Dream Time Poetry

There can be …

Helen Howell — Tue, 07 Sep 2010 06:21:19 +0000

There can be a moment of happiness, joy,
and faith so strong it breaks my own will
and there can be a moment of sadness, despair,
that breaks what lies beyond awareness.

There can be the lightness of wishes in air,
the heaviness of no one who cares,
the gentle hold of loving you so
and the open arms of letting you go.

There can be the tears of the lost and lonely
and those joined with mirth and laughter
and there can be the pain in body and mind
that loosens my hold on these present times.

There can be the sinking of feet into earth
and the wiping it off because it’s just dirt
but dirt always sticks no matter the holes
life has made be in everyone’s soul.

There can be, there was, but what’s yet to be
a matter, I think, simply up to me!

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The middle part

Helen Howell — Sun, 05 Sep 2010 19:26:52 +0000

Not as bad as death row,
not as good as paradise,
and yet an island visited
to stand on solid ground.

It’s the middle part before the sway
and a place no one can stay
for like the sea it rises, sinks,
and the sand moves underfoot.

What’s good, what’s bad?
No mind can know
when like an island buffeted
or calmed by passing fancy.

And so that “try, try again”
for constancy, stability,
a never ending flex, relax,
until all the facts are known.

But facts are like graphs and charts
drawn by own perceptions
and that island’s just a place I go
to experience the flow ~
until paradise found and known
to be here on my death row!

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The shuffle and deal

Helen Howell — Tue, 31 Aug 2010 07:06:07 +0000

From out Pandora’s box there flew
the questions, answers, thoughts, feelings,
and I gathered them like woman do
within the confines of review.

Laid start to end they made no sense
so I shuffled them like cards, you know,
and fanned them round as if to deal
the truth into mind’s memory.

But soon the truth became o’er laid
with my opponents cards from hell
and who can find the absolute
when past perceptions resolute?

So I tried to stack them neatly so
back into where they should remain
but once let out an unmatched pile
exceeds the boundaries of mind.

Today they walk in single file
in the ether of what’s still to be
bearing all and getting more
until ne’er again a “once before”.

But what of mind that can’t discard
the deal of life’s most hellish cards?

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Snapping sound

Helen Howell — Fri, 27 Aug 2010 22:12:55 +0000

‘tis just a gentle snapping sound
like a small branch underfoot
that halts the stride of one endowed
with a sense of urgency.

And in the pause pure silence falls
to weight the muscles with dismay
till unable to regain the will
nothing happens, zero, naught.

The pose is most undignified,
no directions left to read,
but who can read from left to right
when stuck in nothing happening?

That moment stretches into years
until brain functions re-engage
and rev towards awakening
a too long dormant will.

Oh, will, the will of mighty men
breaks the silence, moves the feet,
but of that snapping, snapping, sound
in lurks unseen in spaces weak.

‘tis just a weak space, nothing more,
and sounds don’t really hurt at all
so crush those branches happily
on the way towards a happening!

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From this to that

Helen Howell — Thu, 26 Aug 2010 06:10:42 +0000

When light shines forth upon the world
and all in awe bow down
there’ll be a fluttering of fear
within the bowels of earth.

She’s come to know, you see,
the footsteps, sadness, tears,
so long in residence upon
the outskirts of her life.

She’ll murmur softly, gently,
and tremble slightly so
unknowing that her fear of loss
will beget more suffering.

And when she knows she’ll strike a pose
of feigned indifference
and proceed undaunted with the chore
of birthing happiness.

But such is happiness to be
something that dances temporarily
and those in empathy with earth
will again light up the sky.

From this to that and back again
and earth each time gets closer to
a state of fearlessness
at losing what she’s come to know!

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Let it be

Helen Howell — Fri, 20 Aug 2010 05:30:53 +0000

I understand where it came from,
where it’s gone to a deep mystery,
but I’m not inclined to delve and pry
or not trust the process of love.

