Dream Time Poetry

The 16th May

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 16 May 2013 07:50:00 +0000

There’s nothing wrong with the 16^thof 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,

but it held on for the lives of them

and pushed against love with all its might

like the drowning would look for air.

So drowns now resolve that sought to be strong

and with flesh and bone weakened by age

it cannot now rise and be counted

as one who bowed to the call.

But not yet dead resolve still lives

in a fantasy world of next time around

seeking solace and comfort in an uncertainty

in attempts to make everything right.

Oh dear, oh dear, right won’t come again

when wrong has ruled a lifetime!

Hope

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 13 May 2013 08:18:00 +0000

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.

Yet and yet hope can’t be

a discarded entity

and it clings ever steadfastly

to all of the hopeful

until they too fall to ground

and be as if were not.

How stupid, how senseless,

but who can say hope does not

while alive fight to survive?

The lines

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 10 Apr 2013 06:32:00 +0000

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, deep, down

for all the lines not suited to

the one beneath the flesh.

So the hand of love off to the side

merely waits with downcast eyes

and one could say she’s praying

and wishing, hoping, needing,

to see before her one fine day

the clean and clear countenance

of one who knew in good time

to make a bonfire of those lines!

Love story?

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 30 Mar 2013 05:49:00 +0000

A thought comes stealthily to mind

not like a thief to steal

but to leave a package bound and wrapped

with remembrances

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

and show their colours openly

to those who wish to know.

And they can see within that truth

how love can truly be

but before pen’s put to paper

the wind blows yet again.

So of that thought I’m sad to say

its efforts are to no avail

when truth and love caught every day

in the gales of life’s disdain!

Embers

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 01 Mar 2013 13:07:00 +0000

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

continually flickering.

I douse them with the present times

and term them natural cycles

and yet there’s that flickering

on and on and on.

So when we turn the corner

from the then unto today

how can we still not love the fire

and know winter turns to summer?

I love the fire that once was you

but of those embers still alive

they’ll flicker in my heart always ~

because, simply because, because

you once were the fire

that chased the cold away!

That gypsy sat

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 24 Feb 2013 06:19:00 +0000

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

the layers of agendas.

Now agendas lie in tandem with

the silence of a lie

and smile their satisfaction

at their invisibility.

Agendas, agendas! There is no magic wand

that clears the underbrush with the flick of a wrist

and who will take the time to find

the unadulterated hard to hold

purity of soul?

It’s only purity that loosens up the base

to enable easy access to that intolerable moss

but being like love not puffed up

it requires a guiding hand to find its hiding place.

“Take my hand!” that gypsy cries

but of her feet, oh, no, no, no,

they hurt each day and suffer more

than ere can be believed.

No longer pondering that gypsy now must wander

so she packs her wisdom deep inside,

her love off to the side,

and trundles over hardened ground

until her sure demise!

The truly meaningful

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 15 Feb 2013 07:52:00 +0000

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 apart

from the truly meaningful.

And then there’s time that may decide

to change your state of mind

but of grace a constant who can know

the cut-off time for choice?

You and I and them and they

will take our choices to the grave

so just in case, yes, just in case,

choose wisely now or simply stay

a wanderer too far from grace

to hear and feel the full import

of the truly meaningful!

Is there ...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 10 Feb 2013 09:53:00 +0000

Is there a club for the love deprived

beyond the reach of the human mind

or do they meander the galaxies

lost and abandoned in loneliness?

Is there a club for the truth seeker

where gems are unearthed, cut, polished, strung,

or do they merely adorn themselves

with whatever it is they can perceive?

Is there a club for the evil deceivers

where gloating and boasting their agenda

or are they banished to another time

to make amends as karma decides?

But there are no clubs for the guilty as charged

when one day lost, then dressed up, gloating,

for who has the price for clubs willy-nilly

when the soul penniless in the afterlife?

So what can we do but choose, choose,

and pay, pay, and pay again now

for a club of the mind that surely awaits

the up to date subscription payers.

I don’t know, don’t really, really, know

but I pay, have paid, and will pay

for loving in spite of life’s artful design

that keeps me in each and every

imaginable club!

No denial

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 03 Feb 2013 08:17:00 +0000

I’ve changed my mind; there’s no denial

what was no longer can be

when love remains forever hidden

in nights that stretch to infinity.

And now too far from a land

that thrilled from the ground up

the reins that once tethered my heart

have slipped into life’s intolerable lies.

Alone I cannot untangle the knots

that one upon each other all day

grow to keep me so well confined

within the realms of old comfort zones.

