Folder Two
Poems from 2004 and Earlier continued:
106. Tears of the Stars
106. Tears of the Stars
Dark December skies reveal
bright pinpoints of light,
so small and far away
you think them immune
to our earthly anguish
as they spin forever
in star-filled galaxies.
I long to join their dance,
whirl like a frenzied Bacchant
intoxicated with the god,
but I remain earth-bound;
things I will never do
remind me of mortality,
of voyages never to be made,
and dreams never to fulfill.
I no longer wish upon a star,
but lock my hopes away
deep in the vault of my soul,
far from the cruel scrutiny
of those who scoff and mock.
But gazing at this winter sky,
while tears flow from my heart
I glimpse one fleeting trail of light
sent me by those distant orbs,
and can almost make myself believe
the universe is crying too.
107. The Canadian Peacekeeper: R.I.P. Cpl. Jamie Brendan Murphy
He came from a small town
along the eastern shore,
not much to do there,
no fishing anymore,
so he joined the forces
to serve and protect,
send money back home
and win some respect.
His first posting was far,
in a country unknown
where people were dying
and all hope had flown;
Peacekeepers were needed
to lend a kind hand,
bring some calm at last
to a war-ravaged land.
He made his patrols,
became friends with the kids,
had a smile on his face
for the job that he did;
he helped out the medics,
dug new sewers and wells,
and saw this poor country
emerge from its Hell.
His tour was soon over
and his family was waiting
for a homecoming party
and much celebrating,
when, out on the road,
ran a man with a bomb,
and in less than a second
our soldier was gone.
He came home with honours
in a casket of wood,
and in death he bore witness
to all that is good.
108. The Cathedral
In a grand cathedral
I lit one small candle,
its flickering light
destined to fade
within a few hours;
before your image
I briefly paused,
the burden of death
weighing me down
as never before.
All paths merge
as we journey on
to a common end;
innocent and guilty
marching together
in uneasy unison.
What lies beyond
may be everything
we have dreamed,
or nothing at all.
In a grand cathedral
set in a foreign land
I knelt in solemn prayer,
seeking guidance
to complete the voyage
that must be mine,
a journey into a darkness
I can never escape,
set in irresistible motion
from the moment of birth.
109. The Chalice: Socrates
Resplendent in gold,
no ordinary cup,
but booty from Troy
won by Greek blood,
an honoured heirloom.
A sacred purpose:
to drive out pollution
and cleanse the land,
offering libations
worthy of the gods.
He took it in his hands,
admired its brilliant sheen,
saw its noble form
and knew his duty –
to accept the drink
with humble heart
and fulfill his destiny.
He lifted the chalice
to his thirsting lips
and savoured the poison.
110. The Children Ask (Dedicated to Abused Children Everywhere)
Where do you go
when there is no place left,
when everything that mattered
has crumbled into dust,
your heart a sudden desert?
Who do you turn to
when no one is listening,
when the words you speak
drift away into a void
bereft of caring?
When do you recognize
how much has been lost,
how foolish even to suspect
the existence of love
in this hostile world?
Why do the tears still come
when crying brings more pain,
when all you truly long for
is to cast the world away
and count dry grains of sand.
111. The Christmas Song, 2010
Each day now dawns in darkness bleak
while the nights forever last,
time enough to contemplate
the weeks and months now drifted past:
the voyage to the land of ice,
its beauty stark and alien,
creatures trusting and untamed,
endangered by the greed of men;
warm days spent at the cottage
(the sun at last deigns to appear),
long walks to pass the morning,
cool nights to hold each other near;
the autumn cruise along the Rhine,
castles perched on rugged banks,
age-old churches in the towns –
I entered these to offer thanks;
the visit to Saskatchewan,
snow cascading from above,
and now the woodstove casts its glow –
Merry Christmas, my sweet love.
112. The Church in the Meadow
A stranger walked on roads
he had never trod before,
past brilliant amber cornfields
and many a farmhouse door,
past a lowing herd of cattle
that watched him as he strode,
looking for a quiet place
to put down his heavy load;
for life had not been gentle
and he had gone to war,
but told no one his sadness
or the evils that he saw,
his grief lived deep within him,
beating at his broken heart,
so now he sought a sanctum
where his demons might depart.
Then, as if his prayer was heard,
a lonely building stood ahead,
he saw the steeple rising high
amid the graves of many dead;
though no living being was there
inviting him to come within,
the door was never bolted
to any mind beset by sin,
and so he entered quietly
and to the humble altar came
to offer up his wounded soul
in his Lord’s majestic name.
Then, as his heart grew lighter,
he heard a wondrous sound,
for suddenly sweet music
was playing all around:
he heard the strings of violins,
the sound of muted brass,
and knew he was absolved
from deeds of war at last –
no longer doomed to wander
in fields where he felt lost,
his spirit once again made whole
by that haven with a cross.
113. The Circle
Encompassing all,
sheltered sanctuary,
the circle has power:
stand within and feel
the heartbeat of earth,
the pulse of the moon,
the breath of the sun;
unity surrounds us,
a force leading us forever
in the mystic dance
of ancient Bacchantes.
Surrender to the circle,
let it infuse our souls,
fill our minds with images
beyond all mortal ken,
let it join us to Creation.
114. The Clock
Tall and stately,
carved of wood
imported from afar,
a treasured heirloom
incessantly ticking away
each second of her life;
Time in its linear path
moved ever onward
in abrupt finality,
no going back,
no second chance.
Each hour it tolled,
a faithful servant
called to duty,
ever reminding her
of finite life,
of threads woven
by ancient hags
that must break.
It was not Death
that frightened her
with its endless sleep,
but rather Life –
Time thrown away,
roads not taken,
past imperfect.
And so she watched
that antique clock,
anticipating the day
it would toll no more.
115. The Clown
Ragged old clothing, torn floppy shoes,
and a bulbous red nose that shines
when the lights in the circus are low;
he doffs his shabby purple hat, bows,
and trips over his feet for laughs,
conscious of the noisy crowd inside;
picking himself up, making a rude sound,
he flaps his way into the circus bowels.
In the dark light there, he slowly removes
the comic disguise that gives him peace,
looks in the mirror, and sees only sadness;
beneath the grease paint a soul in turmoil,
wondering how life turned joy into sorrow.
Clowns, you see, are a funny breed, but
not in the expected sense: they make you laugh,
dear friends, to keep their own tears at bay.
116. The Core
In her imagination she was a speck,
a piece of cosmic dust aimlessly adrift
within a Universe of sparkling galaxies;
she would never light up the heavens,
never even briefly flare like a comet,
her existence never be noticed.
In her imagination she was invisible,
one small and useless cell in a larger body,
with no role to play in its journey through life;
evolution had rendered her superfluous,
removing any grace that once was hers
to give unto the all-important Whole.
In her imagination, she was nothing –
but her imagination told her lies,
ignored the gifts of love she gathered,
diminished what she meant to others;
and so she thought she did not matter,
when, all long, she was the core.
117. The Critic, 1
Every time you pen a poem
you rip open your heart,
allow others to see within,
to know you so intimately
you think you cannot survive;
yet you are driven to expose,
to announce to the world
the torments you have felt,
and pray they understand.
Then comes the critic:
brazen, so full of pride
that he takes great pleasure
in reducing your laboured words
to a heap of cold ashes,
unwilling even to recognize
what those words have cost you.
You consider walking away,
tired of the mocking abuse,
but you know you will not:
no critic will steal your pen.
118. The Critic, 2
A nameless man
in an unknown place
knows nothing of me,
not even my face;
reading my poems
as day becomes night,
he finds a new chord,
a tone that is right,
thinks I have done
Sappho kind service,
his praise, I admit,
is making me nervous.
But whoever you are,
I give you my thanks
for placing me
in poetic ranks.
119. The Dark Kingdom
An uncharted place, hidden within,
the Dark Kingdom of the Soul
where deep sadness rules,
a condemnation of the self.
No light can penetrate the veil
that falls upon your mind,
telling you there is no hope,
no rescue, no release.
Those outside do not fathom
the stark power of this realm,
thinking you are there by will,
and can break free at any time.
I so yearn to stand in sunshine,
to cast aside all ancient sorrows,
to look at life with laughing eyes –
but the pull of the Dark Kingdom
can only be countered by a love
that accepts the darkness in me.
120. The Door
I stand before a door
black as the moonless night,
yesterday behind me,
tomorrow not in sight,
my hand is reaching out,
my heart is saying no,
for if I pass that door
I have nowhere safe to go.
On this side is the laughter,
yet often mixed with tears,
how the gods are laughing
at these bipolar years;
on that side is the silence
I fear and yet embrace,
a numbness in my soul,
a ghost without a face.
My fingers touch the knob,
give challenge to my heart,
and I am torn in two –
unwilling to depart.
121. The Empath
So many voices calling out,
each in private torment,
despairing of release
from their living chains.
Voices flood her head,
an endless cacophony
pouncing like Furies,
desiring her blood.
Her heart wept for them,
sought to heal the wounds
and make the crying stop
before it broke forever;
but her heart was weak
and growing weary,
scarred and fractured
by her own Furies.
The dissonance grew,
cascading like a waterfall,
catching her in its grip
and sweeping her away –
so only barren rocks
heard her own death cry.
122. The End of August
The end of August blows in,
bending trees and roiling waters
that prepare for Winter's rage;
the birds of Summer depart,
leaving only memories of songs
to wake the soul in joy.
I watch as leaves change colour,
a living rainbow, soon to carpet
the cooling ground I walk upon;
even the sky seems different,
now hoarding the sunlight
as the days grow dark so quickly.
Summer stays with us too little,
a hurried guest longing for home
as savage Winter nips its heels;
in the grey months I see before me
I shall hold Summer in my mind,
a fragile flame to keep me warm.
123. The End of Time
So little time left,
to speak to you,
to hold you near
and love you;
linear lives
demand death,
our sacred return
to earth.
Each day a gift,
a flower opening
in search of sun,
fragrant;
treasure time,
not your enemy
but your lover,
embrace.
My final second
will celebrate
my existence
in triumph:
the time given me
to be with you,
to join our souls
beyond time.
124. The First Day (Beslan, Russia, September 2004)
A pinafore of flowers,
blooming in anticipation:
the first day back –
sunny days would await,
even as Autumn descended,
new friends to meet,
like a chain of daisies
reaching out in love.
In sacred ground she stood,
a pristine meadow
until the storm broke,
the thunder and lightning
of minds crazed by hate –
in the name of their children
to cut down and kill
this innocent bouquet.
125. The Foolish Tree
It stood there, in the yard,
storm after storm, bending,
but stubbornly never breaking,
determined to resist the wind
that assaulted it every winter.
