Dream Time Poetry

ONE TREE (RE-POST)

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 18 Sep 2025 16:07:00 +0000

There once was a tree, though it could be you/me, standing alone in the cold with burdens untold weighing it down and keeping it tied to the ground but it soon came to pass that the sun, in the silent manner of love, warmed from the inner out and it looked to the sky blue and alive and knew of a power on high.

It uplifted itself from pain, from realms not meant to be seen, and it heard in the wind a whisper to grow and enfold God’s love in its being.  It heard and it knew but the world wasn’t new and everything stayed the same till lightening from God struck the core of its soul and moved it close to the sea.

It watched the waves, saw pleasure and praise, and asked that it too be set free, yet still its roots were sunk in the sand in the middle of no-man’s land.  And there it was left to suffer and grow till it bent its leaves to the sea and the sea in response crept nearer and near to the tree grown older alone.

Sea laps at the roots of that lonely tree and swells with the weight of its tears till the tree in full obedience leans yet further towards the sea.  I can see it, can feel it, getting wet and wetter from the spray of how it must be and there will come a day when the sea rises up and the tree will find a new home.

It waits and it listens, it learns and it grows, it blossoms the rose of its soul, so all who pass by can smile and say they know where it’s going to go.  It will go, it knows, but God sets the pace and prepares a new bed for the tree but the tree, or you/me, must still shade the path of those traveling towards the sea.

Close to the sea stands one beautiful tree for God has given it soul to feel and embrace the stars in the sky as its very own paradise.  There will be more, so very much more, both pleasure and pain alike, until the sea covers the tree like God’s love has covered you/me – always it seems for how can He leave what He has created to be whether a tree or only “you/me” who one day will reach  the sea!

Crown

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 30 Jun 2025 14:57:00 +0000

When that gypsy grew old and her wagon decayed
the world as she knew it had nothing to say
so she breathed in the air and looked here and there
to find that illusive crown of contentment.

When the search was complete her eyes lifted up.
Perhaps way up high beyond her eyesight
or buried maybe in the bowels of the earth
and then the tears fell from that gypsy grown old.

She can’t travel high, she can’t travel low,
and she can’t resurrect the sadly decayed
and she wondered how to ever give up
her quest for that most amazing crown.

But the sound of silence had plenty to say
and she listened like gypsies are prone to do
until finally, finally, the words “make your own”
cavorted and danced demanding attention.

So she settled in with needle and thread
and a pattern made up with the years of her life
and she knew that soon, maybe sooner than then,
she would wear her own crown of contentment!

Time

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 26 Sep 2024 10:01:00 +0000

In the silence of these times
a gypsy’s mind travels far
looking, looking, somewhere there
for what she know exists.

But she is known to misconstrue
the signs she sees along the way
which cause her to veer off course
from her core belief.

She doubles back to start again
but to no avail she humbly sits
and tries with all her might to be
well implanted in these times.

And so it worked for years and years
but how she longs to walk the trail
in search again for what she knows
is waiting, waiting, waiting.

But she smiles again like gypsy’s do
to fight off all the tears inside
that flood her being with … woefulness
because she knows she won’t succeed.

She tried back then and tried again
but now she merely waits and waits
because she knows she can’t be right
if the timing isn’t so.

Time, dear time, when is your time
to shine your goodness down?

"Here"

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 31 Aug 2024 22:29:00 +0000

So she made a mistake and ended up “here”

where sunflowers have taken their leave

and no roses grow all vibrantly red

in soil deprived of nourishment.

Sometimes the sun beats fiercely down

and sometimes the rain pools in disdain

here in that place called “here”

that always sings out of tune.

But she can still hear the call of the wild

emanating from deep memory stores

that uplifts and places her way over there

away from that place called “here”.

So there, over there, is where she goes

to find the true and meaningful

that always sustains and fortifies

while living in that place called “here”.