There is no comfort in endless nights

that hide the beauty of eyes

and render a smile as non-existent

between walls that have nothing to say.

I give up! I’m ready to move

from a life too hard for the sensitive

into the beautiful, beautiful,

now perceived afterlife ~

but there’s no denial;

I can change my mind!

Open/Closed

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 02 Feb 2013 06:00:00 +0000

I once was open to the mystery

of how and why life happened to be

and then came love to make me then see

life’s just a game everyone plays.

There are no rules that govern me

but still the small print, free-will, you see

and I throw the dice, gather the chips,

and bet I can overthrow my destiny.

But trust your heart, I surely think not

for heart is a-skewed by love’s honesty

that not now or ever will fit

into that box marked “self-centeredness”.

It is my life, it is, it is,

and yet without love it’s a travesty

of life’s ever abiding deep mystery

I came to know when open, you know.

But you don’t know, you’re closed to “the know”

when ensconced in that damn awful box

but it’s not your fault; you’re a child, yes, a child

of this great and expansive deep mystery

termed, of course, the Universe!

Soon, soon?

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 25 Jan 2013 07:33:00 +0000

The years come and go;

still so much to know

but like the sea deposits wares

on the stubborn shore

so knowledge makes its encroach

into consciousness.

But like the shore I’m set beneath

life’s prevailing norms

and there comes a dig and bury

of life’s mystery.

The shore, you see, can’t understand

why the wares no longer new

appear as brand new treasures

when used and then abused

by this life and times.

And the shore cannot roll aside

but instead must suffer every day

the deposits by the sea

brought forward from the depths.

Still so much to know; the years come and go

but soon perhaps the shore will be

a complete and true composite

of treasures from the deep

to make of every grain of sand

a rare and sparkling entity.

Soon, soon? How soon before the shore

changes from the same, same old,

and becomes like my adored

treasured for the depths

hidden beneath the flesh?

Unseen

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 23 Jan 2013 21:38:00 +0000

Unseen but mindfully enlarged

a picture perfect thus emerged

and walked the path of wishes, hopes,

as comfort for the now deprived.

It strutted, preened, and then enticed

with wares from deep within the soul

and the discard of skin and bone

opened the door to love.

But followed then the rise of sun

on a world unchanged by night’s foray

and I knew not thunder but the bang

of that door once opened wide.

The noise reverberates through time

and dislodges all the moments, years,

from where they’re meant to be

to the floor beneath our feet.

We walk that floor quite unaware

that pressure from our body mass

hurts and wounds love’s essence

and it lingers there close to death.

It lingers, yes, it lingers there,

waiting to rise again

but will it, can it, should it,

when all who tread upon the floor

remain forever unaware?

Disturbed

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 16 Jan 2013 09:16:00 +0000

Disturbed by the wind that rustles my hair

like life that upsets soul’s goal to the end

there still is a whisper amidst the turmoil

that speaks of a peace before the night falls.

Disturbed by a love that came and then went

like a risen up hope foiled by events

there yet remains the recall of it all

to sustain in the times of despondency.

Disturbed by the rain that cautions my step

like pain that takes too long to be gone

there still is a pause to contemplate

where next on earth I am destined for.

Disturbed, disturbed; why am I disturbed

when the day becomes night and life becomes death

if not for the fact that mind deep in thought

may cause the repeat of … disturbances.

I can stand in the wind, stand in the rain,

remember that love and all of my hopes

but I must not forget to climb the mountain

that leaves level ground behind my back.

I know, I know, but how can I climb

when I plain and simply haven’t learnt how?

No reason

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 15 Jan 2013 07:40:00 +0000

I have no reason to restructure

my now manner of being

when gone are the times

of toeing the line

laid by responsibility.

It wasn’t a chore; I loved them all

but now time to reign in the line

and wind it around my form

like a scarf that adorns,

a hair clip that holds,

and jewellery that sparkles and shines.

I do not wear scarves, clips, jewellery,

when all that I am must stand adorned

by only the essence of “me”

visible to the eyes that can see.

I sometimes think, “Why not, why not?”

and scrimmage amongst the unused

but the heat rises up to make me believe

I’m like the guilty accused

of hiding behind the transitory.

But you can’t see, you will not see,

and in my lifetime not ever believe

that the one unadorned

loves you more!

One day, one day

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Mon, 14 Jan 2013 07:18:00 +0000

One day, one day, into your eyes

she’ll smile like a heavenly bride

at life’s so feeble attempts

at breaking eternal vows.

