Buttercups withered outside my door,
their stems split dry—
blood leaks anyway,
like this is how it happens.
Every step cracks the glass,
it keeps breaking, slowly,
what spills out—
rain,
my eyes.
Maybe the answer isn’t me—
with the one who refused the ring.
How am I even crying today—
because there’s enough grief, or maybe
because I can’t grow roses.
I watch the lights go out; there is
no one in the house, the chance already gone,
“tant pis,” then.
Who even wants the formula—
to initiate, comply, and carry it all,
as if it takes courage just to care
for her body, her breathing, her eyes.
I practised courage
in rooms that do not exist;
dust knows the lines well.
So, I guess they mean it when they say
“A rolling stone gathers no moss.”
“Stay still,” they say.
Nectar from too many flowers has given her
a halo around her head, a radiance
clinging to her skin—
is that intoxicating—
or just carnal desire,
overused?
I do not need fire
To burn you down.
I do not need a sword
To cut you down.
My words are my weapon
They are potent enough.
I do not need claws
To leave bleeding wounds.
Nor sharp teeth
To bite & mark you as my own.
My silent treatment is my weapon
And it's potent enough.
My intentions are cloaked
&
My apologies calculated.
My steps are pre planned
&
My words well measured.
I don't need bullets
To make you compliant
My fake smile & practised tears are my allies
And they are potent enough.
~ PoeticSoul
—A Sonnet—
I wore my life as exiles wear the sea:
Too vast to cross, too faithless to forsake.
Each dawn broke bread with every man but me;
I ate the light and still refused to wake.
Then thou didst look—not lovingly, but true—
As though my soul had never once been lost;
The silence I had hidden life within
Stepped forth and counted neither fear nor cost.
Thou knew'st the man my mother could not name,
The face my mirrors practised, yet denied.
One touch from thee recalled me into flame;
The years stood still until I stepped inside.
Love was not born when first I came to thee.
Thou camest where eternity called me.
With the art of under over,
footprints circle back,
to the gate left standing open.
Its latch polished smooth—
As I sharpen my key once again
the blade is now worn
to paper thin.
A map covers the desk.
Mountains are creases.
Rivers arch through meadows.
The valleys cast long shadows
reaching out well beyond
the dreams they sprang from.
One flower looked right.
Another hid behind its petals.
The bouquet grew to become bloated.
The vase overflowed with stems—
there was no room left
to wade in the water.
The boat left too late—
while one eye was searching distant shores,
another feared the rising seas.
Strong arms rowed out beyond the harbour
as the daylight quietly
ebbed the tide away.
One smooth stone will skip,
from a practised wrist's keen flick;
to then, sink down contentedly.
The steady hand knows when
it's right to let go,
leaving the cleanest ripples below.
Today is a perfect day to build a tiny boat.
Out of paper or an old milk carton.
I’d say do not choose paper
since it might not float for long.
We run outside and find the perfect curb
and crouch down on our knees,
at the fastest rapid releasing our ships
in the river of melting snow.
This is the perfect spot for our boats to sail,
each searching for its magical path.
Racing their way through the rushing stream,
to see which one will win.
Not a word is spoken between you and I
as we each hold our breaths,
to witness our tiny boats
get swallowed by the drain.
My boat wins, of course it does.
I practised and built all winter long.
As a champion I look up to the sky
and let the sun edge a smile on my face.
We high-five. Spring has finally sprung.
They have yet to enter
that quiet place of sanctuary
where the sacred survives
unmolested by lies and greed,
a corner lit long ago
when first a sense
of the Sublime illuminated
the human soul
and spoke in the hush
of evenings and in the language
of a transcendent world.
It still lives wherever art
finds voice and where
creation takes form
in trees, in flowing streams,
mountains, plains
and in the depths of seas
and there to in places where
care, respect and compassion
are practised and differences
are let be, where power
shatters against a gentle
humility.
Each day I awaken, excited by the prospect of the day
Why would I want to feel, any other way
I made commitments many years ago to treat myself, with tender loving care
How I follow this commitment, this is what I'll share
God created nature which includes the rising sun
In that sunlight every morning, I'm running, really so much fun
Over years I've learnt a skill so I can make the people laugh
And when I leave this planet please record it, on my epitaph
Barefoot is how i travel, since the first day of my birth
Connect to positive energies which arise from mother earth
Tibetan rites, a ritual that's practised every day
Reverses ageing process so I can forever play
And when I sit to dine, I select the very best
Organic raw non poisoned fare, for the soul, I mindfully invest
Play guitar with harmonica and also like to sing
Connects left right brain hemispheres. always makes me zing
Mentally, emotionally and physically, I'm always on a high
If you'd like to get more tips, I'm always waiting, I'll be on standby
would he know the light if there was no darkness
could there be happiness without pain and suffering
might separation and divorce lead to glorious solitude
he has no answers to these questions
yet he sees the light and it not a burning fire
not the light at the end of a tunnel
not head lights of an oncoming train
rather a vast plain with so many directions to chose
a confusing array of possibilities
the Tarot card of death as new beginnings
future on the horizon whichever way he looks
and faith to be practised for real
Religious cooperative
When I do, as a liberal, I should defend Muslims and
their religion and the right to worship as they wish
Yet I think Islam is holding the people back as it is
too self - obsessed putting the absolute demands
of this subversion of this eastern religion that is
a comparatively new religion with elements of
Judaism and Christianity, yet Islam is, despite what
We have heard about the excesses of the fanatics, who
contrary to true Islamic thinking, spew hateful lies,
a peaceful religion as we see practised by
the Palestinians.