She goes and returns again, again,

but comes back refreshed and renewed

and always gives thanks again, again

for that beautiful place over there.

And it truly is beautiful!

Up and Out

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 08 Jan 2024 12:10:00 +0000

And as her mind fills up, up, up,
with evil not ere known before
she knows to do a nightly scrub
and flush the knowledge out, out, out.

But of the flush is it enough
to ensure no remnant there remains
to taint the essence of her being
and make her be as she is not?

Although she ponders she well knows
she is today as she was then
and tomorrow she will be again
how she’s always been.

There is no changing the true self
but sometimes pretence reigns supreme
and little signs along the way
are discarded from mind’s reservoir.

But the day will come when evil says,
“To hell with this, I’m going out”
and she will see and then believe
all those discarded signs.

Too late, too late, she should have known
but the scrub and flush left her unarmed
to face the full import
of evil’s many wiles.

So keep the signs within the mind
to be prepared and ready for
the time when people change
from what you thought was good and true!

WORDS

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 08 Jan 2023 06:46:00 +0000

The words that once were free at ease

recline beneath a willow tree

wishing so to climb, climb, climb,

to escape the evil on the ground.

That evil is a devil thing that stabs

and stabs, stabs, stabs again,

till nought but “mush” remains to speak

of love and peace and harmony.

And that “mush” sends up an ardent plea

to grow, grow, grow and grow some more,

to knock at last on heaven’s door

and ask, and ask, why, why, why, why.

For now mere silence filters down

and words listen, listen more,

but nothing penetrates the shell

that survival put in place.

But they know, of course, they know

because heaven speaks out loud

when the channel free of dirt and grime

picked up from that filthy ground.

But how to make the channel free

for more than minutes in a day

and words ponder, ponder, ponder more,

until claimed by exhaustive sleep.

You’ll see them there beneath the tree

but don’t disturb their reverie

because they will have to start again

from beginning till the end.

How long it’s been, how long will be,

but I can’t tell you till I know

they’ve up and walked away

to regain their rightful place.

And their rightful place a page of course

or three or four or more and more and more!

The sea today

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 18 Oct 2022 09:47:00 +0000

Wind whips at the sea and she crests in anger
at the will of the life force that puts her on edge
for placed of nature she'd much rather flow
straight to the shore like a woman adored.

No friend the wind to pierce through her heart
and bleed her frustrated womanhood feel
into the rough of an unsettled life
like a figment created for picturesque worth
and not for the using, the feeling, tasting.

Sea sprays her ire right up to the sky
but it crashes back down into her mass
swallowed and swallowed so she can begin
making slow rolls towards calm repose.

Night hastens to come and relieve the sun
for the sentry of day no help in the fray
and the sea bids the night be her lover
to still the frenzy within.

Night settles at last on the sea’s many fears
the promise of peace still yet to be
and the sea believes like the seer in me
that everything comes to he who believes.

Meanwhile the rain and just so you know
tomorrow the wind will blow yet again!

Missing

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 14 Apr 2022 13:32:00 +0000

And as that gypsy emerged
from her bubble of silence
she wondered what happened that day
when life stole her earthly voice.

Was it the rain that washed it out,
the wind that blew it away,
or simply the evil of humankind
that burnt to ash each/every word?

It matters not; what’s gone is gone
but that gypsy knows to search the terrain
because the entrenched that’s missing today
not yet dead and buried.

If found could she then still verbalize
the intent of goodness, mercy, kindness,
and speak to the deaf of forever love
and belief in the everlasting?

Meanwhile the days relentless march on
while she struggles to remain undeterred
from the battle to retain her core beliefs
in a world so intent on evil.

She searches today, she struggles today,
but evil, that dastardly thing called “evil”,
attaches itself to her every day
and relentlessly marches on and on and on!

The run and jump

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 27 Mar 2021 14:07:00 +0000

She’s a baby at this thing called life
because she cannot understand
the lies, the greed, the arrogance
and that dreaded manipulation
that trips her up time and time again.