It never grew tall, but struggled
simply to remain as it was,
a tree, just an ordinary tree
with nothing to make it stand out.
Its trunk became broken and scarred,
its branches twisted at odd angles,
witness to the constant battle –
even the birds ignored this tree,
deeming it unworthy for their nests.
Yet it did not care about birds
nor about those other trees –
the tall and strong ones all around
that cast their shadows long –
it simply wanted to exist.
Then one day the fiercest storm
the tree had ever seen roared
and brought it crashing down,
left it a tangled mass of limbs
lying on the snow-draped earth,
nevermore to reach towards the sky,
and then the tree began to weep,
not lamenting its fated demise,
but knowing no one ever care.
126. The Frozen Forest
Ice-coated trees
bear glistening witness
to the fury of the storm;
branches bent
in lasting deformity
proclaim nature’s might.
The forest is burdened
with winter’s breath,
groaning to be free,
to feel the warmth of spring;
its creatures are silent,
hidden in burrows,
a winter of sleep.
Yet the sun comes longer
each new day,
more light penetrates
the thick growth,
heralding the change of seasons;
the winter is long,
oppressing the earth,
but in time its cold grasp
will release the frozen forest.
127. The Importance of You
A day of frustration,
a day of madness,
and I come home
angry at the world.
But you are waiting,
a smile and a hug
greeting me at the door,
love unconditional.
I could not imagine
a life without you:
how you can heal
my jagged wounds,
and make me laugh
when I was crying,
banishing the darkness
I fear so much.
You are a gift to me,
sent by some Power
that saw my weakness,
knew my sorrow,
and took mercy on me,
showing through you
all that is good and gentle,
all that is Love.
128. The Inner Voice
It surfaced every night,
emerging from the depths
of some inner ocean
like a hostile Nautilus,
ready to engage the foe
while darkness ruled.
There was no escape:
a bombardment of words
cascading condemnation,
a voice of accusation
screaming into her mind,
ravaging her sleep.
If only she could start again,
erase all the mistakes,
mend the broken hearts,
restore the shattered dreams,
then the voice would descend,
blessed silence in its wake.
But Time, she knew, was linear,
the battles of the past lived on
and scarred each new day,
yesterday becoming tomorrow –
lost all hope to win the war
waged by that relentless voice.
129. The Invisible Woman
Look, in the corner,
a faint shadow lurks,
cast by no body
anywhere in sight;
she is invisible,
you will never see
the one she truly is,
just a phantom ghost.
But put fear aside:
she brings no harm
to any but herself,
no wounds but hers.
Keep safe her image,
guard the laughing smile
she sends to you,
let it fill your heart
and bring you joy;
all she asks in return
is the freedom
of being invisible.
130. The Joy of Madness
Being normal must be boring,
so dull from dawn to dusk,
just following the painted lines,
doing what they say you must;
a life without a touch of madness
would seem devoid of inspiration,
no sudden urge to serenade the moon,
to write love poems to constellations.
I am blessed with a mind unique,
imagining things no others can see,
burrowing deep within my manic soul
to find the spirit that is truly me;
my life will never toe the line
that other folks may each day seek,
for I would rather sit upon a cloud
and smile at being Nature's freak.
131. The Lady in Black: For V.G.
The Lady in Black is afraid
that her world is falling apart,
her pulse begins beating faster
as terror pours into her heart –
a torrent unlike any river,
sweeping all hope from its path,
leaving behind just detritus
as if from a hurricane’s wrath.
The Lady in Black sees no future,
her life just a meaningless maze,
each day proceeds like a nightmare
in which sun is conquered by haze –
a fog that descends without mercy
to keep her imprisoned in pain,
pushing away those who love her
in hope they will not come again.
The Lady in Black is unwilling
to hold out her hands in trust,
better to hide in the darkness,
surrender her flesh to the dust –
if only my voice could reach in
and tell her the things I have seen,
that life holds more beauty than death,
that fate is not sealed at eighteen.
132. The Land of Fog
The sun would never rise that day,
enshrouded in the mists of Fall,
no wind to loosen dying leaves
or bend the trees to Nature’s call;
a silence lay upon the land
as thick as fog come from the sea,
no sound to penetrate the ear
of one who walked with tears set free.
The woman held within his heart
no longer listened for his step,
no longer spoke sweet words of love,
no longer saw the tears he wept;
all that once had brought him solace
now swept away by tides of Time,
yesterday was lost in darkness,
tomorrow he despaired to find.
“If only”…how these words drew blood,
a knife that cut his soul in two,
“if only” Fate had been more kind
and held the thread when Death was due;
but wishing made no difference,
no comfort could his heart find yet,
and even in this land of fog
he knew he never could forget.
133. The Last Day of Autumn
A shroud of darkness
begins to envelop the sun,
a pale reflection lingers briefly,
then moves on,
leaves depart upon the wind,
trees, now bare,
await the onslaught
of the deadly cold.
Long gone the birds
that announce the light,
fleeing their nests
without a backward glance,
rivers breathe deeply,
fearing the cover of ice
that obscures their existence
and ends their freedom.
A sullen, gloomy landscape
takes shape in speed:
where fragile flowers once grew
now only barren earth;
Winter steals into our minds,
the darkness makes us dark -
a hibernation of the soul
until the light of Spring.
134. The Last Leaf
Alone on a hilltop
an old oak tree stood,
the marks of long ages
impressed on its wood,
its branches were bare
except for one leaf
that clung to a branch
and fought off release,
that held fast to life
despite wind and cold,
while fading from green
to mild autumn gold.
To fall to the ground
would doom it to death,
so it struggled to stay
till its very last breath,
fighting the seasons
that govern all life,
proclaiming its power
against nature’s strife;
but still the day came
when it had to let go
and touch the chill earth
that lay far below,
to decay into dust
and disperse to the sky,
where all life ascends
when time comes to die;
so mourn not its passing
and be not bereaved –
we each in our journey
must follow that leaf.
135. The Last Night
What if tomorrow never came,
if we were torn apart by death,
never again to touch each other?
As I hold you close this moment,
I feel the fragility of life,
just one breath, one heartbeat,
one second, and existence stops.
What if this were our last night?
Would I love you any more?
Say words that have not been spoken?
Look at you with different eyes?
No matter what the sunrise brings,
tonight I write upon my heart
the only thing that matters:
thank you for showing me a love
that transcends both time and space.
136. The Longest Night of the Year
The year grows tired,
surfeit of sorrow
for dreams lost
along the way;
December darkness,
shadow of Death
in fated pursuit
of each bright day.
When this dark ends
new hope arises,
seeking the light,
begging it stay,
and replenish our hearts
with peace everlasting,
giving us comfort
as we softly pray,
honouring the Lord
who laments our sins,
yet has the strength
to love us anyway.
137. The Love I Seek
The love I seek
is elusive,
it rejects the self
for the other;
disdains the arrogance
that professes
one soul belongs
to another.
I cannot be yours,
nor you mine;
love brings freedom
not bondage,
not imposition
but release,
freedom to fly
unbound.
The love I seek
is a covenant
freely entered
in hope;
it accepts weakness
as human,
yet pursues strength
without pride.
My soul and yours,
two voyagers
sharing the journey
together;
the ending is uncertain,
yet still I know
yours is the love I seek,
forever.
138. The Mirror
She looks in the mirror
as she walks down the hall,
briefly, a passing glance,
she has no wish to stop
and contemplate the face
that now stares back;
yet she turns to look again,
wondering if this is really her:
the face seems somehow older,
the eyes somehow sadder.
What has Life done, she asks,
to alter who she used to be –
a bright young woman with goals
that appeared to be within reach;
the things she wanted to do,
the person she wanted to become,
where had all of this now gone?
She sees only a shadow of herself,
a remnant Time has left behind
as it rushed past her, heedless,
unaware of her very existence.
Mirrors, she thinks, are cruel,
always reflecting the reality,
never reflecting the dreams.
139. The Myth of Love
She seems so perfect,
gentle, winsome, caring,
offering compassion to all
who come to her door:
a goddess offering grace
to those of mortal worth,
bestowing her bounty upon them.
You love her so, yet
have you ever met her,
stood near her, talked
to her, held her hand?
To know a soul from afar
is like gazing at a distant sun,
praying it will be like ours;
the image captivates us,
entrances us, but its reality
may never come to light.
No matter: the romance triumphs,
reality is but a myth,
and myth becomes its own reality.
140. The Night Visitor
Her words at night
come peacefully,
like a sweet respite
amid the storm;
she asks not much,
simply to share
a few moments of time
as words take form,
coming from within
in loving honesty,
words of hope,
her deepest dreams,
questions new born
as time passes,
knowing life is never
exactly what it seems.
My friend is young
with much still to see,
even more to feel
despite her fears;
when life is kind
let me smile with her,
when sorrow comes
let me dry her tears.
141. The Old Wharf
The wharf stood abandoned
through bitter months of cold,
a lover with no love
to warm his lonely heart,
the one he loved departed
to weather winter’s chill
upon the barren land,
immune to storms and wind.
Perhaps she cared no more
for waves and salty tears,
perhaps she loved no more
an ancient wooden wharf –
but he embraced the hope
of lovers in despair:
once again to kiss her
before oblivion.
142. The Peace of Love
Midnight, and the world is silent
except for the sound of the wind
flowing through dormant trees;
no moon disrupts the solitude
of this blessed winter evening:
we exist alone, well sheltered
from storms of ice and snow.
In the stillness of this night
I hold you tightly, close to me;
resting in your soft embrace
I feel no sorrow, no anger,
no hatred, just grateful peace,
for you have given so much
to one who once thought love
merely a dream, to be denied,
to be apart from her forever.
Tonight I push that thought away,
tonight the world is you.
143. The Phoenix in the Fire
The pen in my hand breathes in,
becomes a ruby-coloured bird
proclaiming all that I am
or hope to be.
Its song echoes what lies within:
reflections of love and loss,
mirror of a soul so restless,
in search of itself.
Uncertain where the journey leads,
this feathered pen takes wing against my will,
crying aloud its mournful evening song
of independence.
Relentless in revealing who I am,
what I desire, what I fear,
it turns hawk-like, fiercely clawing at
my tangled mind,
laying bare what should be hidden,
bringing darkness to the light –
the ultimate betrayal of the self
to those apart.
Yet, take this winged pen away
and I will cease to breathe,
cease to gaze upon the sky or
ride the winds;
I become a withered leaf in autumn,
lingering upon a branch bereft of life;
the ruby-coloured bird softly sings of death:
the Phoenix in the fire.
144. The Poem Child
A poem is like a precious child,
you give birth to a thought,
nurture it long and carefully,
hoping it will come to maturity
and speak the truth in your heart.