But not yet dead she cries;

hurt lingers long after the deed

that kills the heart before time

and leaves just the mind to survive.

And mind in its manner and form

makes of love a crippled affair

that wanders the paths of memory

with no earthly place to call home.

And I think on these things;

will one day that bride

smile into your eyes

or will the effect of life’s evilness

and ignorance of the alive

leave just the mind to survive?

Mind without heart like sky without blue,

a vacuum of devil’s delight,

and she lives now in that nothingness

until her ordained demise.

But I, the writer of love’s permanence,

leave on the sidewalk my views and reviews

for the garbage man to collect

because I know, and she knows I know,

love died when you said goodbye!

Hello?

-------------------------------------------

(but that’s it – I’m done)

In the wilderness

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Wed, 09 Jan 2013 05:16:00 +0000

Now that gypsy lady’s still out there

in the wilderness

and instead of thinking this and that

stares into the blue.

The rays of sun and love

bear fiercely down

on her loneliness

but they cannot penetrate

her protection shield.

She knows they’re there, feels them near,

but even she cannot break

her life-built armour plate

and allow free access

to the depths of her heart.

But when the sun sets and her guard relaxed

she goes inside to wander in

the realms of loving you

to feel again and know

love doesn’t go away.

But as would be sun rises up

and the truth of love disappears

to leave her once again

not thinking this and that.

She simply stares into the blue

as if to lend energy

to the question of her heart

which asks, always asks,

if ere again she will be

openly in love with you ~

and then the sun sets

and night comes again!

Sun clings

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 04 Jan 2013 14:43:00 +0000

Sun clings to skin as if it would be

a lover not ever to leave

and impales mind, body and soul

onto a deep and intense lethargy.

It’s in this state that no one can say

whether alive or dead

but there is a shift of consciousness

that brings relief from the heat.

Rise up, rise up, and so she does

divested of lovers and sun

to stand as a woman alone

in the shade of this mortal life.

Upright awake yet she would be

back in the arms of glorious sleep

where the world a thing of the past

and a lover’s touch cool waters.

Not to be, not to be, but let her not be

forever impaled by lethargy

that floats her on a beautiful dream

then crashes her on to reality’s rocks.

Sun clings to skin but only for now

because like love and a true lover

it will leave the mind, body, soul,

alone in this mortal life!

The sea and shore

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 30 Dec 2012 07:18:00 +0000

The sea woke to more than before

for sleep her only succour

in all the days of her life

entrapped within the harbour

waiting for ships to set sail.

Slowly, slowly, one by one

they sailed off in their own directions

to leave the sea free at last

to explore with a sense of adventure

new and untested shores.

Sea looks to horizons of gold

maybe soon to make themselves known

and charters a course within a dream

to make of her life a settled state.

But the sea being sea doesn’t believe

in embracing the new and untried

for deep in her psyche the knowledge of years

always leads to that one and only.

Perhaps one day she’ll touch on that shore

sweet and gently like love does

or maybe she’ll thrash in anger

and land on the shore like a woman ignored.

But the sea like me grown weary with age

simply waits for the call of time

to prepare her own personal sails

for that journey of a lifetime.

Will the sea stay, will the sea go?

No one can know what time will bring

as we enter the year two thousand thirteen!

The correction stick

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Thu, 27 Dec 2012 06:21:00 +0000

Now that gypsy lady sits upon

the rock of her Gibraltar

and from her vantage point can see

the pompous and inflated,

the calm and sweet serene,

and how the harsh aggressive

bend the best of them.

No more she vows again to be

one of those upon their knees

and so she turns her eyes upon

her very own and unique

manner of being.

Not perfect for no one can be

when blessed with only half a brain

but she knows the right and wrong of thought

and wields her correction stick.

Not always with desired results

for such is life to sway intent

and so she works upon her strength

at holding and directing

her oft used correction stick.

If you look today you’ll see her there

not ashamed to stand up straight

and practice, practice, day and night

until she knows with all her might

to throw that damn correction stick

into the sea of neglect.

Neglected, yes, but will still be

a tool to use when blown off course

from how she knows to think, love, be,

but, oh, the wind blows constantly

in this land of human beings!

Evil

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 16 Dec 2012 08:18:00 +0000

Not right and yet it is so

evil lives to rule the world

and creeps around the corners, bends,

of the pure and innocent.

Unaware they welcome it

and lay a bed for it to grow

until of age it sallies forth

and makes its presence known.

How can it be and yet ‘tis so

for every thought against the one

without compassion, honour, love,

feeds evil’s so large appetite.

