The book is open today at insight
as the birds claim the glory of sky
and seem to be forcing a look out there
as a turn-away from the knowing.
Yet the knowing follows the need to see
how they dip and glide gloriously free
in the vastness of no limitations
or rules as to how they must be.
Slowly it dawns like day after night
that I too must soar like the birds
un-weighted by the burden of sight
that penetrates all falsities.
And when it is known that a dip and glide
is a personal saving...
For something different and free follow the link below to some original music by Devin Howell.http://www.devinhowell.com/2013/06/03/winter-rose-live-in-studio-ep/
That gypsy looked as gypsies do
into the heart of silence
hoping there to see
golden threads of happiness
purported to be real.
Lo/behold, a mass of many colours
starting bold and vibrant
and ending pastel, dull
and she started to unravel
still hoping as all gypsies do.
Not here, not there, but somewhere, yes?
And she looked again as gypsies do
way beyond the pale
and there in quiet repose
cross-legged on the seat of time
sat pure happiness.
What time, what time, she didn’t know
There’s nothing wrong with the 16thof May
for it did in the past birth a special resolve
but wrapped it up in flesh and bone
before sending it into the world.
There it lived for a number of years
with inklings of the absolute truth
and a sense of all the mystery realms
that intruded into the physical world.
There were times when resolve was strong
but settled back into weak states
seeking there to be like the rest
unknowing, unthinking, unfeeling.
Its façade was broken one day, one day,
And those times of hoping, hoping,
too fluid to remain within
compartments of the mind
trickle down to ground
there to be trodden on
by life’s sheer disdain.
But it is the month of May;
there’ll be no rain today
and consciousness degrees
a time of watering
from now until the summer
brings in the clouds and rain
to flood our hope filled fields
and make them be as if were not.
And if we pack and carry hope
there’ll be a weakening
and down to ground it will fall
and again be no more.
In that pit of no-man’s land
he lay as one unconscious of
the hand of love that gentle traced
the lines of bad experiences.
They twisted this way/that
and went beneath the surface of
the certainly most transitory
to disappear and be absorbed
by the real and permanent.
And yet she sought to draw them out
and lay them end to end
so they could shrivel up and die
before the last goodbye.
But the hand of love stopped midway;
only one who lies in that dark pit
can delve and ferret deep, de...
A thought comes stealthily to mind
not like a thief to steal
but to leave a package bound and wrapped
and a card to say write today
the words of a love story.
And I search the archives of that mind
from the start until today
looking for a grain of truth
to weave the plot around.
I find instead impressions
where once the grains did lie
and know that in the world today
truth has gone awry.
The grains of truth blow o’er the earth
but sometimes, yes, they stop to rest
Where once the bright and glorious
now only embers lie
and flicker ever slightly so
as if to say they know
they once were a fire.
The moon’s not sad when cut in half,
the sun sets with a smile,
and winter trees do not mourn
the loss of summer’s beauty.
As all that once was dies and lies
in the archives of good memory
they are the embers of my life
I douse them with the present times
and term them natural cycles
and yet there’s that flickering
on and on and ...
So that gypsy sat and pondered some
on the form of human love
and saw what should be straight and true
was convoluted, bent.
She scratched the surface, looked inside,
and, lo/behold, a once bright gem
was covered thick and densely with
the moss of an agenda.
How it got there still unknown
but on her travels round about
she knew the ground beneath her feet
had hardened over time.
No longer could she softly tread
and feel the sand between her toes
because there is no give between
When I decide to leave this place
it would be, I know, to enter grace
and be who I have always been
when serving at the feet of love.
It’s not a love this world can know
when hormones always steal the show
and eyes attuned to light upon
the façade of skin and bone.
I think to pack up all my life
but still so much comes daily back
for me to see, touch, and assess
what fits into my travel bag.
I think I’ll leave you here, you know,
because you knew yet still remained
distant and too far a...