But babies grow and learn
and know to take little, little, steps,
before the run and jump
that takes them away and over.

I reckon she’s in mid jump
uncertain how or where she’ll land
but at least she is in motion
from years of immobility.

If I had a hat I would take it off
but I can bow from the waist down
and pay homage to the strength
that came out from the blue.

Yes, she was strong and is strong
now way up in the air
but will a cushion or a rock
be awaiting her “come-down”?

But such is life that no one knows
what a run and jump will lead to
but to stay as one immobile
a fate worse than death.

Please let’s pray that she will hand
upright on her feet
and live to tell of the heartache and grief
that will surely follow her all of her days!

Sifting

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 24 Jan 2021 06:55:00 +0000

These days more than then

it’s time to sift through the dirt

and find a little miracle

waiting to be noticed

and rescued from the pain

of being trodden on.

It takes a time, it really does,

for sifting’s no easy task

when distracted is the mind

by life’s activities.

But to sift, look, and be aware

of something waiting in the dirt

to be lifted up and cherished

always gives a good return

on the effort expended.

How sad these days to walk on dirt

and ignore what’s underfoot

until each and every miracle

breaks up and disappears.

The voice of free speech (adapted from the original)

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 10 Jan 2021 10:34:00 +0000

The voice of free speech soft and dulcet in its tone

or harsh, abrasive, cutting, and reaching to the core,

moves freely like the wind, touching, circulating,

and speaking only and always to those who wish to hear.

Ideology, philosophy, wishful thinking, memories,

unsubstantiated dreams, hopes, wishes, needs, desires,

woven like a tapestry too soon to be out-dated

and discarded like a heap of old and musty books.

In a fire of these times volumes and manuscripts

will burn and be forgotten like bodies of the dead

and cynics will grow to outnumber those who know

till all and everything disappears into the air.

How pointless, how degrading, how useless is intent

to expose to the already wise the wisdom of the old

or shine like a star in the path of a blind man

in the knowledge that he has no eyes to see.

Too numerous the setbacks and too far away the moon

to highlight a soul within the shell of flesh

and everyone’s free speech will evolve into dust

to be trodden on and crushed by life’s intolerance.

The air once thin, sustaining, grows thick and thicker now

with the absorption of … simply all and everything

Season

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 19 Dec 2020 12:18:00 +0000

It’s just a season good or bad

that comes and then it goes

and caught in the cycle we obey

whatever rules are laid out.

But then mid-way or at the beginning

a mighty struggle ensues

and who once a leader becomes a loser

and the old gives way to the new.

We can blame the season or leader now loser

who once in the task of growing up

caused an event that sapped his strength

at a time when most it was needed.

He doesn’t bend his head in shame,

he doesn’t wring his hands in grief,

and certainly no tears can fall

when evil is his saving grace.

Yes, evil applauds dastardly acts

and the one who caused his downfall

because evil’s not fussy as long as it lives

and as long as the people suffer.

But evil forgets it is just a season

and soon the season will change

and over the land one word will rebound

and that word is, of course, …

“Freedom, freedom!”

Once ...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 10 Dec 2020 10:58:00 +0000

Once on a Sunday that lady believed

magic would manifest all of her dreams

and the sun shone on that day in between

the beginning and end of that Sunday that was.

She remembers well the heat of the day

and how blue the sky that captured her gaze

and as the leaves danced on each/every tree

she wondered what tune played only for them.

She listened because she too wished to dance

to celebrate fully her day of belief

but instead she sat still and breathed in the air

that surely held tunes she couldn’t yet hear.

And then the night fell; it kept falling, you know,

and blanketed out the sun, sky and trees.

to make her believe her day of belief

was plain and simply a dream.

But what held the dreams she certainly had

except that glorious day of belief

that weakened its grip and let them fly free

to perhaps manifest in some other time.