But the poem-child often rebels,
refuses to take the lyric path
you intend for it to tread,
runs off in another direction,
wilfully ignoring you the poet,
revealing what you never wished.
Still you love this unique creation,
accept it for what it has become,
and take pride when it is good,
knowing that this special child
will never come to you again.
145. The Poem I Want to Write
The poem I want to write
would shine far beyond
the blinding rays of the sun,
the glory of the full moon,
the allure of twinkling stars;
it would cast its light
upon all, bringing peace
to hearts in turmoil,
comforting those who suffer.
The poem I want to write
would make you smile,
make you believe in happiness,
in a world free from pain,
darkness defeated and banished;
it would celebrate life,
singing aloud a hymn to creation
in every wondrous aspect.
This is the poem I want to write,
but, in the dusk of this evening,
my pen lies down and weeps.
146. The Power of Your Love
What did you see in me,
those many years ago,
when I was searching for
things I could not know;
when I was feeling lost,
frightened and ashamed,
hiding in dark corners
where no one knew my name.
You came to me a stranger
with torments of your own,
yet took my hand in love,
the purest I have known.
You showed me such wonders
beyond the world I knew,
just asking in return
I walk this path with you.
How I live in gratitude
to God who dwells above
for giving me this treasure --
the power of your love.
147. The Ragged Knight
He had battled hard,
taken many wounds
and lost another fight;
on his weary mount
he entered our village
on a moonless night.
His body was maimed,
but his spirit intact
and would not take fright
at those who maligned him,
evil rampant in souls
that never knew Right.
A new attack was coming,
yet another battle nigh,
he took a struggling breath,
fell on his knees to pray
and ask God for courage
to face impending death;
he would face his foes
riding tall and proud,
the mighty sword he heft
would never leave his hand,
and with his faith renewed
our little town he left.
We often thought of him,
wondered where he went,
if he survived that day;
but deep within we knew
he was gone forever,
only in our hearts to stay.
148. The Rainbow
The sky grows dark,
conquered by clouds,
and you seek shelter,
a place of refuge,
while the coming storm
batters the earth.
Thunder and lightning
deafen and blind you,
you feel so alone
in the midst of torment;
shaken by rising winds,
you feel unable to stand,
wishing only to hide
and block out the fury.
But when the raging ends,
you gaze at the horizon,
where a many-hued angel,
sent as your guardian,
smiles to see you again,
disguised as the rainbow.
149. The Red Planet
She watched it last night,
a red beacon in the sky
that called her name,
a lonely Lorelei song,
dust beckoning dust.
The storms that raged
on that savage orb
also raged in her mind,
driving her down
into deepest oblivion.
She never wished to wake,
dreamed of a final union
with the divine cosmos
that gave birth to her
and to the red planet.
When dawn finally came
to drive the demons out,
she looked down upon her hand
and saw imprinted there
the ochre mark of Mars.
150. The Rhythm of the Sea
I am the rhythm of the sea,
in tune with the music of the moon,
rising and ebbing, never the same,
each day a new melody;
I dance with swaying ships,
an eternal minuet in endless time,
embracing each new mistress
as if she were the first;
I sing to sailors on my waves
a song of primordial intoxication,
seducing their thirsting souls
with wine born of water;
I am the rhythm of the sea,
moving over scattered shores
in birth and in destruction –
come, flow into my arms.
151. The Seeker
She had wandered far
from her homeland,
a shrouded woman
who long had planned
to search the world,
over land and sea,
to find the One
who would set her free.
No gold she carried
as she made her way,
instead she would beg
for food everyday;
to ask from strangers
a place to sleep,
to drink from cups
not hers to keep.
Alone in her journey,
with tears in her eyes,
a sad, silent figure,
yet noble and wise,
renouncing the world
and all of its treasure,
renouncing the flesh
and all of its pleasure;
so many long years
had taken their toll,
her eyes became dimmer
the more she grew old.
Yet her search would continue,
she promised her heart,
till Death himself came
to force her depart
from the path she had chosen,
and though she grew frail,
she never abandoned
her quest for the Grail.
152. The Silent Conversation
What would I say to you
if you ever would consent to listen?
My hand still reaches out,
only to find a wall of silence.
Perhaps I would tell you
the dreams I have dreamt,
or the pain I have seen;
perhaps you would tell me
the wounds you have endured,
and then we could speak
freely and without fear.
One alone cannot converse,
only lament the mighty fortress
you have built around yourself;
but should the gate ever open,
know that I will be there,
my armour long ago removed,
waiting, as I have always been.
153. The Song My Island Sings
My island sings to me at night,
through the rain, through the wind,
a strong voice echoes without end:
I am yours, love me as I am,
my woods give you dark solace,
my waves cleanse your troubled heart,
my rocks surround you with their strength,
I am the cradle of your soul.
This song my island sings has power:
my feet touch its earth in new found hope,
for I am grounded here, along its shores,
and peace awaits me in this stormy place,
where my own storms wane as I gaze across
a landscape of stark beauty, a landscape
demanding to be seen for what it is,
crying: I am, I exist, I am one with you.
My island sings to me at night
a song I must embrace, a song of life.
154. The Stranger
A stranger has entered my soul
and shown me wondrous things:
dreams of hope, and joy, and peace,
and new courage that rings
beyond the shores of my world;
her presence came softly, and,
in accepting me as I am,
created crystal out of sand.
155. The Stream
Gently flowing through dusty soil,
blessing all that grows with water,
this small stream brings life;
it asks for nothing in return,
content to flow for others’ sake,
to give all Nature strength.
Without the blood of this stream
death would overtake the world,
no hope left for resurrection;
I step into this water with joy,
knowing my life force is strong
as long as this stream runs free.
156. The Sun Came Out Again
A heavy burden lifted,
a sacred trust restored,
the long cold night
slowly fading into day;
the sun fills my eyes,
penetrates my soul,
warms my jaded heart.
The light brings life,
and I feel the rhythm
of the earth itself
as it dances in joy
around the universe.
The Creator is here,
waiting for us to come,
to celebrate the day
the sun came out again.
157. The Touch of Winter
Surrender to the chill
descending upon your heart,
cover deep your soul:
Hiems comes.
Soon all is white,
and icy fingers stretch
across the land:
Hiems comes.
Fires burn in defiance,
the promise of warmth,
the hope of shelter:
Hiems comes.
Crouching in corners,
huddled in the dark,
we await the siege:
Hiems comes.
All is quiet, all subdued,
no sound against the snow:
Hiems is here –
we endure his touch.
158. The Tree
It stood like a beacon of hope,
resolute against the onslaught
brought by winter’s icy hammer
at the changing time;
a tree alone on a hilltop,
its leaves decorating the ground
in calico colours dimming
with each passing day.
This night it felt a loneliness,
a yearning to become a part
of something greater than itself,
to be connected;
then came a group of pilgrims,
drawn together in love and hope,
and placing a star on its crown
made one tree holy.
159. The Wall
You have built a fortress wall,
impregnable, cyclopean,
to shut out those like me
who are strange and different;
we are the Others, apart, disdained,
shunned until we finally walk away.
I admit defeat: your battlements
too high for me to overcome,
stones as cold as winter ice.
I can never belong in there,
never offer anything you want,
for what you want is absence –
the withdrawal of those like me
from the stately castle you inhabit.
I shall let you live in peace,
free from whatever curse I carry,
whatever threat I pose to you;
the outcast has become too tired
to keep pounding at your gates,
too cynical to expect a response.
160. The Watcher
Standing on a jagged cliff,
ocean waves pounding
in winter ferocity below,
winds from the north
chilling my bones –
I watch the sea;
its steel grey water
has lashed this rock
since Time began,
devouring the earth
with every billow –
I watch it crumble.
One day it will be gone,
this towering crag,
its bones coming to rest
beneath the ocean foam
that grants no pardon –
I watch dissolution;
render unto the sea
all that exists on land,
the sea is our Mother,
waves sending us forth
for but a brief moment –
I watch my return.
161. The Word-Maker
Sitting apart, caressing blank paper,
the Word-Maker plies her craft,
expressing thoughts no longer silent,
voicing cries of the human heart
as she explores the beauty of sound.
Dreams become real at her touch,
their song is given fine-woven texture,
music and words flowing together
like tributaries of a majestic river.
There comes anew a special magic
created by their congregation,
a rhythm born of her imagination.
162. The Young Poet
Gifted by the Muse,
you create new songs
out of the sorrows
deep within your heart;
the world seems bleak,
full of ugly anger,
so devoid of love.
Too many questions
plague your soul,
but your songs will move
towards the light,
towards understanding
and acceptance
of who you truly are.
Trust yourself to sing
with truth and honesty,
explore the world within,
and you will come to know
the world outside as well,
to find your place at last.
163. Thinking of You
I thought of you today,
held the only picture
that remains;
so long ago you left,
a brief flutter in the wind,
a dying flame.
But Love never fades,
and I still embrace
your name,
a tiny remnant of you
that lives in me
once again.
Sleep well, sleep soft,
underneath God’s
gentle rain,
and hear this song
I sing for you, to ease
our pain.
164. To Move a Mountain
The mountain stood in distant pride,
a monolith of hardest stone,
immune to all the pleading cries
of those who claimed it as their own,
who worshipped at its silent base,
sought its aid in times of sorrow,
and fought in vain to keep believing
in holy grace to come tomorrow.
Then three came forth as sacrifices,
to climb the crag and not return,
to tell the mountain of the valley
where flames of hope still dared to burn;
the first drew blood from out his heart,
the second lay down in the snow,
the third would neither eat or drink,
resigned unto the winds that blow.
The mountain took their offerings,
regarding them as foolish men,
and angry bolts were fast unleashed
so they could never come again;
but when the sky was clear once more,
the people stood amazed to see
the sacred stone among them stood -
to move a mountain just takes three.
165. To Sing of Love
Dark days oppress,
wear down my soul,
too much sorrow,
too much pain
surround me;
so I shall sing of love –
to free my heart
from bonds of grief
and let it fly,
to soar above
and find the Sun.
Love is never weak:
it fills the spirit
with the iron will
to endure hardship,
to push away fear,
finding faith within,
finding the path
that leads to hope;
I shall sing of love today,
setting aside all doubt,
choosing to believe.
166. To Unknown Gods
Not of my flesh,
but of my spirit,
long a dark child
in search of love,
the pilgrim’s quest;
time bestowed wings
to escape the past,
but took her places
I could not go.
So now I kneel
in desperate prayer
to unknown gods –
guard this pilgrim,
make light her path
that she may see
how she is loved.
