy; every poet's voice is unique and helps us feel and understand life and ourselves better for which we should always be grateful; writing is a journey without end just as our experiences are;  we distil and purify our thoughts and feelings in expressing our deepest self;  every sentiment that comes from the sincerity of the heart is worth being expressed;  writing also links us to common humanity; life has its beauty and joy, its darkness and sorrow but we accept such which is the measure of our true humanity--it is this juxtaposition that gives life its fullest meaning and impenetrable mystery; in joy, let us hold it gently and gratefully, in sorrow, let's accept it humbly and without rancour or bitterness--if we can do this,  life would not seem to be an existential angst and we would not have lived in vain.  With best wishes, Peter writing from Melb, Friday 26th June,  2.15 pm

..but so many years
have been wasted
and what's left
is but fragments
and vestiges
of once-treasured
hopes and dreams
the past has broken loose
and spoken in derision
love is silent and forlorn--

how the heart
has forgetten
each moment
is so dear and precious
delicate and brittle
too prone to quicken
time is insidious
it takes away in envy
what we have neglected
it couldn't care less

it was spring then,
it sang it danced, it invited
us to share its happiness
its reaching out
was unrequited

and now l
ife is covered
with thickest snow
to walk upon
is to fall-- we've
nothing to hold
on --in the deadening cold

beauty has aged
and is weary
her eyes are deep-sunken
her heart is bolted
all love she has forgotten
she will not walk
the path of pain anymore
life has drawn
its line
and its curtain
has fallen.

Tend it, do tend it well
  with fulness of heart--every cherished idea
  the shredding of the impatient years
  would not cause it to fade or wither-

  love and beauty shall endure
  past scenes of delight they'd remember
  dreams and hopes they would gather
  into a bouquet---in every rapture and grandeur.

Poetry I've written
for as long as I could remember
  a 'poet' I still qualify not
honesty bids--perhaps never-

a glow-worm's light does flicker
only faintly---it is not a beaming star
however hard it might endeavour
it could never fly high nor far.

Life doesn't speak
it knows not how
lest it were to displease
with no favours to endow

it's not our duty
not then, not now
to coax or chide
to none would it bow

In the present we exist
  but are brought to bear
  on other days---what do
  they say and convey?

  Were they better or worse
  and in what way?
  mighty is their hold
  they will stubbornly stay.

  The mind is somehow locked
  in other days---even yesterday-
  events are imprinted in its template
  images are embedded and don't go away.

  Love is best remembered
  and more refulgent in other days
  when the heart was overjoyed
  and knew its rightful place.

Everything is a beginning
  the start is a leading-on
  to another --giving birth
  to a ceaseless continuum
  a thought, an act, a meeting
  in time--each bears a meaning
  life is thus summarised
  in moments tied to a chain
  mostly a struggling for being

  and what shall be said
  of love and loving?
   will it take off
   and retain its blooming?

   how then should
  it be defined--the ending?
  only that it will be seen
  through the eyes
  of the beginning.

Even nature does feel lonely
   can you not hear its silent sigh?
   the eyes of the world have turned away
   its beauty unnoticed by the passerby.

    It has a heart like our own
    it's no alien to sorrow and does cry
    as we humans fall into restful sleep
    its wailing is heard even by the night sky.

   It knows of no friend
   holds only time as ally
   they share the feeling
  of growing old and why

  their destiny should be so
  they understand not-  by
  the side of despair they gather
  with tears that do not dry

They praise multi-tasking
   that's not for me
   can't be watching TV
   when I'm writing poetry.

   I'll listen well
  to what you are speaking
  will not heed my mobile's ringing
  I frown upon multi-tasking.

  It's such a daily pleasure
  sitting before the table-- eating
  the papers are full of Covid 19 news
  I desist such reading.

  Loving one's spouse is fidelity
   multi-loving is adultery
   ( no doubt, also moral bankruptcy!)
   I do hope you'll agree with me.

The day I need for living
but more the night
my burden I'll then set aside
when none is in sight

the roar of waking hours
incessant chatter of those around
the gossip, the hype and the envy
never a pleasant or welcoming sound

city-life, towering high-rise
Rolls-Royces, boutiques, grand cafes
leading brand-names,  flashy aristocrats
top business-names---  million-dollar pays

to all that a stranger am I
Mozart I'll bend towards, poetry I'll write
with none or whatever I need not vie
this simple life I live is just right.

What do her lipsticks
speak of her character?
why has she chosen
that particular colour?

What is she signifying
I look and I wonder
is she trying
to ****** a lover?

Why do men
some colour prefer?
are lipsticks disguised
love-poems?  So many surrender

Without logic or reason
to an unknown wearer
no psychologist am I
to such mystery I can't answer.

To Love or Not to Love
Is the question*

May I add

If I love
would that be the solution?

We should inspire
before we expire

MEMORIES--dedicated to all of you

Do you not remember
our school- days of long ago
when our hearts were so eager
and bold, and knew no sorrow?

Did our feelings then not gather
to chase after love in its sweetest glow
when to some faces we did surrender
and we were caught in that amourous throe?

But time has spoken, each chapter
has its changes wrought, all that we now know
youth is a fleeting dream, its resplendent flower
has withered in the no-longer green meadow.

Yet, no tears need be shed-- not ever
the years have wisdom bred--  tomorrow
will herald in calm acceptance for the better
and days of peace and joy will continue to follow.

There's nothing
to deny
all that which
reality is
stares squarely
in our face--
that we can't miss-
each life verily
is a hidden story
every chapter
a changing phase

what shall
it be?

for most-
the tedium of day
the perennial grind
of vexatious time
is the dreary outcome

the existentialist
seeks escape
but finds no door
and is trapped

some eagerly
look beyond
but can't rid
themselves
of angst and doubt
nothing they could grasp

the hedonist does
gratification seek
after the surfeit
finds no appropriate
words to speak
waiting for the next round
the staleness to repeat

who knows
the secrets
of each heart?

who knows
what drives
the other person
to despair
that tears him apart?

ah, the sad music
of  humanity
the common regard

thus is left
the happy few
who have acquired
life's living art-
simplicity to pursue
wanting nothing much
each moment savoured
by love and beauty's
tender touch
the dross is done
away with
the grain is separated
from the chaff
they live well indeed
those who follow
the humble ways
of the heart.

Realisation is rare, so rare
and arrives too late
the harvest is over
nothing is left to celebrate

the face of youth was once
so refulgent-  lips were passionate-red
hearts were in love-waiting
many lonely tears had been shed

the flowers of spring have withered
their petals are strewn on the silent meadow-bed
love-serenades are no longer repeated
dreams and hopes once cherished are now dead

romance that has been sadly lost
in reminiscences has turned to hate
beauty has hidden away and longs
for oblivion-- closed is its love-gate.