Cycles Poems

Tightrope

I walk a rope that hangs in air,
It moves with rules I do not see.
Each step I take feels watched, not free,
And I forget who I used to be.

The rope is soft yet too tight and pulls me back,
Like Kind Hands hiding quiet chains.
It bends around but doesn’t break,
And leads me through the same old

Cycles and routines

Cycles and routines
create a loop
it can be positive or negative 
the loop that is never ending 

You can be stuck in a cycle of
progression or degression
seasons they never end
thats just how the loop
Begins.

Cycles

Cycles

Living in my mind,
	This is my “Dawning Time”
My healing Season,
	Near completion.

Thank you, Lord,
	For your perfect
Timing.

In my waiting,
	Your hand,
Maturing.

I emerge,
	Through your
Strength,
	Captured by
Your Love.

Hope, fulfilled.

In my Winter,
	Cometh Spring…

Closure

I create shelter inside my head
Constantly seeking external validation and words of affirmation
Perpetuating these routines and these words
Unconditionally curious for the future:
That is what you mean to me

Yet I set back the clock and find a time in the cycle
Where you love me and I hate myself
I scream for help with broken vocal chords
And you

Inner Tides and Outer Moons

Inner Tides and Outer Moons

Just like Earth and her moon
Our own body-mind fluxes 
With and within the cycle of tides.
Up-down, strong-weak, high-low
We swell and contract in a rhythm 
That effects if not controls us all.

Maybe it’s even what makes us care
About others and what others think of us
Since without the flux
We’d be more consistent
And so

END TIMES : TWO

END TIMES : TWO

End time dramas continue 
to unfold as foretold 
tribes of Judah and 
Gad united in ether
descending conspiring 
to pull Matrix strings 
across rooms boom
death Will hidden 
documents forged
a trigger activates
illicit action
Centre remains perfection 
resurrection 

Claim no marriage for 
money honeyed 
both are paper thin
dust speckled dragonflies 
glide into geraniums cry
Truth mourns 
hen-chicken

How could it be

How could it be?
In the city,
All I could see,
Was people and vehicles,
One after another.
Follow each other's.
In the rush hours.

How could it be?
In the forest,
Water flowed in the creek,
Calmly and rhymthly. Then suddenly,
It tumbled down quickly and heavily.
Formed a beautiful water fall, 
Caused by gravity. 
Still water runs deep.

How could it be?
Along the George Bass Coast

What am I?

I grew from a thought
and yet remain unbound
I’m a bomb to man
from the day he was born,
never was his friend
so, I rob him of his youth
health and hope.
Yet, he says
I heal all wounds
and all wounds are decaying.
I torment him,
take away his family
then fade them away.
Feeling generous, by leaving
him memories of what was.
I govern him by

Cycles of Clean

A filthy car rolls forth to seek its bath,
While washers march with tools and knowing smile;
Their practiced hands trace out a skillful path,
To tend each inch with dedication's style.

With forceful streams they drench the metal wet,
As stubborn grime dissolves beneath their spray;
Each tire and rim they scour—none forget—
Till every trace of road dust fades away.

Then

Cycles

She breathes in, deep 
the crisp October air
to fill her little lungs,
as day dips in the distance.

Leaves tremble and they fall
from trees onto the path.
She grows before my eyes,
deciding she’ll not follow.

Shedding extra wheels,
she wobbles into balance,
and soars on tires of two
across an autumn canvas.

Hours slip away with sun;
a watching moon appears.
She rides across the

Cycles

Cycles within cycles, gears within gears, 
water, carbon and the circle of life, 
in seconds, minutes, and hundreds of years,
swans, and oft people, take a lifelong wife.

What makes it happen, and how does it work?
What turns a grub into a butterfly?
Run by King Gene, DNA doesn't shirk -
when the season is right, one flutters by.

Soon,

A Tale of Two Cycles

  A blessing indeed is my washing machine
     wash, rinse, drain, spin 
                         Voila! My clothes are clean

  O for the news cycle to be

Conflict

Cold, shaken, trembling.
Oh, look, it's me again. 
Oh, look, just a weakling.
I'm tired of running this roundabout game.
It's ridiculous, maybe even wild.
Repeated thoughts and actions stall.
 In reality, it's inaction I'm about to fall. 
Fire, burning flames. 3
Soul torn, but yearning for more. 
My eyes are fixated, but I'm still not situated. I'm not stable

Wild Roots of September

In raw dawn I emerge
crow-thoughts
pecking skull-bone
black as plowed earth.

Farm-stench floods –
dung, hay and blood –
primal musk of life
and death intertwined.
Yet in this first breath
of day there’s a peace
and so stillness
rising from the land
like a satin prayer.

Twin mountains loom
granite-toothed giants
gnawing at the pale sky’s
underbelly.
I but a mere-minuscule mote
of flesh and bone am
dwarfed by their
ancient scarred faces.

The

Its a liar made so we spin

I am the Ouroborus of trauma
Thorned scales of each red flag
So add them up and feed me my flaws
Among clutter in a hand me down bag 

Let's laugh as I divulge my wounds
I look a man but the boy never started
A secret shared to see if you think i lie
Round we coil treasuring your trust

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