Dream Time Poetry

The maze

Helen Howell — Sat, 14 Nov 2009 06:31:22 +0000

Love comes at its own time
and takes us from the mundane
into the extraordinary
but to see it, feel it, know it,
not for the feint hearted.

The heart needs strength and fortitude
and the will to survive
through loss and grief and circumstance
that twists its path into a maze
with seemingly no exit.

But the exit’s there with every turn
for every corner holds the truth
albeit closely to its breast
like a mother would a child.

That child is fed and nurtured
but of love in this duality
it bears the brunt of fire and ire
and becomes as dust and grit
in the eyes of the beholder.

And that beholder’s you and me
who meander in our suffering
until we truly can believe
love never leads us to a place
that kills our free will choice
to simply turn the corner
and find the opening!

Helen / 14 November 2009

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Stairs

Helen Howell — Fri, 06 Nov 2009 12:53:52 +0000

Stairs start and lengthen more
from the dungeon of despair
to make of every step
a laboured affair.

No man or beast, angelic friend,
or sweetheart of the heart’s desire
can lift the burden, ease the pain,
or change a state of mind.

But there always was and still is
the self that knows no other way
than up with good and down with bad
until the climb turns night to day.

And in the light of clarity
effort begets its own reward
that creeps into the psyche, see
and turns a servant into lord.

And so of lords both here and there
they set a standard for us all
and soon upon the highest stair
life will be as once before!

Helen / 6 November 2009

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The shudder/shake

Helen Howell — Wed, 21 Oct 2009 17:12:38 +0000

‘twas not the spark of passion
nor the advent of desire
but the shudder/shake of terror
brought up from her recalls.

It’s not to say she didn’t know
love hovered near to still her fear
but so much more she needed then
to make of life a good event.

It didn’t come. She called again,
again, again, again,
until still wrapped in sheer terror
she stepped into the world of Gods
to re-affirm true love’s avowals.

And from that sojourn she awoke
not still or settled, calm, peaceful,
but lost, bemused, abandoned,
in a world of foreigners.

She lives today, so they say,
within the shadows of the day
but you will look and never find
that woman who was known to call
again, again, again!

Helen / 21 October 2009

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Shawls and blankets

Helen Howell — Sat, 03 Oct 2009 20:35:11 +0000

She who opens doors to more
feels the breeze of who she is
but then the cold of the “before”
wraps around her daily life.

She ponders so this memory chill
like strangers in her new abode
and in her manner so polite
offers them an overnight.

‘tis not to say they do not know
to leave before she suffers more
and yet it’s like they’re glued to beds
made before awakening.

She cleans around their imprints felt
and discards the useless junk of hurt
but the crown of how she knows to be
never placed upon her head.

But time is such that ponders not
the speed with which it leaves behind
the glorious and magnificent,
the amazing and fantastic,
and the really quite remarkable
woman that she is.

And of that woman, all women,
who open doors to more
they sit with shawls and blankets
until time comes round again!

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Thoughtful energy

Helen Howell — Tue, 22 Sep 2009 06:41:35 +0000

So blows this life into the mind

where lives a thoughtful energy

and it joins and dissipates the force

that once was paramount.

And in this mix creation’s orb

shrinks and shrivels, disappears

and becomes a servant to dis-ease

clothed in shredded leftovers

of its former glory.

To search and find and reinstate

what once made life worthwhile

like a chore unlisted on the board

of human existence.

Lonely is the voice in time

that calls with silent needfulness

for thought to rise and fight, fight, fight,

the dictates of a mortal life.

Creation’s orb is there somewhere

tattered, torn, not as before,

so blows this life into the mind

again, again, till death the end!

Helen / 22 September 2009

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Country girls and woman folk

Helen Howell — Mon, 14 Sep 2009 07:52:45 +0000

‘tis a country girl that knows to be

in complete and utter harmony

with the wild that calls within, within,

in the dead of lonely nights

but she wakes to find the sun up high

on the crying fields.

The crying fields spread far and wide

over all her hopes and needs inside

and she traces them with hands attuned

to the fabric of despair.

Such fabric is o’er laid with fear

and studded with the beads of need

and the pattern formed a travesty

of the wild that calls within.

‘tis country girls and woman folk

who know of harmony and fear

and how it works to blend and meld

the real into the false

and grow amidst the crying fields

one red and vibrant rose.