She waits and she waits and listens each day

for the music she couldn’t then hear

but she knows she will one Sunday in time

because days of belief don’t disappear.

Fanning

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 29 Nov 2020 12:32:00 +0000

I’m fanning the air around wishes, needs,
to circulate what I put out
but how stupid is that when mind’s intact
and works with no electricity.

It’s not solar powered but yet needs fuel
brought up from the depths of desire
but you must understand life pollutes all
and makes wishes/needs ineffectual.

It’s not like life’s evil or bad
but simply slow to desist
from dropping my every wish
into the dirt of its own agenda.

But one day, one day, life will believe
everything dropped must be picked up
so if I don’t fuel the fires of desire
my wishes and needs are disempowered.

And who would have thought a woman like me
would end up a stoker of fires
but it’s okay, you see, because I believe
one day that one day will come.

Never thought …

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 27 Jun 2020 09:17:00 +0000

And I never thought I’d know

of corruption, deceit and thievery

and yet here I am surrounded and embroiled

in the worst of them thrust on humankind.

It’s like the mindful tower I built

of all I thought was good and true

has fallen prey to despicable control

that toppled it to ground.

Of course I search amongst the rubble

for traces of the right and honourable

but all I find are dust particles

that ne’er again can be a whole.

It’s raining today and where sand now mud

that one day will bake in the sun of renewal

but those days are so very far off

that perhaps never in my lifetime.

But I’ll make my own tower again, again,

because all that I am and all I believe

can’t be destroyed by the hand of evil

so prevalent in these current times.

And so as I wait for the sun to come out

all I can do is design and refine

my blueprints of soul that allow me to know

but that block the infusion of iniquity!

Before ...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 03 May 2020 10:09:00 +0000

Before the night claims my day

I think of words to say

that perhaps will aid and abet

the furtherance of love.

But then in the morning light

I come to the understanding

I need to grow and increase

my force and effect.

How tall, how big, how loud and dictatorial

and then I shrink with the knowing

the my hands are tied to the post

of plain and simply who I am.

I cannot shout from mountain tops

or dance the light fantastic

to the tune of all I know should be

or simply tell you quietly.

I am here and you are there

but before the day lays claim to night

I like to think that in that peaceful state

everyone is dancing to the tune of love.

I like to think but can it really be

when some don’t think to dance?

Magic

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 24 Mar 2020 20:58:00 +0000

The air is fresh and clean

and that gypsy over yonder hill

stares up above in wonderment

because she knows that way up there

magic has been made and despatched.

She cannot see it, no, she can’t

and yet it’s real and tangible

deep in her heart that’s been dismayed

and sunken in despair.

For everything there is a time

and this her time to receive

and she will breathe the fresh clean air

in gratitude and thankfulness.

And that time to lose too far away

to spoil her happiness

and she dances as all gypsies do

deep in the essence of herself.

No argument, no, not one

that she is free to be

unencumbered by the grief

and agony, heartache.

Remember, remember,

everything must pass

but always there is magic

that will make it come again.

Remember, remember,

help her to remember!

State of grace

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 14 Oct 2019 12:59:00 +0000

I’ve got it today, had it yesterday,

but for tomorrow who can really know

because grace is a state that comes and goes

when humans behave in the strangest of ways.

Fortunately so it always is there

buried down deep waiting to rise

and bloom like a rose to offset the thorns

life is so keen to challenge us with.

So we rise to the challenge and not to the grace

and cut the thorns down however we can

but with never a care for those poor lowly thorns

grace will forever stay out of our reach.

But I’ve got it today and I celebrate

while keeping the faith that it never will leave

but, of course, it never can ever do that

while totally comfortable within our keep.

However, sometimes it cries day and night

for lonely it is without our company

and really how much does it cost to visit

and spend some time in a state of grace?

