HAHNDORF AUTUMN


Silvered green and grey cloaked smile,

Drooping leaves and chill held time,

Bird song crisp, and gentled call

Held in warmth … surrender all.

Frost touched earth embraces day,

Stretches limbs of darkened night,

Calls to being moments born

Whispers promise dressed as dawn.

Flowered secrets tease the wind

Caress with colour morning’s dream

And wait for winter’s icy breath

To lead the way to life in death.

WITHIN THE DULL AND DREARY DAYS



Within the dull and dreary days


when boredom seeks to call

it knocks upon the withered door

of hope that is no more.



Then can I see the dreams that live

within the sullen breast,

and know that they will haunt me now

and keep me from all rest.



It’s in desire, and wanting life

to be some other thing

that discontent can clear its throat

and loud and brittle sing.



And yet while I can see this clear

and know its truth is cruel,

I cannot seem to shift myself

beyond its narrow view.



The day can be no other

than I deem it to be

and yet to change its destiny

I must wrought change in me.



Who sorts the thoughts within my mind,

which brings the day to be

in names and judgements negative

to peace and harmony?



The dull and dreary does not live

unless I say it is

and boredom is another name

where reverie would breathe.



What’s in a name I stand and ask?

As mind holds brush aloft

to paint my day with bitter words;

ensure that peace is lost.



It’s in the name that meaning comes,

to make the day its own;

where dull can be a quietness

and boredom, time alone.



Within the quiet, easy days

when peace has come to call

it knocks upon the ancient door

where hope is Word no more.



It’s in the words unspoken

and those we choose to know

that day is made and brought to be,

what we would make it so.



It’s not just the beginning where Word

is found and called,

but in the middle and the end,

that Word does make our world.



So choose your words with care

and hold them to the light

that day may be in brightness

and not imprisoned night.

LOVE BETRAYED


Through mirror’d days and passing dreams

when things are not quite as they seem,

she made her way on slippered feet

toward the yawning pit of grief.



There was no time for clear-drawn sight,

the world was shawled, there was no light

and time held breath as if to curse

the hope and trust for which she yearned.



And in a moment, falling still

Love screamed and threw herself to hell

for in the knowing that pain brought

the mirror shattered … all was lost.



Upon the dregs and dross of self

she lay and keened, and cruelly wept

for all the truths and lies that lay

upon the barren, broken way.



And by her sat the dark-drawn bride,

touched withered hands to brittle pride

and called in crooning voice so sweet

for woman, drawn … herself to meet.

THERE WERE DAYS


There were days

when I laughed

and the sun shone;

when delight

licked shining lips

and joy danced lightly

on the

horizon.


There were days

when I laughed

and the sun shone in

flickered beams;

dancing low,

to tease diaphonous

hope. 

There were days

when I laughed

and the sun shone;

dew-moist,

clinging brightly

to the moment

and then gone.


There were days

when I laughed

and the sun was born

in joyful breath;

spreading

warm wings

across my heart.


There were days

when I laughed

and the sun shone,

promising

that those days

were real

and will come again.

The great thing about a blog is you get to see yourself in print and it matters not if anyone reads it.
Then again, for all the books printed, published and sold the reality is that most end up remaindered or out of print. At least this way, as long as there is the net, there is the book or the poem, or on this blog, the painting I have done or the photograph I have taken.
At the end of the day, the most meaningful part of the creative act is the act of creation. And that requires no observer, no reader, no other.

Surrendered falling


There was within the dreams surrendered falling,

A going down to depths of darkened being

And in the slide toward hell’s beating heart,

There was on either side, bright, mirrored calling.



It cannot be explained, nor offered out in words

For sundered realms of truth are given here

And all that one can know is soon forgotten

And songs once sung in joy, no longer heard.



I would not speak of all that has been offered,

I cannot paint the pictures that would show

The truth of worlds beyond and all their riches

That lie beneath the black earth, duly softened.



It is on angels wings and arms we journey

And with the Gods we find our way to know,

The full allotment of our sacred being,

The sacred seed with which our lives are sown.

ACT OF LOVE


The fruit falls swiftly from the tree,

the bulls stand silent in the lake,

the figure crucified is seen

upon the framework of the dream.

With arms spread wide and silent eyes

they lift her high upon the boughs

and turn her face towards the south

where white-flanked cows raise shining knives

above the meek and pious brows.

With sure and steady strokes they strip

pink flesh from each initiate,

to bathe in sacred waters then

the raw-bled truth of god and men.

The wise man watches, monkey-faced

and clasps each paw in full embrace

around the pierced and bleeding feet

of Woman, raised … her Self to meet.

Then gathered in small, blackened arms

the corpse is carried to the edge

of water, sanctified and deep

wherein the Goddess counsel keeps.

To lie beneath the water’s chill

and watch through full and empty eyes

the blood-washed sacrifice above

has been her greatest act of love.