167. Tomorrow
Tomorrow I will be stronger:
gazing at the scudding clouds
I will see laughing unicorns
instead of fiery dragons;
listening to the morning forest
I will hear murmuring doves
and not the hungry hawk;
touching the waters of the lake
I will feel the movement of swans
where before there were only sharks.
Tomorrow I will be stronger:
in your need I will not abandon you,
in your pain I will bring comfort;
I will take your hand in mine
and the Darkness will explode
into a riotous burst of Light;
all that is alive in the Universe
will come flooding into my soul,
casting away the veil that so long
has enshrouded my frightened eyes;
only preserve this moment of Love
and tomorrow I will be stronger.
168. Tragoidos
The players, dressed in black,
take their marks upon the stage,
dark words echo in their minds,
stanzas full of fear and rage.
There are times when the comic
cannot express the human soul,
times of death and mass destruction
as evil bells begin their mournful toll.
Ask me not to sing you songs of love,
I cannot turn my sallow eyes away,
nor can I presume to give you mirth
when darkness shades the light of day;
forgive me if my poems distress,
if they shake you from delightful sleep,
for, like those who came before me,
I have so many promises to keep.
169. Turning Hollow
A growing emptiness within,
a cancer without substance
spreading into her fingers –
the pen drops.
Where did inspiration go,
she wonders in the silence,
is there nothing left to say,
and she stops.
Papers put aside, glasses off,
she surrenders to the foe
that haunts her every step,
quick to follow.
All she feels is nothing at all –
a void, a sense of loneliness,
and laments an inner sphere
now turned hollow.
170. Turning to Dust
I am decaying,
flesh and bone
in slow disintegration,
fading as Time
marches relentlessly;
Time was before,
and Time was after,
this Time I have
is haunting me –
Time for what?
To write a poem,
capture an image
as fleeting as Time,
doomed to die
in its own Time,
to find love
or bear a child
to negate Time
so I may live on.
I watch as I slowly
turn to dust,
dreams discarded,
out of Time,
knowing the folly
of being alive;
I simply await
the arrival of Death,
release from Time,
final extinction,
the end of Me.
171. Twister Sister
Out on the plains
when storm clouds are nigh,
a savage tornado
takes leave of the sky,
jumps down to earth
with Hell in its heart,
twisting and turning
the whole world apart,
tearing up houses
that once stood so proud,
now whittled to remnants
by one angry cloud.
She watches the radar
and follows its path,
prepared to take flight
in the face of the wrath
of a gale like no other
that mortals will see,
a split-second menace,
a dervish set free,
a dance of destruction
she has witnessed before,
while I pray that my sister
finds refuge once more.
172. Ultimate Betrayal
An accusing, silent stare,
the urgent need for words
inscribed upon your surface,
absorbing each letter
like thirsty summer soil;
if only I had words –
new words, hopeful words
to make you smile,
even words of sorrow
that make you weep.
How I caress each word,
a sudden, divine gift
I never hoped to receive,
no longer am I mute,
unheard, unseen;
yet our love is dangerous,
for as I hold you close
you reveal too much,
the ultimate betrayal
blank paper demands.
173. Venus and Mars
Condemned to circle
the same ball of fire,
yet doomed to remain
forever apart;
in mutual silence
we perform our dance
around the cosmos
of our hearts.
Words mean nothing
in the vacuum of space,
where screams of torment
make no sound,
and so we play roles
assigned us at birth,
nothing can be changed3
nothing found.
You remain as you are,
to me an enigma
I can no longer solve,
no longer willing;
so I head for the Sun
and bid you farewell,
taking leave from a soul
deadly chilling.
174. Vernal Gift
Buds upon the mountain ash
announce the month of May,
tulips turn to face the sun
and drive the chill away,
heralds of the coming warmth,
of days with lingering light –
I dare to dream of Winter’s end
in colours bold and bright.
The ever tender kiss of Spring –
its loving, kind caress –
a long-awaited suitor
upon my lips does press
with promises of newborn life,
the land set free once more –
a world of hope and happiness
lying just beyond my door.
My courage I must summon
to step outside, into the sun,
surrender to the passion
that with this season comes;
and yet I feel foreboding –
Winter never leaves so swift,
a final blast must lie in wait
before I seize this vernal gift.
175. Voices of the Night
Quiet at last,
exhausted by noise,
constant voices,
everywhere,
calling me,
demanding attention.
My refuge is silence,
absence of sound,
so tranquil,
inviting me
to rest my soul,
ignore the cries
around me
if but briefly.
Think of yourself,
he says to me,
and I try,
but the voices
never leave,
and if they did
loneliness
would consume me.
176. Vows
If I could give you peace,
bring comfort to your pain,
hold you in my arms –
I would.
If I could make you smile,
embrace you with my love
and keep you safe –
I would.
If I could touch your soul,
make all your darkness yield
to everlasting light –
I would.
And if you will share my life,
loving me with trusting heart,
in sickness as in health,
I can.
177. Voyager
Each poem a creation
long nurtured and loved,
sent forth in fear
as if launched into space,
never knowing where or when
it will come to rest,
nor what ears will open
to accept this voyager.
Perhaps each will sail
through an indifferent cosmos
on an endless journey,
doomed to a lonely existence
far from mortal ears.
Perhaps it does not matter:
each poem exists for me now,
bright and new and hopeful,
not yet willing to surrender
to the dark pull of gravity.
178. Waiting for a Storm
Electric charges in the air,
warm winds from the south
in the mists of November,
something out of place,
something alien and wild,
stalking, ready to strike
like a ravenous wolf
too long deprived,
free of the ancient fear
of its own destruction.
Resigned in apprehension,
waiting for a storm,
for the world to crash
and crumble at my feet,
for one moment to reel
in a crazed universe
where nothing exists
as it had before,
where I lay exposed
to the feral jaws of Hell.
179. Waiting for Summer: For Eastern Canadians, 2004
June must be the cruellest month,
an antipodal Janus looking two ways,
back upon the tireless grip of Winter
and ahead to blissful summer days;
the cold in June comes piercing,
a knife that penetrates your bones,
sending shivers through your flesh
that issue out as desperate groans,
for June is not a month for patience
but a time to celebrate renewal,
yet, as I sit here in the sullen rain,
I wonder what became of Nature’s jewel.
180. Walk Away
How much sorrow
can you take
before you walk away,
how much pain
can you endure,
never-ending,
all-consuming,
relentlessly eating
at your heart?
Too much sadness
overwhelms us;
we dwell in dark places
where anger rules,
where brute violence
conquers all.
Escape beckons:
walk away now,
say your goodbye,
make your exit,
salvage what remains
of your sanity.
Yet you remain,
for the Siren call
of just one voice
suffering harm
keeps you here:
you know you cannot
walk away.
181. When Summer Comes
When Summer comes
I shall walk
in fragrant gardens,
breathing in
every bloom,
celebrating birth.
When Summer comes
I shall put away
all things dark,
revel in light,
cast aside memories
of Winter’s gloom.
When Summer comes
I shall walk with you
along the shore,
collecting shells,
watching boats
frolic in the waves.
When Summer comes
months of sorrow
will be forgotten,
and you and I,
in new found wonder,
will waltz with Life.
182. When Summer Ends
The horizon swallows the Sun too eagerly,
too soon the darkness comes again
as days grow short and cold winds blow
into my heart.
Even the leaves in all their grandeur
fail to ease the hollowness I feel,
a farewell to life-giving Summer
from my soul.
The seasons follow, as they must,
the eternal dance of the cosmos,
planets whirling in syncopation
around the Sun.
This I cannot change, despite my will,
nor rage against the dying light
that summons me to take my leave
from golden dreams.
Yet hope survives the darkest days,
and within me lives a dormant flame
that once again shall flare to mark
the world’s rebirth.
183. When the Laughter Fades
Hollow laughter,
painted faces,
the carnival of life
casts its allure,
a net to drag me
where I would not go,
a trap to entangle
my reluctant feet.
I am the clown,
dressed in garish rags
and a purple hat
to crown my head,
I shall make you laugh
at my foolish antics,
entice your applause
to quell my tears.
And when the laughter fades
I shall disappear,
turn into nothingness,
my existence obliterated;
you will pass me on the street
and never know my name,
never see the curse
that binds me here,
never know the longing
to escape at last,
to hide where hollow laughter
cannot be heard.
Do not envy me:
I am not free as you,
but tied by iron bonds
that keep me prisoner here,
like ancient Prometheus,
condemned by the gods
for sparing others
the pain he endured.
184. Where Do I Find the Words?
In my heart I hide such dreams
as were never meant to be,
phantom worlds where hands entwine
and souls at last fly free.
Where do I find the words
to express the longing I feel,
the wish to find myself whole,
the moment of joy that I steal?
I cannot rejoice in the darkness
but look for the solace of light –
if only I could find the words
to speak to you this winter night.
185. Whom the Gods Love
The thread of life is slender,
Three Fates remain in charge,
to draw and weave and cut
as the end comes;
lesser beings such as we
can never know the course,
or even that our mortal race
now be fully run,
until we pass the threshold
and leave this world behind,
bequeathing to posterity
all that we have done.
For one who passed too quickly,
whose thread was never strong,
this final song of lamentation
must be softly sung,
a consolation to our grieving hearts,
acknowledging an ancient truth:
that those the gods love most
are dying far too young.
186. Winter Lament
Ice everywhere, the false glow of ice
extends its fingers through my soul;
no Sun to melt its sullen grasp away,
dark Winter comes, once again
to plunge the land into shadowed death.
The cold chills my fearful heart,
the wind defeats my muted senses:
I am snow-bound, dark-bound –
an endless waiting for warmth,
for life to survive, to return.
Huddle in the corner, pilgrim,
heap wood upon the hearth,
pray for light, pray for life,
and, if you can, pray for me.
187. Winter Seas
Winter seas are unforgiving,
whirlpools waiting to swallow
those who venture forth
in arrogance;
waves aroused by icy winds
seize their wooden walls,
twirl them around in a
fatal dance,
and the cold drags them down,
filling their minds with visions
until, at last, they succumb
to a trance,
and in their final moments,
just as death approaches,
they feel the ecstasy of
marine romance.
188. Winter Solstice: Sol Invictus
Distant glowing stars,
adrift in the endless cosmos,
adorn a coal-dark sky:
icicles, so far away,
forcing frost into my blood,
drop by chilling drop.
The Cold pervades all,
the Dark encompasses all.
Winter has seized my soul,
a shivering embrace
that I cannot escape.
The world has seen Death this day;
nailed to the cross of seasons,
it longs for resurrection.
The Cold pervades all,
the Dark encompasses all.
Pray to your gods,
pray for the light,
pray for the nourishment of warmth
that will restore life.
On this day cut so short,
look up in wonder at the stars
and know how fierce they burn,
that the life force
is not yet extinguished.