Agony

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 14 Sep 2019 08:46:00 +0000

Rain doesn’t wash the agony out

it simply spreads it around

and allows it to settle where ere it will

while waiting for times to change.

And change like a storm sometimes

and sometimes an unnoticed drizzle

but change a definite and certain outcome

after agony of a day, month, year.

It’s the waiting that lays one down inert

unable to rise to the new and untried

so the this or that lays claim to mind

and creates complete and utter confusion.

Now confusion like a devil incarnate

that overloads the mind, heart, soul,

to cause withdrawal from the meaningful

until, until, well, perhaps the next storm.

But in between the storms and drizzles

there is the sun and new growth

if we can but know and certainly feel

something’s growing behind the times.

Let there be peace and so it must be

to enable that “thing” to grow happily

without the distraction of agony

and the devil’s work of confusion!

Spinning

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 05 Aug 2019 05:34:00 +0000

Round and round and round

and it ain’t no mulberry bush

but rather this thing called life

that attracts the whim of circumstance

and spirals out of all control.

Caught so in its evil trap

we fight to release ourselves

and we do when the wind dies

but, lo/behold ‘tis just a spell

before that wind comes back again.

And it blows, and it blows,

day in and day out

until exhausted we collapse

into the sleep of the dead.

Sleeping so we hope to gain

the strength to carry on

spinning, spinning, spinning,

until the next release.

And so of that spin/release

it surely is a testing ground

but I wonder when if ever

we’ll pass that damn exam.

And as we go with the flow

we can only hope and pray

for that stillness that surpasses

all out understanding.

Strife

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 12 Jul 2019 17:23:00 +0000

The sun sinks slowly, slowly, down

o’er the strife of humankind

and sits there like a devil hand

to leave no escape route.

And so the strife is quite content

to way mere mortals down

and bar entry to our state of grace

that waits so patiently.

So to that state of grace I say

don’t wait for invitations

but gather strength and infiltrate

that evil barrier.

And then, and then, what happiness

will o’er take humankind

but I wonder, yes, I do,

can that ever be.

Perhaps, perhaps, perhaps,

but then again, perhaps not!

End of an era

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 03 May 2019 00:42:00 +0000

This is a story written from my own poem titles.

Perhaps a bit of truth buried in it.

THE END OF AN ERA

Shadows sing to the music of a moment but in Africa I’m listening to the frogs instead of Jingle Bells. I should take a gentle stroll through the minefield of the mall but it’s a bad place to be and quite a bothersome ordeal at Christmas time so see me like a phantom in a dream purporting to be real in a summer haze.

Reality is born in the old in me but if it’s Sunday, it must be story time and the poor and needy, lonely, sad, like the fallen and the dead in a village of humanity can think that there’s a rainbow on a dark horizon when the rain falls and not think of cyclical manoeuvres felt but unseen

Winter is turning the air of love into an emotive roll but it doesn’t matter in Africa, South Africa, where life is good in the turn, turn around. It’s not like yesterday but it’s alright.

Someone laughs between the trees and believe I would in secrets if not for the flame, desire, walking, talking, of wisdom and hope. Look! It’s not as if it matters that I read from left to right when the sun, the son, is a million steps behind after the summer sun because I am love born anew in the shadows of the truth and the river sings beyond the limits.

Someone whispers Christmas thoughts and wishes but nothing makes any sense and so I dream again of rich and juicy plums at the edge of need. No one needs to know about the jump and spirit plans because goodbye is just a word in the mind of a woman. I didn’t die but I believe it was me with blue eyes and backbone in the garden of love on wash day. I’m waiting for the sun, the sun, and not the wind and bricks of change!

How the people lie – don’t ask me why but there’s always a sign beyond the tone when I’m sleepless in S.A. I am the will to believe in love because and simply so because of evolution, you see, and not because I throw “them” bones. And I dream of the weatherman and what to wear these days if not paradise clothes when I don’t look down like an artist on a wire. But where do dreams go?