Both creeds, Christianity and Islam, reject the idea of
free from all sexual norms of Judaism, and before we are
dismissed of anti- Semitism, I still think we are right
A firm`s board met today, all stern faces,
To discuss sales and quarterly places;
Some slides flashed up with complex graphs so grand,
Nobody grasped the impact of their brand,
They nodded quick, with furrowed brow, their head,
Pretending to understand all instead;
The CEO discoursed, with booming sound,
Of synergy and newer ground they'd found;
I, a fly on the wall, observed with smiles
The hollow words, the lies and practised guiles.
NOW THAT WE ARE AWAKE
Now that we are awake –
We had all the long while
Been in deep dreamless slumber
And while we were still
Still slumbering in our
Unreal bed of red roses
They planned, practised and projected
What “tomorrow” would likely bring
Now that we have realized with pain
That the “tomorrow” we failed to plan for
Has changed herself to “today”
We watch with mouth agape
As their deep buried conduit pipes
In our land of milk and honey
Drain the natural resources
That had sustained our life hitherto
Shall we fold our arms, do nothing or
Jump on the mass exodus bandwagon
While they milk our land dry?
Can we by this endless wailing
And tearful row and retorts
Within and outside our shores
Free our land, our people
From their firm and hurting grip?
Can we by mere declaration of innocence
Wish away the doom that looms?
Now that we are awake
Let’s answer these questions sincerely
As we continue to search for freedom.
Sung to the tune of "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem"
Our infant school nativity,
Directed by Mrs. Page,
Was my first opportunity
To act upon the stage.
I always was an extrovert;
So that appealed to me.
My hopes and dreams of all the years,
An actor I would be.
I wanted to play Joseph,
‘Cos Mary was played by Joyce.
And, of all the little girls in the class,
She was my first choice.
And if I couldn’t be Joseph
And ride along with her.
I’d be a king with golden crown
And frankincense or myrrh
I practised every morning,
And every evening.
Imagining the audience applause
For Joseph or a king.
But when it came to casting,
It didn’t come to pass.
The part that Mrs Page gave to me
Was the back half of the ass.
But one day I’ll be famous,
And then I’ll marry Joyce.
The latest toast of theatreland
And all will know my voice.
I’ll invite all my friends to attend,
As I take centre stage.
They’ll be there in the front row.
But I won’t ask Mrs Page.
A WILDERNESS OF MIRRORS
Where did individuality go, all toeing the same line
As all seem to be reflections of a similar persuasion
A wilderness of mirrors, each shows the same face
And of distinct personalities, there’s but little trace
Unique traits either lost or just practised at evasion
All have become identical vertebrae down the spine
Mirrors are more than merely a pane of clear glass
A silver backing will change what the image will be
Wherever one looks, it is the same adopted stance
All now just soulless eyes, never venturing a glance
For the moment, it’s now everyone else except me
But soon, I’ll see myself a thousand fold, as I pass
In silence, we watch shadows pass.
They shape our thoughts and feed the farce.
Moulding lives to fit the lies
that see us strive, conform and die.
And scared of what we do not know,
we do not move or seek to go.
But idle in their well-known forms.
Find safety in such practised norms.
There is no need to speculate;
the shadows teach us fear and hate.
Breed small world views and selfish thoughts.
Dispense with troubling shoulds and oughts.
It matters not what's right or wrong,
so long as we all nod along.
Accept those preached invented truths,
and justify each new abuse.
While newborn Gods, those few rich men,
close liberty's gate and lock the pen.
Embrace what once seemed quite absurd;
they are the path, we are the herd.
In barless cages, with blinkered eyes,
bearing witness to corpocracy’s rise.
The missing light upon that wall
...an absence which now stains us all.
The world sings Your praise
Says You were born in a stable
To where a bright star showed the way
To wanderers of the desert
They sing carols and make new ones
Year after year every Christmas
All that is nice and sweet to hear
But Lord I have another reason
To sing out aloud
The greatness of Yours
I am no Christian by birth
Neither have I lent my ears
To missionaries who preach
And invite the world to their feuding folds
My country had a leader
Whom Your life influenced
And he put what he knew of You into practice
To free us from perilous bondage
Made us truly recognize
How You chimed with our ancient nascence
He is the Father Of Our Nation
None else in the world I think
Had the strong conviction he had
That Your teachings can be PRACTISED
My country therefore owes a lot
To You, Jesus Christ,
And to You we truly belong
Oh, guide us Divine Light
And illumine the world
Let us celebrate Christmas
To usher in an era of peace
In which the whole creation can rejoice
Unbound, without fetters and barriers
In the bosom of true Christ Consciousness
Undifferentiated Oneness
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