The Cold will depart,
the Dark will be vanquished:
Sol Invictus.
bright pinpoints of light,
so small and far away
you think them immune
to our earthly anguish
as they spin forever
in star-filled galaxies.
I long to join their dance,
whirl like a frenzied Bacchant
intoxicated with the god,
but I remain earth-bound;
things I will never do
remind me of mortality,
of voyages never to be made,
and dreams never to fulfill.
I no longer wish upon a star,
but lock my hopes away
deep in the vault of my soul,
far from the cruel scrutiny
of those who scoff and mock.
But gazing at this winter sky,
while tears flow from my heart
I glimpse one fleeting trail of light
sent me by those distant orbs,
and can almost make myself believe
the universe is crying too.
107. The Canadian Peacekeeper: R.I.P. Cpl. Jamie Brendan Murphy
He came from a small town
along the eastern shore,
not much to do there,
no fishing anymore,
so he joined the forces
to serve and protect,
send money back home
and win some respect.
His first posting was far,
in a country unknown
where people were dying
and all hope had flown;
Peacekeepers were needed
to lend a kind hand,
bring some calm at last
to a war-ravaged land.
He made his patrols,
became friends with the kids,
had a smile on his face
for the job that he did;
he helped out the medics,
dug new sewers and wells,
and saw this poor country
emerge from its Hell.
His tour was soon over
and his family was waiting
for a homecoming party
and much celebrating,
when, out on the road,
ran a man with a bomb,
and in less than a second
our soldier was gone.
He came home with honours
in a casket of wood,
and in death he bore witness
to all that is good.
108. The Cathedral
In a grand cathedral
I lit one small candle,
its flickering light
destined to fade
within a few hours;
before your image
I briefly paused,
the burden of death
weighing me down
as never before.
All paths merge
as we journey on
to a common end;
innocent and guilty
marching together
in uneasy unison.
What lies beyond
may be everything
we have dreamed,
or nothing at all.
In a grand cathedral
set in a foreign land
I knelt in solemn prayer,
seeking guidance
to complete the voyage
that must be mine,
a journey into a darkness
I can never escape,
set in irresistible motion
from the moment of birth.
109. The Chalice: Socrates
Resplendent in gold,
no ordinary cup,
but booty from Troy
won by Greek blood,
an honoured heirloom.
A sacred purpose:
to drive out pollution
and cleanse the land,
offering libations
worthy of the gods.
He took it in his hands,
admired its brilliant sheen,
saw its noble form
and knew his duty –
to accept the drink
with humble heart
and fulfill his destiny.
He lifted the chalice
to his thirsting lips
and savoured the poison.
110. The Children Ask (Dedicated to Abused Children Everywhere)
Where do you go
when there is no place left,
when everything that mattered
has crumbled into dust,
your heart a sudden desert?
Who do you turn to
when no one is listening,
when the words you speak
drift away into a void
bereft of caring?
When do you recognize
how much has been lost,
how foolish even to suspect
the existence of love
in this hostile world?
Why do the tears still come
when crying brings more pain,
when all you truly long for
is to cast the world away
and count dry grains of sand.
111. The Christmas Song, 2010
Each day now dawns in darkness bleak
while the nights forever last,
time enough to contemplate
the weeks and months now drifted past:
the voyage to the land of ice,
its beauty stark and alien,
creatures trusting and untamed,
endangered by the greed of men;
warm days spent at the cottage
(the sun at last deigns to appear),
long walks to pass the morning,
cool nights to hold each other near;
the autumn cruise along the Rhine,
castles perched on rugged banks,
age-old churches in the towns –
I entered these to offer thanks;
the visit to Saskatchewan,
snow cascading from above,
and now the woodstove casts its glow –
Merry Christmas, my sweet love.
112. The Church in the Meadow
A stranger walked on roads
he had never trod before,
past brilliant amber cornfields
and many a farmhouse door,
past a lowing herd of cattle
that watched him as he strode,
looking for a quiet place
to put down his heavy load;
for life had not been gentle
and he had gone to war,
but told no one his sadness
or the evils that he saw,
his grief lived deep within him,
beating at his broken heart,
so now he sought a sanctum
where his demons might depart.
Then, as if his prayer was heard,
a lonely building stood ahead,
he saw the steeple rising high
amid the graves of many dead;
though no living being was there
inviting him to come within,
the door was never bolted
to any mind beset by sin,
and so he entered quietly
and to the humble altar came
to offer up his wounded soul
in his Lord’s majestic name.
Then, as his heart grew lighter,
he heard a wondrous sound,
for suddenly sweet music
was playing all around:
he heard the strings of violins,
the sound of muted brass,
and knew he was absolved
from deeds of war at last –
no longer doomed to wander
in fields where he felt lost,
his spirit once again made whole
by that haven with a cross.
113. The Circle
Encompassing all,
sheltered sanctuary,
the circle has power:
stand within and feel
the heartbeat of earth,
the pulse of the moon,
the breath of the sun;
unity surrounds us,
a force leading us forever
in the mystic dance
of ancient Bacchantes.
Surrender to the circle,
let it infuse our souls,
fill our minds with images
beyond all mortal ken,
let it join us to Creation.
Tall and stately,
carved of wood
imported from afar,
a treasured heirloom
incessantly ticking away
each second of her life;
Time in its linear path
moved ever onward
in abrupt finality,
no going back,
no second chance.
Each hour it tolled,
a faithful servant
called to duty,
ever reminding her
of finite life,
of threads woven
by ancient hags
that must break.
It was not Death
that frightened her
with its endless sleep,
but rather Life –
Time thrown away,
roads not taken,
past imperfect.
And so she watched
that antique clock,
anticipating the day
it would toll no more.
115. The Clown
Ragged old clothing, torn floppy shoes,
and a bulbous red nose that shines
when the lights in the circus are low;
he doffs his shabby purple hat, bows,
and trips over his feet for laughs,
conscious of the noisy crowd inside;
picking himself up, making a rude sound,
he flaps his way into the circus bowels.
In the dark light there, he slowly removes
the comic disguise that gives him peace,
looks in the mirror, and sees only sadness;
beneath the grease paint a soul in turmoil,
wondering how life turned joy into sorrow.
Clowns, you see, are a funny breed, but
not in the expected sense: they make you laugh,
dear friends, to keep their own tears at bay.
116. The Core
In her imagination she was a speck,
a piece of cosmic dust aimlessly adrift
within a Universe of sparkling galaxies;
she would never light up the heavens,
never even briefly flare like a comet,
her existence never be noticed.
In her imagination she was invisible,
one small and useless cell in a larger body,
with no role to play in its journey through life;
evolution had rendered her superfluous,
removing any grace that once was hers
to give unto the all-important Whole.
In her imagination, she was nothing –
but her imagination told her lies,
ignored the gifts of love she gathered,
diminished what she meant to others;
and so she thought she did not matter,
when, all long, she was the core.
117. The Critic, 1
Every time you pen a poem
you rip open your heart,
allow others to see within,
to know you so intimately
you think you cannot survive;
yet you are driven to expose,
to announce to the world
the torments you have felt,
and pray they understand.
Then comes the critic:
brazen, so full of pride
that he takes great pleasure
in reducing your laboured words
to a heap of cold ashes,
unwilling even to recognize
what those words have cost you.
You consider walking away,
tired of the mocking abuse,
but you know you will not:
no critic will steal your pen.
118. The Critic, 2
A nameless man
in an unknown place
knows nothing of me,
not even my face;
reading my poems
as day becomes night,
he finds a new chord,
a tone that is right,
thinks I have done
Sappho kind service,
his praise, I admit,
is making me nervous.
But whoever you are,
I give you my thanks
for placing me
in poetic ranks.
119. The Dark Kingdom
An uncharted place, hidden within,
the Dark Kingdom of the Soul
where deep sadness rules,
a condemnation of the self.
No light can penetrate the veil
that falls upon your mind,
telling you there is no hope,
no rescue, no release.
Those outside do not fathom
the stark power of this realm,
thinking you are there by will,
and can break free at any time.
I so yearn to stand in sunshine,
to cast aside all ancient sorrows,
to look at life with laughing eyes –
but the pull of the Dark Kingdom
can only be countered by a love
that accepts the darkness in me.
120. The Door
I stand before a door
black as the moonless night,
yesterday behind me,
tomorrow not in sight,
my hand is reaching out,
my heart is saying no,
for if I pass that door
I have nowhere safe to go.
On this side is the laughter,
yet often mixed with tears,
how the gods are laughing
at these bipolar years;
on that side is the silence
I fear and yet embrace,
a numbness in my soul,
a ghost without a face.
My fingers touch the knob,
give challenge to my heart,
and I am torn in two –
unwilling to depart.
121. The Empath
So many voices calling out,
each in private torment,
despairing of release
from their living chains.
Voices flood her head,
an endless cacophony
pouncing like Furies,
desiring her blood.
Her heart wept for them,
sought to heal the wounds
and make the crying stop
before it broke forever;
but her heart was weak
and growing weary,
scarred and fractured
by her own Furies.
The dissonance grew,
cascading like a waterfall,
catching her in its grip
and sweeping her away –
so only barren rocks
heard her own death cry.
122. The End of August
The end of August blows in,
bending trees and roiling waters
that prepare for Winter's rage;
the birds of Summer depart,
leaving only memories of songs
to wake the soul in joy.
I watch as leaves change colour,
a living rainbow, soon to carpet
the cooling ground I walk upon;
even the sky seems different,
now hoarding the sunlight
as the days grow dark so quickly.
Summer stays with us too little,
a hurried guest longing for home
as savage Winter nips its heels;
in the grey months I see before me
I shall hold Summer in my mind,
a fragile flame to keep me warm.
123. The End of Time
So little time left,
to speak to you,
to hold you near
and love you;
linear lives
demand death,
our sacred return
to earth.
Each day a gift,
a flower opening
in search of sun,
fragrant;
treasure time,
not your enemy
but your lover,
embrace.
My final second
will celebrate
my existence
in triumph:
the time given me
to be with you,
to join our souls
beyond time.
124. The First Day (Beslan, Russia, September 2004)
A pinafore of flowers,
blooming in anticipation:
the first day back –
sunny days would await,
even as Autumn descended,
new friends to meet,
like a chain of daisies
reaching out in love.
In sacred ground she stood,
a pristine meadow
until the storm broke,
the thunder and lightning
of minds crazed by hate –
in the name of their children
to cut down and kill
this innocent bouquet.
125. The Foolish Tree
It stood there, in the yard,
storm after storm, bending,
but stubbornly never breaking,
determined to resist the wind
that assaulted it every winter.
It never grew tall, but struggled
simply to remain as it was,
a tree, just an ordinary tree
with nothing to make it stand out.