I think the energy of soul is the sinking sun and not the bread of life when the power of love like one last flickering fire in February memories but this isn’t confession time. It’s a story from titles and the words I heard before a summer rose sank in the quicksand of goodbye. It’s not echoes of indecision or a story of a “she” but men of the land, beware because she cries again and Sunday’s nameless woman, a once beautiful china doll, now just the words of spring from me to you.

Thunder rumbles when a river meets the sea and waves of thought like dream energy come back above my head in the blue, so blue, of sky and tonight perhaps I am now like a willow tree in the game of life and not a girl turned woman, older now.

Who writes of love’s awakening and what the spirit knows in the silence of heartache? What is love? Hey you! Why don’t you let it out? Love is a friend they say not the happy-sac of heart in the shadows of a picture un-perfect.

It’s the wall of truth fresh from the earth in spheres of the natural where once a budding rose, my heart, folded first in the deal. Be calm. I love alone in the waiting game like a lily amidst brambles, thorns, of life.

Wine, women, and song and the matador and the bull like an acorn in the lost lining of sweetness in the pit of a soul. Left or right over a mountain? I cannot stay at the crossover point in the mist in mid May in case the demon of need would catch, grab, and keep my head/heart and the eyes of a woman. Perhaps but maybe not the time has come for spirit love.

As a river flows so my train of thought of what I don’t/do want to know about love’s empathy but, really, I won’t go there no more because the skeleton of doubt like formations of rock when I get there. Intuition tells me that if time could know more about winter roses and crosswise manoeuvres, there would be no deceit.

Spells are cast over dying trees and the common heart and love and someone needs to pay attention because the call is for growth spurts. To think there can be rainbows in life’s tapestry when the wind blows cold just illusionary sketches in the silent spaces of a last plea.

Behind the voice of thunder a flower blooms similar to the perfume of a heart and that’s alright because the air I breathe brings peace after the tears. Oh, to love like a lovely lady but where I’m at there’s no love’s hold in the circle of my soul and this is my confession. I could go to a land called Swaziland for just a release but sun touches windswept roads in the overthrow of summer and I might imagine things in love’s sky.

How do you feel when exhausted with no hope or new car under the African sky? Only one tree as a symbol of human need in memory but be still because in the grooves and threads run leprechauns and ghouls to frighten a caveman not to mention the termites and rats.

God saw it was good that she dances again and so I write the words of love at the start. Praise me for this bonus pain because partners like the sea and the shore have knock-on effects in unholy matrimony.

It’s been said that the music makers pull the strings off the wings of simple things but that’s just a ramble for the good of soul transplanted in the grey and not a last and final call for memories to play ball.

The grey sky in descent like handmade footsteps of dreams and how knowing this progression around the mulberry bush of unrequited love but I’ll remember today/yesterday and the glow of summer over rolling hills until one to twelve, the end.

Emotion speaks in the swing of time, “Be my Valentine” but decisions, decisions, and who gives way to new life? In simple terms it’s simply this; it was only a dream of your touch and her walk into withdrawal only shadows in the glare of necessity vs. need.

Court is in session. You did it all and on appeal I’ll give you a woman’s tears but it’s not the usual please pity me or story of a monkey because it’s all in the mind of only an “I” of the gender feminine where once no unconditional love.

Heaven isn’t bliss but God speed the stream of ecstasy and the voice of a poet to the morning after when it’s the need. One fine day when I know the air of dreams is at the window only me perhaps will see a woodman’s fire and say, “thank goodness it’s Friday and not a collision in sky”.

No one is driving complacency like a stream in heaven because backward energy is lazy sometimes and wayward steps make no impression when the light changes. The sun, alone tonight but at ease on the ride, asks, “What if I hear her pray for the plight of innocence and I think it’s about me and not love’s rope and the colours of a heart?”

