I am tired of prayer portals,
gateways unlocked by trance,
the meditative magic carpet rides
to promised realms, the rituals -
it has always
been here in the soft whisperings
of evenings, writing its narrative
in everything -
the tall eucalypts
of the high country, the coastal
she oaks and grasses buffeted
by the wind, rivers and pebbled
streams, mountains, the wide
plains - and murmurs
in the soul stuff
and in every atom of me.
Mostly I am deaf to its voice
and search for my own,
a plea, a prayer, anything at all
to send a ripple across
this dark, featureless terrain
that drops off at the cliff edge
of thought and stretches beyond
the full stop at the end
of my mind.
A book sat on a table in a barely occupied, quiet room.
It was covered in dust,
so I decided to clean it.
The title on the cover was not very clear.
As I opened it,
I found myself intrigued by what I saw;
it sparked my eagerness to read.
I began my reading at dawn,
turning page after page.
My anxiety grew as I dug deeper into the story.
Sometimes I sighed, sometimes
I shook my head, and at other times,
I fought back tears.
It was a journey along different paths.
As night fell,
I turned on the light in the room to continue.
At dawn the following day,
I was reading the last few pages.
The journey had taken me from a pebbled road to a muddy one,
gradually shifting to a straight and smooth path.
Darkness began to give way to light,
turbulence turned to tranquillity, and
mystery transformed into clarity.
I couldn’t hold back my tears;
they streamed down my face.
But then the book ended.
Someone seemed to know me,
as if someone was writing my story but could not finish it.
I took a pen and paper to write my own ending and attach it to the pages.
Then, I woke up.
September 23, 2026.
; : Glittering dreams.
:A faded, fatal pond.
:An enshrouded ,clouded sun.
:A flaming, blazed rainbow.
;Thorny butterflies
:An adorned, ornamental
serenity.
: An ineffable Calmness
The evergreen sky.,lighted
carnation.
:A stormy, tempestuous sea.
:An unruffled ,quiet dove.
:God's will enduring, lasting .
: Everywhere stillness,tranquillity and peacefulness.
I sit engulfed in silence.
I lie alone in the immutable dark.
Despondent or merely lazy? Just what am I?
Poetic ideas are empty, my pen is still,
I try to write about my emotions.
Nothing emerges. There’s only emptiness.
For all around is hushed and all is dead.
How oft have I yearned for poetry?
How oft had I dreamt I am wallowing
In perfect tranquillity?
Sleep brings with it a ghastly dream,
Going through a portal grey
Into a swirling, ugly, evil fog
Of another time, another world.
Hush, sirens sing a ghastly lyric.
My mind is roped against a mast.
I pass into a shadowy glade
And walk upon a pebbled path,
No footstep resounds back to me
No living thing is seen around.
Lightening snakes amongst the clouds
I expect thunder but hear none,
I see the water fall o'er the brink
No roar registers in my mind.
I wake, I sweat from brow to toe,
I try to rhyme; I try free verse.
I shiver in the heat of muted night.
I wander around my chambers,
Noiseless rooms, devoid of life.
I roam amongst my memories,
Pain grips fast my mourning soul,
Then, unashamed, I weep
And yearn......
Just for an epic poetry.
Placed 2
The quaking aspens shake their silver leaves
like paper bells as evening breezes
dance across the lake's gray surface,
stirring gentle swells
that splash the pebbled shore.
The coo-hoo-hoo of owls is like a love song
softly sung among the shadows
of the branches high above.
The descant of the sighing breeze,
the rustle of the trees,
the owls' low harmonies accompanied
by the timpani of rocking water
on the bow of anchored boats
are all melodic notes that play
the unique music
of the evening.
Laughing liquid lyrics ring
along rough pebbled passage;
dappled light filters lace leaves
kissing smiling lips and cheeks;
summer stain lingers where you touched
soft skin with wild berry fingers.
Copyright, July 8, 2026
Rain-soaked communities,
Flooded roads,
Muddy pathways,
Sleeping in solitude of silence at nightfall.
Neglected communities,
Uneven and pebbled roads,
Living in the shadows of civilisation,
Struggling to rise,
Weakened by the tranquillity of the unspoken.
Deprived communities,
Lacking the benefits of novelty of time,
Caught in the web of delayed progress,
Gazing into dark reflections.