Its trunk became broken and scarred,
its branches twisted at odd angles,
witness to the constant battle –
even the birds ignored this tree,
deeming it unworthy for their nests.
Yet it did not care about birds
nor about those other trees –
the tall and strong ones all around
that cast their shadows long –
it simply wanted to exist.
Then one day the fiercest storm
the tree had ever seen roared
and brought it crashing down,
left it a tangled mass of limbs
lying on the snow-draped earth,
nevermore to reach towards the sky,
and then the tree began to weep,
not lamenting its fated demise,
but knowing no one ever care.
126. The Frozen Forest
Ice-coated trees
bear glistening witness
to the fury of the storm;
branches bent
in lasting deformity
proclaim nature’s might.
The forest is burdened
with winter’s breath,
groaning to be free,
to feel the warmth of spring;
its creatures are silent,
hidden in burrows,
a winter of sleep.
Yet the sun comes longer
each new day,
more light penetrates
the thick growth,
heralding the change of seasons;
the winter is long,
oppressing the earth,
but in time its cold grasp
will release the frozen forest.
127. The Importance of You
A day of frustration,
a day of madness,
and I come home
angry at the world.
But you are waiting,
a smile and a hug
greeting me at the door,
love unconditional.
I could not imagine
a life without you:
how you can heal
my jagged wounds,
and make me laugh
when I was crying,
banishing the darkness
I fear so much.
You are a gift to me,
sent by some Power
that saw my weakness,
knew my sorrow,
and took mercy on me,
showing through you
all that is good and gentle,
all that is Love.
128. The Inner Voice
It surfaced every night,
emerging from the depths
of some inner ocean
like a hostile Nautilus,
ready to engage the foe
while darkness ruled.
There was no escape:
a bombardment of words
cascading condemnation,
a voice of accusation
screaming into her mind,
ravaging her sleep.
If only she could start again,
erase all the mistakes,
mend the broken hearts,
restore the shattered dreams,
then the voice would descend,
blessed silence in its wake.
But Time, she knew, was linear,
the battles of the past lived on
and scarred each new day,
yesterday becoming tomorrow –
lost all hope to win the war
waged by that relentless voice.
129. The Invisible Woman
Look, in the corner,
a faint shadow lurks,
cast by no body
anywhere in sight;
she is invisible,
you will never see
the one she truly is,
just a phantom ghost.
But put fear aside:
she brings no harm
to any but herself,
no wounds but hers.
Keep safe her image,
guard the laughing smile
she sends to you,
let it fill your heart
and bring you joy;
all she asks in return
is the freedom
of being invisible.
130. The Joy of Madness
Being normal must be boring,
so dull from dawn to dusk,
just following the painted lines,
doing what they say you must;
a life without a touch of madness
would seem devoid of inspiration,
no sudden urge to serenade the moon,
to write love poems to constellations.
I am blessed with a mind unique,
imagining things no others can see,
burrowing deep within my manic soul
to find the spirit that is truly me;
my life will never toe the line
that other folks may each day seek,
for I would rather sit upon a cloud
and smile at being Nature's freak.
131. The Lady in Black: For V.G.
The Lady in Black is afraid
that her world is falling apart,
her pulse begins beating faster
as terror pours into her heart –
a torrent unlike any river,
sweeping all hope from its path,
leaving behind just detritus
as if from a hurricane’s wrath.
The Lady in Black sees no future,
her life just a meaningless maze,
each day proceeds like a nightmare
in which sun is conquered by haze –
a fog that descends without mercy
to keep her imprisoned in pain,
pushing away those who love her
in hope they will not come again.
The Lady in Black is unwilling
to hold out her hands in trust,
better to hide in the darkness,
surrender her flesh to the dust –
if only my voice could reach in
and tell her the things I have seen,
that life holds more beauty than death,
that fate is not sealed at eighteen.
132. The Land of Fog
The sun would never rise that day,
enshrouded in the mists of Fall,
no wind to loosen dying leaves
or bend the trees to Nature’s call;
a silence lay upon the land
as thick as fog come from the sea,
no sound to penetrate the ear
of one who walked with tears set free.
The woman held within his heart
no longer listened for his step,
no longer spoke sweet words of love,
no longer saw the tears he wept;
all that once had brought him solace
now swept away by tides of Time,
yesterday was lost in darkness,
tomorrow he despaired to find.
“If only”…how these words drew blood,
a knife that cut his soul in two,
“if only” Fate had been more kind
and held the thread when Death was due;
but wishing made no difference,
no comfort could his heart find yet,
and even in this land of fog
he knew he never could forget.
133. The Last Day of Autumn
A shroud of darkness
begins to envelop the sun,
a pale reflection lingers briefly,
then moves on,
leaves depart upon the wind,
trees, now bare,
await the onslaught
of the deadly cold.
Long gone the birds
that announce the light,
fleeing their nests
without a backward glance,
rivers breathe deeply,
fearing the cover of ice
that obscures their existence
and ends their freedom.
A sullen, gloomy landscape
takes shape in speed:
where fragile flowers once grew
now only barren earth;
Winter steals into our minds,
the darkness makes us dark -
a hibernation of the soul
until the light of Spring.
134. The Last Leaf
Alone on a hilltop
an old oak tree stood,
the marks of long ages
impressed on its wood,
its branches were bare
except for one leaf
that clung to a branch
and fought off release,
that held fast to life
despite wind and cold,
while fading from green
to mild autumn gold.
To fall to the ground
would doom it to death,
so it struggled to stay
till its very last breath,
fighting the seasons
that govern all life,
proclaiming its power
against nature’s strife;
but still the day came
when it had to let go
and touch the chill earth
that lay far below,
to decay into dust
and disperse to the sky,
where all life ascends
when time comes to die;
so mourn not its passing
and be not bereaved –
we each in our journey
must follow that leaf.
135. The Last Night
What if tomorrow never came,
if we were torn apart by death,
never again to touch each other?
As I hold you close this moment,
I feel the fragility of life,
just one breath, one heartbeat,
one second, and existence stops.
What if this were our last night?
Would I love you any more?
Say words that have not been spoken?
Look at you with different eyes?
No matter what the sunrise brings,
tonight I write upon my heart
the only thing that matters:
thank you for showing me a love
that transcends both time and space.
136. The Longest Night of the Year
The year grows tired,
surfeit of sorrow
for dreams lost
along the way;
December darkness,
shadow of Death
in fated pursuit
of each bright day.
When this dark ends
new hope arises,
seeking the light,
begging it stay,
and replenish our hearts
with peace everlasting,
giving us comfort
as we softly pray,
honouring the Lord
who laments our sins,
yet has the strength
to love us anyway.
137. The Love I Seek
The love I seek
is elusive,
it rejects the self
for the other;
disdains the arrogance
that professes
one soul belongs
to another.
I cannot be yours,
nor you mine;
love brings freedom
not bondage,
not imposition
but release,
freedom to fly
unbound.
The love I seek
is a covenant
freely entered
in hope;
it accepts weakness
as human,
yet pursues strength
without pride.
My soul and yours,
two voyagers
sharing the journey
together;
the ending is uncertain,
yet still I know
yours is the love I seek,
forever.
138. The Mirror
She looks in the mirror
as she walks down the hall,
briefly, a passing glance,
she has no wish to stop
and contemplate the face
that now stares back;
yet she turns to look again,
wondering if this is really her:
the face seems somehow older,
the eyes somehow sadder.
What has Life done, she asks,
to alter who she used to be –
a bright young woman with goals
that appeared to be within reach;
the things she wanted to do,
the person she wanted to become,
where had all of this now gone?
She sees only a shadow of herself,
a remnant Time has left behind
as it rushed past her, heedless,
unaware of her very existence.
Mirrors, she thinks, are cruel,
always reflecting the reality,
never reflecting the dreams.
139. The Myth of Love
She seems so perfect,
gentle, winsome, caring,
offering compassion to all
who come to her door:
a goddess offering grace
to those of mortal worth,
bestowing her bounty upon them.
You love her so, yet
have you ever met her,
stood near her, talked
to her, held her hand?
To know a soul from afar
is like gazing at a distant sun,
praying it will be like ours;
the image captivates us,
entrances us, but its reality
may never come to light.
No matter: the romance triumphs,
reality is but a myth,
and myth becomes its own reality.
140. The Night Visitor
Her words at night
come peacefully,
like a sweet respite
amid the storm;
she asks not much,
simply to share
a few moments of time
as words take form,
coming from within
in loving honesty,
words of hope,
her deepest dreams,
questions new born
as time passes,
knowing life is never
exactly what it seems.
My friend is young
with much still to see,
even more to feel
despite her fears;
when life is kind
let me smile with her,
when sorrow comes
let me dry her tears.
141. The Old Wharf
The wharf stood abandoned
through bitter months of cold,
a lover with no love
to warm his lonely heart,
the one he loved departed
to weather winter’s chill
upon the barren land,
immune to storms and wind.
Perhaps she cared no more
for waves and salty tears,
perhaps she loved no more
an ancient wooden wharf –
but he embraced the hope
of lovers in despair:
once again to kiss her
before oblivion.
142. The Peace of Love
Midnight, and the world is silent
except for the sound of the wind
flowing through dormant trees;
no moon disrupts the solitude
of this blessed winter evening:
we exist alone, well sheltered
from storms of ice and snow.
In the stillness of this night
I hold you tightly, close to me;
resting in your soft embrace
I feel no sorrow, no anger,
no hatred, just grateful peace,
for you have given so much
to one who once thought love
merely a dream, to be denied,
to be apart from her forever.
Tonight I push that thought away,
tonight the world is you.
143. The Phoenix in the Fire
The pen in my hand breathes in,
becomes a ruby-coloured bird
proclaiming all that I am
or hope to be.
Its song echoes what lies within:
reflections of love and loss,
mirror of a soul so restless,
in search of itself.
Uncertain where the journey leads,
this feathered pen takes wing against my will,
crying aloud its mournful evening song
of independence.
Relentless in revealing who I am,
what I desire, what I fear,
it turns hawk-like, fiercely clawing at
my tangled mind,
laying bare what should be hidden,
bringing darkness to the light –
the ultimate betrayal of the self
to those apart.
Yet, take this winged pen away
and I will cease to breathe,
cease to gaze upon the sky or
ride the winds;
I become a withered leaf in autumn,
lingering upon a branch bereft of life;
the ruby-coloured bird softly sings of death:
the Phoenix in the fire.
144. The Poem Child
A poem is like a precious child,
you give birth to a thought,
nurture it long and carefully,
hoping it will come to maturity
and speak the truth in your heart.
But the poem-child often rebels,
refuses to take the lyric path
you intend for it to tread,
runs off in another direction,
wilfully ignoring you the poet,
revealing what you never wished.