The “thing” or “things” in value-pack bags in the artful warp of time like a volcano shooting pebbles, mere pebbles, at the base of my heart but in the likeness of man is Mike from the north and this I know from the murmurings of sea and the night sky.

Where is the river of my yesterdays? In the groove on the edge of love’s punishment as yesterday when Sally broke my heart?

Pat-a-cake; what to pack when love cannot and will not be God, the air, emotion, or a mouse who learnt to shout like the sea when at the limit of endurance? Rather let me die towards the end of May because life is about hands and perceptions of air when time is my master.

She thought it best to write a note but not me soon into air to ride a cloud like Will-o’-the-Wisp past moving walls when the train has no brakes. I seek to find vintage wine not the merry minstrels or magicians of the air. Let nobody say we cannot fly or write a little ditty for light relief from illusive love or only one silly tale for today but not yet because it’s time for Sunday’s story of a ball.

Dear Diary. In the story of a man and story of a searcher, I would say “so and so” like a swan about love and to love following on dancing with the stars before the swing, slam, dunk, from butterfly wings of once-upon-a-time. Oh, if I was love like the sea and the sky and not the night from the light!

She asks, “Is this the untitled and unfounded confession of sky, of daisies, or of the “This Is Me” from the inner or the outer because I could wilt like the rabbit and the tortoise?” “No”, says the queen of the sky in wilful protection. “This is just my thought for the day because it’s Sunday and the countdown to another Sunday!

There once was … but, no, that’s it!

Helen

6 November 2005

(and that's that - the end of an era)

How knowing

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 26 Apr 2019 09:45:00 +0000

Wise are the ears to hear in a crowd

the plea of a pebble down on the ground

to arise as a boulder large and stately

in belief of a power, the great Almighty.

Keen are the eyes of limitless sky

to spot at a distance the beauty of life

multiplying and changing but never to leave

the storehouse of mind’s enlarged memory.

But how knowing the trees of mankind’s greed

and the sea in denial of hostility

still believes and behaves exactly the same

as it did in the days before I was made.

Then there is me with a need to be true

and embrace the fullness of a new view

like a mother, a lover, a friend, human being,

saved from disease and internal bruising.

But how knowing I am of seasons and tides

and the overpowering need of these times

to uphold the system of death and destruction

as a reason to not try for perfection.

Mortal ears and eyes; do they perhaps lie

or merely impound the wisdom of mind?

Backwards

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 22 Apr 2019 13:32:00 +0000

For many years she tiptoed around

the real and meaningful

in the hope that life would reward

her brave if foolish attempts.

There were walls and circles to walk around,

very many doors to be closed

and a heart to be chained up and locked

and she did indeed do it all with aplomb.

And yet she was shadowed by the meaningful

that lurked in the corners of her daily life

till finally, finally, unexpectedly

it blocked her forward momentum.

She had to go backwards sight unseen

to find that lost meaningful

and although she stumbled and fell

she finally arrived at the door of awareness.

She was welcomed, of course, with open arms

but now she can never return

but that’s okay because she knows

she had to be there to be here.

And so of journeys let them not ever be

a complete and utter waste of time

by propelling us forward and not backwards

into awareness of the meaningful!

The mind

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 07 Apr 2019 20:04:00 +0000

When all that was has faded away

there is no rope to tie the mind

to the stake of present times

so it wanders through the past

touching this and touching that

like a blind man would.

There are no guidelines or directions

and no schedule or time clock

to ring the start/stop bell

and always the mind likes to surprise

with what it decides to remember.

It mingles tears with the smiles

and heartache with happiness

and dangles on a string

a variety of peculiar things

that passed at the time

with no understanding.

Intent on its quest the mind proceeds

to traverse the times that made or broke

human strength and fortitude

and I wish sometimes it would simply bow

and leave the stage of what was back then.

Not to be; the mind’s a beast

untethered and undisciplined

and now and forever will always be

the most vile and worst enemy

of the present times!