Affable communities,
Where strangers are not lost in the meadow,
Awakening communities,
Still connecting the dots that brighten tomorrow.
April 21, 2026.
Ceaseless blissfulness
pours in a still river.
An unassuming, meek.
pathway is like a brave
course.
The pebbled violet dancing
in the
forested rainbow.
The everlasting,
eternal light surpasses
the dreamful serenity ,
The unruffled unrelenting Hill
gaze at a melodic ,flowery sunrise.
.
Some theorists say
that consciousness pervades
all of creation. I get a sense
they could be right, that at some
profound level, a common awareness
sits at the metaphorical centre of the cosmos
and connects to the human soul.
Mostly I am deaf to its whispers,
drowned in the volume of my own noise
and yet I know it is there when I manage
to quieten the voices within, find a place
where earth, water and sky meet,
somewhere not profaned by greed,
perhaps a secluded beach
or a sacred path deep in a forest where
the soft murmurings of a pebbled creek
becomes a voice for the wider universe.
I would like to think such places
speak to me and that I become a part
of that voice resonating in air, trying to turn
the ordinary, the flawed, into prayer.
You get weary of the big questions,
the seemingly unanswerable
and the ones you thought
were resolved but resurrect
as doubts out of hard won certainties -
the mind rewinding arguments
to discover a fatal flaw.
And so you look to find a refuge
somewhere in the experiential,
a connection to the hard substance
of things, form fitted out
to house the spectral strands
of a fraying soul and make
thought manifest in the real.
A place of unfolding wonder,
a pebbled stream flecked
with sunlight, tall trees
carrying whispered conversations,
wildflowers bending in a warm
breeze - a place where
there is only what is taken in
and where all else dissolves,
losing the boundary
holding together the very sense
of self - the bright afternoon sun
blazing overhead, the soft, leaf
filtered shadows in prayer,
the Infinite experiencing itself.
pale creek
pebbled stream
arrested pond
We saw the feathered edge of the sunset
and dreampt of an evening's wish to explore
Where the beating heart of our yearnings met
And invited romance at the seashore
Where time began to merge and reminisce
As white caps slowly furrowed the pebbled sand
The twilight revealed our heart's eagerness
When we walked together, warm hand in hand
Imagined dreams beneath a star-lit night
And basked in the glorious firmament
Where waves were dressed in white from the moonlight
and sounds from the sea whispered enchantment
As we came to capture Saint Elmo's Fire
That was glowing deep inside our desire
Like as the waves make toward the pebbled shore,
So do our minutes hasten to their end;
Quote from Shakespeare’s Sonnet LX
Lines one and two
Source: The works of Shakespeare
Ward, Lock & Co Limited
London, Melbourne and Toronto 1911
Blank Canvas
Our earth has colours rich beyond compare
The force of nature we shall never tame.
Where hidden treasures underground so rare
Reminds us daily nothing stays the same.
The tapestry of life is woven fine
Each thread depends upon the master’s loom.
Connected through the one who is divine
Ensuring colours with each season bloom.
Create: the artist paints from canvas blank
The strokes of life are seen upon our face
On bended knee we know who we must thank
Bright colours of our lives we must embrace.
These precious gifts shall treasure till the end
Upon our death our soul then must ascend.
Christine 20/4/2025
Snap crack the hard
Pebbled acorns ricochet
As if thrown by invisible
Hands of nature’s forces
Some fall straight
Others propel with
Unjust uncertainty and
Deliverance passerby
Pegged and peppered
Squirrels intent on
Getting their winter
Food source fulfilled
Scurry around burying
The acorns in
Potted plants, piles of
Leaves or any such
Hiding spot
I often wander how
They remember where
Each and every
Hidey hole is?
Such is wildlife
Trials and tribulations
The cold fog rises from the meadow like smoke from Poppy's pipe...
... ever upward with the sweet savour of meadow grass.
My bare feet, like mortar and pestle, smash out the green scent as I walk through the wet dew, chilled and sprinkled with drops of water.
Goosebumps chase each other up my legs to tender, pebbled breasts. I cross my arms for warmth and blow out a quivering cloud of warm breath.
Revealed now, the rugged brown trunks of the trees surrounding me in the distance.
They wave the fog away, as I've seen Mamaw do with Poppy's pipe smoke...
... with twisting limbs that sway in the breeze.
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