But still the missing of corners and bends
perturbs a traveller on roads to the end
for always they should lead into straights
that allow a return unto love.

I guess love is there beneath the flesh
but I’m not inclined to try a pin-prick
to test the depths of its safe retreat
and upturn its current condition.

Let love lie deep down inside
if that’s where it’s chosen to hide
or let it glide un-tethered and free
if it’s not meant to be.

Let it be, let it be, but let it not be
the reason for you and me and them
to not ever again in this lifetime
find those missing corners and bends!

Helen / 20 August 2010

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Dig or let lie?

Helen Howell — Sun, 08 Aug 2010 06:43:59 +0000

From beneath the surface of burial grounds
can be heard the sounds of restlessness
and it’s like the sand moves underfoot
and topples the stance of permanence.

I buried the past deep down underground
and thought it would lie forever as dead
so I kept a fair distance from the rumble
like one in protection of sanity.

Now far from that initial event
and totally firm in stubborn denial
I listen unnerved and wait perturbed
for an eruption that’s bound to occur.

It’s a question of time; how long can one vow
to remain untouched by past happenings
before the eyes rising and deafening ears
with the cries of needful acknowledgement?

But soon, too soon, the “now” creeps up
and the past sinks back into the sand
not dead but silent and mournfully still
like one on the sidelines of happiness.

And I, the one with shovel and spade,
ponder the merits of unearthing the past
when the past with a will of its own
so adept at moving unaided.

But only a movement and nothing to fear
when the “now” more forceful and overpowering
yet the tremble is felt and footsteps falter
with re-avowals of stubborn denial.

Dig or let lie?

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An “it”

Helen Howell — Tue, 03 Aug 2010 06:27:50 +0000

I thought I caught it one day
from that special river of soul
where honesty forms a channel
and truth a solid base.

Lo and behold, an about-face
and the choice for a time of the mighty sea
until, as would happen, it became snared
on the line of the world’s many lies.

It landed then and sought to be free
until it knew that would never be
and so it travelled back, further back,
in search of a woman like me.

But I was gone from that river of soul
because no honesty in an about-face
that leaves the base dry and o’er laid
with layers and layers of falsities.

It happens that way when we turn away
from one who fishes in rivers of soul
but pity the “it” now joined and entwined
with the world’s unaccountable lies.

If asked today I’d certainly say,
“Don’t fish in the rivers of soul
because sooner or later all you will catch
is an infectious virus of lies!”

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The point of the matter

Helen Howell — Thu, 29 Jul 2010 22:21:05 +0000

The point of the matter a will-o’-the-wisp
to disappear like dew in the day
and take to the trails of fanciful schemes
laid like a road towards definite goals.

I left at seven suitably armed
to restrain that point of the matter
but it wiggled and squirmed out of my grasp
and got lost in the forest of dreams.

And in that forest of numerous dreams
there’s no place for practical matters
and for a time I thought maybe to be
a sidekick to all possibilities.

I dozed in the shade of how life could be
if dreams met on the road towards goals
and walked hand in hand like lovers
to find that proverbial pot of gold.

I awoke with a start; how time deceives
one who projects into lifetimes not yet
and I saw the dew again creeping in
to overlay the point of the matter.

And so the actual point of the matter
too fleeting to make an impression
bemoans its fate time, time again,
like a beautiful woman ignored!

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The pulse of agony

Helen Howell — Sun, 25 Jul 2010 06:06:56 +0000

How amazing is the heart
to break and break again
and not ere be done with
the pulse of agony.

Slow running stitches
stabilize the tear
but when the thread runs out
a revealing stare results.

And that stare like a laser beam
cuts right to the core
and in situ cauterizes
the advance of agony.

But who can stand and stare
at a tear that runs amok
when the pulse of agony
beats vehemently?

So I make those running stitches
time and time again
because strange I am to not believe
revealing stares are laser beams!