Still you love this unique creation,
accept it for what it has become,
and take pride when it is good,
knowing that this special child
will never come to you again.
145. The Poem I Want to Write
The poem I want to write
would shine far beyond
the blinding rays of the sun,
the glory of the full moon,
the allure of twinkling stars;
it would cast its light
upon all, bringing peace
to hearts in turmoil,
comforting those who suffer.
The poem I want to write
would make you smile,
make you believe in happiness,
in a world free from pain,
darkness defeated and banished;
it would celebrate life,
singing aloud a hymn to creation
in every wondrous aspect.
This is the poem I want to write,
but, in the dusk of this evening,
my pen lies down and weeps.
146. The Power of Your Love
What did you see in me,
those many years ago,
when I was searching for
things I could not know;
when I was feeling lost,
frightened and ashamed,
hiding in dark corners
where no one knew my name.
You came to me a stranger
with torments of your own,
yet took my hand in love,
the purest I have known.
You showed me such wonders
beyond the world I knew,
just asking in return
I walk this path with you.
How I live in gratitude
to God who dwells above
for giving me this treasure --
the power of your love.
147. The Ragged Knight
He had battled hard,
taken many wounds
and lost another fight;
on his weary mount
he entered our village
on a moonless night.
His body was maimed,
but his spirit intact
and would not take fright
at those who maligned him,
evil rampant in souls
that never knew Right.
A new attack was coming,
yet another battle nigh,
he took a struggling breath,
fell on his knees to pray
and ask God for courage
to face impending death;
he would face his foes
riding tall and proud,
the mighty sword he heft
would never leave his hand,
and with his faith renewed
our little town he left.
We often thought of him,
wondered where he went,
if he survived that day;
but deep within we knew
he was gone forever,
only in our hearts to stay.
148. The Rainbow
The sky grows dark,
conquered by clouds,
and you seek shelter,
a place of refuge,
while the coming storm
batters the earth.
Thunder and lightning
deafen and blind you,
you feel so alone
in the midst of torment;
shaken by rising winds,
you feel unable to stand,
wishing only to hide
and block out the fury.
But when the raging ends,
you gaze at the horizon,
where a many-hued angel,
sent as your guardian,
smiles to see you again,
disguised as the rainbow.
149. The Red Planet
She watched it last night,
a red beacon in the sky
that called her name,
a lonely Lorelei song,
dust beckoning dust.
The storms that raged
on that savage orb
also raged in her mind,
driving her down
into deepest oblivion.
She never wished to wake,
dreamed of a final union
with the divine cosmos
that gave birth to her
and to the red planet.
When dawn finally came
to drive the demons out,
she looked down upon her hand
and saw imprinted there
the ochre mark of Mars.
150. The Rhythm of the Sea
I am the rhythm of the sea,
in tune with the music of the moon,
rising and ebbing, never the same,
each day a new melody;
I dance with swaying ships,
an eternal minuet in endless time,
embracing each new mistress
as if she were the first;
I sing to sailors on my waves
a song of primordial intoxication,
seducing their thirsting souls
with wine born of water;
I am the rhythm of the sea,
moving over scattered shores
in birth and in destruction –
come, flow into my arms.
151. The Seeker
She had wandered far
from her homeland,
a shrouded woman
who long had planned
to search the world,
over land and sea,
to find the One
who would set her free.
No gold she carried
as she made her way,
instead she would beg
for food everyday;
to ask from strangers
a place to sleep,
to drink from cups
not hers to keep.
Alone in her journey,
with tears in her eyes,
a sad, silent figure,
yet noble and wise,
renouncing the world
and all of its treasure,
renouncing the flesh
and all of its pleasure;
so many long years
had taken their toll,
her eyes became dimmer
the more she grew old.
Yet her search would continue,
she promised her heart,
till Death himself came
to force her depart
from the path she had chosen,
and though she grew frail,
she never abandoned
her quest for the Grail.
152. The Silent Conversation
What would I say to you
if you ever would consent to listen?
My hand still reaches out,
only to find a wall of silence.
Perhaps I would tell you
the dreams I have dreamt,
or the pain I have seen;
perhaps you would tell me
the wounds you have endured,
and then we could speak
freely and without fear.
One alone cannot converse,
only lament the mighty fortress
you have built around yourself;
but should the gate ever open,
know that I will be there,
my armour long ago removed,
waiting, as I have always been.
153. The Song My Island Sings
My island sings to me at night,
through the rain, through the wind,
a strong voice echoes without end:
I am yours, love me as I am,
my woods give you dark solace,
my waves cleanse your troubled heart,
my rocks surround you with their strength,
I am the cradle of your soul.
This song my island sings has power:
my feet touch its earth in new found hope,
for I am grounded here, along its shores,
and peace awaits me in this stormy place,
where my own storms wane as I gaze across
a landscape of stark beauty, a landscape
demanding to be seen for what it is,
crying: I am, I exist, I am one with you.
My island sings to me at night
a song I must embrace, a song of life.
154. The Stranger
A stranger has entered my soul
and shown me wondrous things:
dreams of hope, and joy, and peace,
and new courage that rings
beyond the shores of my world;
her presence came softly, and,
in accepting me as I am,
created crystal out of sand.
155. The Stream
Gently flowing through dusty soil,
blessing all that grows with water,
this small stream brings life;
it asks for nothing in return,
content to flow for others’ sake,
to give all Nature strength.
Without the blood of this stream
death would overtake the world,
no hope left for resurrection;
I step into this water with joy,
knowing my life force is strong
as long as this stream runs free.
156. The Sun Came Out Again
A heavy burden lifted,
a sacred trust restored,
the long cold night
slowly fading into day;
the sun fills my eyes,
penetrates my soul,
warms my jaded heart.
The light brings life,
and I feel the rhythm
of the earth itself
as it dances in joy
around the universe.
The Creator is here,
waiting for us to come,
to celebrate the day
the sun came out again.
157. The Touch of Winter
Surrender to the chill
descending upon your heart,
cover deep your soul:
Hiems comes.
Soon all is white,
and icy fingers stretch
across the land:
Hiems comes.
Fires burn in defiance,
the promise of warmth,
the hope of shelter:
Hiems comes.
Crouching in corners,
huddled in the dark,
we await the siege:
Hiems comes.
All is quiet, all subdued,
no sound against the snow:
Hiems is here –
we endure his touch.
158. The Tree
It stood like a beacon of hope,
resolute against the onslaught
brought by winter’s icy hammer
at the changing time;
a tree alone on a hilltop,
its leaves decorating the ground
in calico colours dimming
with each passing day.
This night it felt a loneliness,
a yearning to become a part
of something greater than itself,
to be connected;
then came a group of pilgrims,
drawn together in love and hope,
and placing a star on its crown
made one tree holy.
159. The Wall
You have built a fortress wall,
impregnable, cyclopean,
to shut out those like me
who are strange and different;
we are the Others, apart, disdained,
shunned until we finally walk away.
I admit defeat: your battlements
too high for me to overcome,
stones as cold as winter ice.
I can never belong in there,
never offer anything you want,
for what you want is absence –
the withdrawal of those like me
from the stately castle you inhabit.
I shall let you live in peace,
free from whatever curse I carry,
whatever threat I pose to you;
the outcast has become too tired
to keep pounding at your gates,
too cynical to expect a response.
160. The Watcher
Standing on a jagged cliff,
ocean waves pounding
in winter ferocity below,
winds from the north
chilling my bones –
I watch the sea;
its steel grey water
has lashed this rock
since Time began,
devouring the earth
with every billow –
I watch it crumble.
One day it will be gone,
this towering crag,
its bones coming to rest
beneath the ocean foam
that grants no pardon –
I watch dissolution;
render unto the sea
all that exists on land,
the sea is our Mother,
waves sending us forth
for but a brief moment –
I watch my return.
161. The Word-Maker
Sitting apart, caressing blank paper,
the Word-Maker plies her craft,
expressing thoughts no longer silent,
voicing cries of the human heart
as she explores the beauty of sound.
Dreams become real at her touch,
their song is given fine-woven texture,
music and words flowing together
like tributaries of a majestic river.
There comes anew a special magic
created by their congregation,
a rhythm born of her imagination.
162. The Young Poet
Gifted by the Muse,
you create new songs
out of the sorrows
deep within your heart;
the world seems bleak,
full of ugly anger,
so devoid of love.
Too many questions
plague your soul,
but your songs will move
towards the light,
towards understanding
and acceptance
of who you truly are.
Trust yourself to sing
with truth and honesty,
explore the world within,
and you will come to know
the world outside as well,
to find your place at last.
163. Thinking of You
I thought of you today,
held the only picture
that remains;
so long ago you left,
a brief flutter in the wind,
a dying flame.
But Love never fades,
and I still embrace
your name,
a tiny remnant of you
that lives in me
once again.
Sleep well, sleep soft,
underneath God’s
gentle rain,
and hear this song
I sing for you, to ease
our pain.
164. To Move a Mountain
The mountain stood in distant pride,
a monolith of hardest stone,
immune to all the pleading cries
of those who claimed it as their own,
who worshipped at its silent base,
sought its aid in times of sorrow,
and fought in vain to keep believing
in holy grace to come tomorrow.
Then three came forth as sacrifices,
to climb the crag and not return,
to tell the mountain of the valley
where flames of hope still dared to burn;
the first drew blood from out his heart,
the second lay down in the snow,
the third would neither eat or drink,
resigned unto the winds that blow.
The mountain took their offerings,
regarding them as foolish men,
and angry bolts were fast unleashed
so they could never come again;
but when the sky was clear once more,
the people stood amazed to see
the sacred stone among them stood -
to move a mountain just takes three.
Dark days oppress,
wear down my soul,
too much sorrow,
too much pain
surround me;
so I shall sing of love –
to free my heart
from bonds of grief
and let it fly,
to soar above
and find the Sun.
Love is never weak:
it fills the spirit
with the iron will
to endure hardship,
to push away fear,
finding faith within,
finding the path
that leads to hope;
I shall sing of love today,
setting aside all doubt,
choosing to believe.
166. To Unknown Gods
Not of my flesh,
but of my spirit,
long a dark child
in search of love,
the pilgrim’s quest;
time bestowed wings
to escape the past,
but took her places
I could not go.
So now I kneel
in desperate prayer
to unknown gods –
guard this pilgrim,
make light her path
that she may see
how she is loved.
167. Tomorrow
Tomorrow I will be stronger:
gazing at the scudding clouds
I will see laughing unicorns
instead of fiery dragons;
listening to the morning forest
I will hear murmuring doves
and not the hungry hawk;
touching the waters of the lake
I will feel the movement of swans
where before there were only sharks.