That rose looks left and right,

sisters, brothers, none

and then it knows to stand upright

and speak for those who can’t

and it screams into the atmosphere

with all it’s innate might.

The echo travels far and wide

but so deep within the crying fields

it fades before the target reached

and the rose knows it must die

before the next sunrise.

Today there is no rose to shout;

the crying fields have spread and grown

beyond the confines of the known

and of country girls and woman folk

they’ve become like you and me

misplaced and dispossessed

of the wild that calls within!

Helen / 14 September 2009

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Cocktails and little crumbs

Helen Howell — Mon, 07 Sep 2009 05:56:45 +0000

Life moves in and takes out
dreams, wishes, hopes and needs
and stirs and mixes cocktails
like a barman paid to be
a maker and creator.

It has no mind for me to sense
or heart to pump intent
but, oh, so diligent
it serves up and clears away
like one who doesn’t know
there always is a crumb or two
missed in the clean sweep.

Crumbs mix and meld in their own way
with the morning of the day
and catch in the oesophagus
of one who knows to breathe
the remainder and the residue
into the atmosphere.

And so into the twilight
crumbs scratch and irritate
and scratch and irritate
and scratch and irritate.

Night descends and shallow breath
skirts the crumbs of what is left
and brings unto the one who lives
a sense of silent happiness
that sometimes, sometimes not,
sweeps the crumbs into the bin
of “what the hell, I live”.

And after, long after,
the “sometimes not” grows bigger than
those everyday little crumbs
and that’s the way it goes
until happiness evolves
but never can it grow
when love like a little crumb
remains an irritation!

Helen / 7 September 2009

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Neutral shades

Helen Howell — Sat, 22 Aug 2009 05:08:38 +0000

‘tis neutral shades that rule the day
like women who are known to be
without, within, and round about
the dictates of a mortal life.

The colour swatch of passion, grief,
awaits a willingness to be
pushed and pulled and swung around
the totem pole of happenings.

There is no wish to ride the wave
of wanting, needing, wishing for
a better “this”, a grander “that”,
and a love not meant to be.

And neutral welcomes in the night
to sleep within that state of mind
but soon the dawn cancels all
and colour is again the norm.

Neutral prays, indeed it does,
to stay within the colour wheel
but in the field of all it feels
to not be tainted by the world.

The world, the world, the thief of love,
and taker of essential grace,
show your colours but desist
from imbuing the unique!

Helen / 22 August 2009

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The sea

Helen Howell — Thu, 20 Aug 2009 12:36:09 +0000

The sea came in from way out there
where love’s a stable entity
to tell of many grandiose things
and the beauty of it all.

But the shore possessed of seashells, grit,
and discarded human garbage
could not absorb or understand
the sea’s need and wish to be
the bearer of good tidings.

Sea stayed a moment, just a bit,
before the toss and turn
that forevermore will silence
the tongue of one who loves.

Forevermore’s the damndest thing;
it’s how ever long it needs to be
but I know the sea and how she moves
along the grid of her beliefs.

She believes, you see, in evermore
and how what is remains to be
a memory not ere expunged
with the changing of the tide.

And the grid is one straight line
not curled and intertwined
like waves that come again, again,
unto that selfsame shore.

The sea, the sea, may she not be
one to rest amongst the grit!

Helen / 20 August 2009

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Ordinary love

Helen Howell — Mon, 17 Aug 2009 06:32:25 +0000

Not yet but soon to be a prince
the one who dubbed his mother “queen”
and served her with the humbleness
of ordinary love.

It is and always has been
the core of ordinary
that begets a wave unleashed
upon the population
because one of all and everything
divides, divides, divides,
and then multiplies
to crash upon the shore
of the unaware.

But the wave no soothing murmur
to lull the senses, dull the pain,
but a roar of deep intensity
that shocks and shakes composure
to the point of change.

And change no sweet surrender
until resistance like a sponge
absorbs the meaning, reasons,
and bows in acquiescence.

Now forsaking all that went before
the queen bows to the prince
as I now bow to love
that invisibly divides, divides,
and multiplies
in walking, talking, fortresses.

But love, dear love, so slow and sure
must still get to the core
and fortresses are fortresses
until the door is opened!

Helen / 17 August 2009