I’m guilty for I can’t abide

the grin of evil in a smile

meant to deceive and pacify

the pure and innocent.

But in the fullness of all time

I’ll know the pain from evil’s strike

was meant to modify my mind

from judgment to acceptance mode.

Until that time, until, until,

may love too sally forth

and make its presence known!

A woman in oil

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 30 Nov 2012 20:51:00 +0000

The marks of a woman in essential oil, love,

attest to her presence in a new wonderland

but gone is her essence, her being, her name,

washed into life she sinks, disappears.

Bubbles rise forth as she battles to breathe,

a frog she could be or an undersea ghoul,

rising and falling, her heart, body, all,

in reality drowns, she’s a memory gone sour.

Love floats her right in, hate takes her right out,

she’s bobbing about unanchored no doubt,

but high on a dream she’s a terrible queen

of hidden reserves and untrained discipline.

She goes with the flow like an old shabby clock

ready to stop any minute, day, year,

or maybe a broom sweeping dust from the floor

ready to can it or throw it out on the wind.

And then there is life riding high on a wave

pushing her forward into arms of her death.

A rock in her path and she’s batted and bruised

but would you believe she’s nobody’s fool?

When she is dry she might start over again,

be a woman well versed in the essence of wine,

and then she can drown in full-bodied red

or trip through daisies of pure sparkling white.

Still there are bubbles, she’s alive, she survived.

Her mark? I don’t know. Perhaps it’s grown old,

merged into bubbles from half drunk champagne

or somewhere in oil frying potatoes and meat.

Such is the story, tale, exposé,

of a woman in oil, essential oil, love!

Heartache

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Tue, 20 Nov 2012 06:35:00 +0000

Not ever, ere, has heartache been

a deep and fiery devil “thing”

that leaves the soft and gentle

prone on the floor of death.

But the soft and gentle rise again

to view the floor with different eyes

and run, oh, yes, as best they can

from the dastardly.

It’s in that run that happenstance

leads them on and into

a wild and ferocious jungle

that harbours memories.

No run can ever beat the times

when heartache tripped the fleet of foot

who by the grace of mind states

had missed the hazardous.

Though risen from the floor of death

and adept at fighting jungles

now searches all the gentle, soft,

for joy that one day disappeared.

Now joy’s akin to devil “things”

that plays all day catch if can

and taunts and goads the innocent

into a game that never ends.

There they go, here they come,

searching for what can’t be found

because heartache burns the best of life

and throws ash into the winds of time!

The tape

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sun, 11 Nov 2012 17:47:00 +0000

Images of past rewind in a mind

but suddenly an unprecedented error

and the tape splits and breaks

at the point of love.

Now in this new world order

there’s no manner and means

of joining again the damaged

that once reigned supreme.

But there’s a glitter and shine

on the road to the future

that neither holds a promise

nor the gift of life.

Yet walk we do one and all

proud of having so advanced

beyond the meaningful

and into the unknown.

How brave the multitudes

who sacrifice unknowingly

in their forgetfulness and disregard

of the seemingly outdated.

I’m not brave; I cannot be

when knowing that the point of love

is the place to stop, feel, see,

there’s no future without “you”!

To be ...

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Sat, 27 Oct 2012 18:41:00 +0000

To be of life and all its ways

a chore only for the brave

standing on a precipice

far from a saviour’s reach.

And how the hardship of the climb

can deplete all human reserves

and leave one vulnerable

to the elements of nature.

It was in her nature, yes, you know

to look below and beneath

and yet the surface of a life

rises up to asphyxiate.

She teeters on the edge of breath

sure that the last is bound to be

but in the manner of this life

air infiltrates and motivates.

And in the retrace she will find

not agony but clarity

and she will know, as you do too,

all things will cease to be ~

but the cliff, oh, yes, it’s still there

so all who climb will one day know

to simply walk back down again

without a shudder or a doubt!

Down at the sea

noreply@blogger.com (Helen Howell) — Fri, 12 Oct 2012 19:48:00 +0000

Down at the sea where the wind blows free

and the clouds inflate and deflate

mind opens for just a moment or two

to remember what now is lost.

And one who stands so well immersed

like a statue immovable

for, oh, those glorious yesterdays

deserve undivided attention.

Finally though in waves, in waves,

this reality reaches the shore

and she can no longer mourn as before

in the face of her present times.

She turns, you know, as everyone does

the extraordinary into the commonplace

as a means of dismissing the full import

of those days so long ago now.

She musters a smile from hidden reserves

and arms herself with spirit filled love

because she knows; you know she knows,

the past is embedded in soul!