Tomorrow I will be stronger:
in your need I will not abandon you,
in your pain I will bring comfort;
I will take your hand in mine
and the Darkness will explode
into a riotous burst of Light;
all that is alive in the Universe
will come flooding into my soul,
casting away the veil that so long
has enshrouded my frightened eyes;
only preserve this moment of Love
and tomorrow I will be stronger.
168. Tragoidos
The players, dressed in black,
take their marks upon the stage,
dark words echo in their minds,
stanzas full of fear and rage.
There are times when the comic
cannot express the human soul,
times of death and mass destruction
as evil bells begin their mournful toll.
Ask me not to sing you songs of love,
I cannot turn my sallow eyes away,
nor can I presume to give you mirth
when darkness shades the light of day;
forgive me if my poems distress,
if they shake you from delightful sleep,
for, like those who came before me,
I have so many promises to keep.
169. Turning Hollow
A growing emptiness within,
a cancer without substance
spreading into her fingers –
the pen drops.
Where did inspiration go,
she wonders in the silence,
is there nothing left to say,
and she stops.
Papers put aside, glasses off,
she surrenders to the foe
that haunts her every step,
quick to follow.
All she feels is nothing at all –
a void, a sense of loneliness,
and laments an inner sphere
now turned hollow.
170. Turning to Dust
I am decaying,
flesh and bone
in slow disintegration,
fading as Time
marches relentlessly;
Time was before,
and Time was after,
this Time I have
is haunting me –
Time for what?
To write a poem,
capture an image
as fleeting as Time,
doomed to die
in its own Time,
to find love
or bear a child
to negate Time
so I may live on.
I watch as I slowly
turn to dust,
dreams discarded,
out of Time,
knowing the folly
of being alive;
I simply await
the arrival of Death,
release from Time,
final extinction,
the end of Me.
171. Twister Sister
Out on the plains
when storm clouds are nigh,
a savage tornado
takes leave of the sky,
jumps down to earth
with Hell in its heart,
twisting and turning
the whole world apart,
tearing up houses
that once stood so proud,
now whittled to remnants
by one angry cloud.
She watches the radar
and follows its path,
prepared to take flight
in the face of the wrath
of a gale like no other
that mortals will see,
a split-second menace,
a dervish set free,
a dance of destruction
she has witnessed before,
while I pray that my sister
finds refuge once more.
172. Ultimate Betrayal
An accusing, silent stare,
the urgent need for words
inscribed upon your surface,
absorbing each letter
like thirsty summer soil;
if only I had words –
new words, hopeful words
to make you smile,
even words of sorrow
that make you weep.
How I caress each word,
a sudden, divine gift
I never hoped to receive,
no longer am I mute,
unheard, unseen;
yet our love is dangerous,
for as I hold you close
you reveal too much,
the ultimate betrayal
blank paper demands.
173. Venus and Mars
Condemned to circle
the same ball of fire,
yet doomed to remain
forever apart;
in mutual silence
we perform our dance
around the cosmos
of our hearts.
Words mean nothing
in the vacuum of space,
where screams of torment
make no sound,
and so we play roles
assigned us at birth,
nothing can be changed3
nothing found.
You remain as you are,
to me an enigma
I can no longer solve,
no longer willing;
so I head for the Sun
and bid you farewell,
taking leave from a soul
deadly chilling.
174. Vernal Gift
Buds upon the mountain ash
announce the month of May,
tulips turn to face the sun
and drive the chill away,
heralds of the coming warmth,
of days with lingering light –
I dare to dream of Winter’s end
in colours bold and bright.
The ever tender kiss of Spring –
its loving, kind caress –
a long-awaited suitor
upon my lips does press
with promises of newborn life,
the land set free once more –
a world of hope and happiness
lying just beyond my door.
My courage I must summon
to step outside, into the sun,
surrender to the passion
that with this season comes;
and yet I feel foreboding –
Winter never leaves so swift,
a final blast must lie in wait
before I seize this vernal gift.
175. Voices of the Night
Quiet at last,
exhausted by noise,
constant voices,
everywhere,
calling me,
demanding attention.
My refuge is silence,
absence of sound,
so tranquil,
inviting me
to rest my soul,
ignore the cries
around me
if but briefly.
Think of yourself,
he says to me,
and I try,
but the voices
never leave,
and if they did
loneliness
would consume me.
176. Vows
If I could give you peace,
bring comfort to your pain,
hold you in my arms –
I would.
If I could make you smile,
embrace you with my love
and keep you safe –
I would.
If I could touch your soul,
make all your darkness yield
to everlasting light –
I would.
And if you will share my life,
loving me with trusting heart,
in sickness as in health,
I can.
177. Voyager
Each poem a creation
long nurtured and loved,
sent forth in fear
as if launched into space,
never knowing where or when
it will come to rest,
nor what ears will open
to accept this voyager.
Perhaps each will sail
through an indifferent cosmos
on an endless journey,
doomed to a lonely existence
far from mortal ears.
Perhaps it does not matter:
each poem exists for me now,
bright and new and hopeful,
not yet willing to surrender
to the dark pull of gravity.
178. Waiting for a Storm
Electric charges in the air,
warm winds from the south
in the mists of November,
something out of place,
something alien and wild,
stalking, ready to strike
like a ravenous wolf
too long deprived,
free of the ancient fear
of its own destruction.
Resigned in apprehension,
waiting for a storm,
for the world to crash
and crumble at my feet,
for one moment to reel
in a crazed universe
where nothing exists
as it had before,
where I lay exposed
to the feral jaws of Hell.
179. Waiting for Summer: For Eastern Canadians, 2004
June must be the cruellest month,
an antipodal Janus looking two ways,
back upon the tireless grip of Winter
and ahead to blissful summer days;
the cold in June comes piercing,
a knife that penetrates your bones,
sending shivers through your flesh
that issue out as desperate groans,
for June is not a month for patience
but a time to celebrate renewal,
yet, as I sit here in the sullen rain,
I wonder what became of Nature’s jewel.
180. Walk Away
How much sorrow
can you take
before you walk away,
how much pain
can you endure,
never-ending,
all-consuming,
relentlessly eating
at your heart?
Too much sadness
overwhelms us;
we dwell in dark places
where anger rules,
where brute violence
conquers all.
Escape beckons:
walk away now,
say your goodbye,
make your exit,
salvage what remains
of your sanity.
Yet you remain,
for the Siren call
of just one voice
suffering harm
keeps you here:
you know you cannot
walk away.
181. When Summer Comes
When Summer comes
I shall walk
in fragrant gardens,
breathing in
every bloom,
celebrating birth.
When Summer comes
I shall put away
all things dark,
revel in light,
cast aside memories
of Winter’s gloom.
When Summer comes
I shall walk with you
along the shore,
collecting shells,
watching boats
frolic in the waves.
When Summer comes
months of sorrow
will be forgotten,
and you and I,
in new found wonder,
will waltz with Life.
182. When Summer Ends
The horizon swallows the Sun too eagerly,
too soon the darkness comes again
as days grow short and cold winds blow
into my heart.
Even the leaves in all their grandeur
fail to ease the hollowness I feel,
a farewell to life-giving Summer
from my soul.
The seasons follow, as they must,
the eternal dance of the cosmos,
planets whirling in syncopation
around the Sun.
This I cannot change, despite my will,
nor rage against the dying light
that summons me to take my leave
from golden dreams.
Yet hope survives the darkest days,
and within me lives a dormant flame
that once again shall flare to mark
the world’s rebirth.
183. When the Laughter Fades
Hollow laughter,
painted faces,
the carnival of life
casts its allure,
a net to drag me
where I would not go,
a trap to entangle
my reluctant feet.
I am the clown,
dressed in garish rags
and a purple hat
to crown my head,
I shall make you laugh
at my foolish antics,
entice your applause
to quell my tears.
And when the laughter fades
I shall disappear,
turn into nothingness,
my existence obliterated;
you will pass me on the street
and never know my name,
never see the curse
that binds me here,
never know the longing
to escape at last,
to hide where hollow laughter
cannot be heard.
Do not envy me:
I am not free as you,
but tied by iron bonds
that keep me prisoner here,
like ancient Prometheus,
condemned by the gods
for sparing others
the pain he endured.
184. Where Do I Find the Words?
In my heart I hide such dreams
as were never meant to be,
phantom worlds where hands entwine
and souls at last fly free.
Where do I find the words
to express the longing I feel,
the wish to find myself whole,
the moment of joy that I steal?
I cannot rejoice in the darkness
but look for the solace of light –
if only I could find the words
to speak to you this winter night.
185. Whom the Gods Love
The thread of life is slender,
Three Fates remain in charge,
to draw and weave and cut
as the end comes;
lesser beings such as we
can never know the course,
or even that our mortal race
now be fully run,
until we pass the threshold
and leave this world behind,
bequeathing to posterity
all that we have done.
For one who passed too quickly,
whose thread was never strong,
this final song of lamentation
must be softly sung,
a consolation to our grieving hearts,
acknowledging an ancient truth:
that those the gods love most
are dying far too young.
186. Winter Lament
Ice everywhere, the false glow of ice
extends its fingers through my soul;
no Sun to melt its sullen grasp away,
dark Winter comes, once again
to plunge the land into shadowed death.
The cold chills my fearful heart,
the wind defeats my muted senses:
I am snow-bound, dark-bound –
an endless waiting for warmth,
for life to survive, to return.
Huddle in the corner, pilgrim,
heap wood upon the hearth,
pray for light, pray for life,
and, if you can, pray for me.
187. Winter Seas
Winter seas are unforgiving,
whirlpools waiting to swallow
those who venture forth
in arrogance;
waves aroused by icy winds
seize their wooden walls,
twirl them around in a
fatal dance,
and the cold drags them down,
filling their minds with visions
until, at last, they succumb
to a trance,
and in their final moments,
just as death approaches,
they feel the ecstasy of
marine romance.
188. Winter Solstice: Sol Invictus
Distant glowing stars,
adrift in the endless cosmos,
adorn a coal-dark sky:
icicles, so far away,
forcing frost into my blood,
drop by chilling drop.
The Cold pervades all,
the Dark encompasses all.
Winter has seized my soul,
a shivering embrace
that I cannot escape.
The world has seen Death this day;
nailed to the cross of seasons,
it longs for resurrection.
The Cold pervades all,
the Dark encompasses all.
Pray to your gods,
pray for the light,
pray for the nourishment of warmth
that will restore life.
On this day cut so short,
look up in wonder at the stars
and know how fierce they burn,
that the life force
is not yet extinguished.
The Cold will depart,
the Dark will be vanquished:
Sol Invictus.
No comments:
Post a Comment