Poetry

Empty so called poetry, rejoicing in its nothingness, turning from question. Fanciful expressions, sometimes, but not every single time,tolerable. Tough reality, gazing straight into the eyes, refusing a certain kind of innocence, just this once. And in this moment arises the thought of worth. And in this moment arises the idea of excellence. And in this moment, arises the idea of true expression. The true expression of understanding. So don't tell me that what you write in your unknowing mind is poetry. And don't expect me to judge the things that you do, kindly. If you want to make your poem, then you will first have to get in touch with your soul. There is no easy way, it can't be done otherwise. And God is the master of creation, soul would appear to be the intermediary, there is no place higher to be, than to be as a servant. And the focuses, are in their way touched and blessed by God. And the God of life is the God of art and this God is the one who allows. So vanity will lead you to delusion, and if you feel that this delusion is a comfort then you turn away from all of art and from all of God. I am a messenger and am given gifts to give. They aren't mine and they don't belong to me, and they aren't yours, and they don't belong to you either. From this gift of God, there must be return. It is inescapable, it is reality, it is truth. So if you would care to believe in the world of art, then you I believe, would care to believe in the world of love. Love is alive not just when there is music in an embrace, and when the touch is real, but when the feeling needs expression.

From Sparkling Wine to Sour Grapes

From sparkling wine to sour grapes lingering too long in my feeling, she escapes back to the world of her true reality. I move on, connecting to the light. Rainbow visions in Chinese evenings, gently aware of where the sun has gone to rest, and life begins to recline. There are sparks on the horizon and the waves cascade on the watching ocean. Extravagant colours in changing patterns, awing and provoking creation, having nowhere to rest and seeking toward infinity,new lighting is given to all of experience where understanding isn't prepared to settle on. A world explodes, it will not give its secrets. It will look you in the eye urging activity. And in the intensity,spirit is in the air, married to soul, and there are no such things as answers, only solutions to inactivity. The world is a ball of fire, ever changing in colours of insanity and expression. People pray to Gods they have never known, and they pray within to their soul in discomfort from not being able to face the truth of themselves, for fear that this particular vanity might be going a little too far. And in this wonderland magic can be the only thing obvious, to attain. And how could magic be 'an only thing?' and indeed a thing? Eyes collide with visions of dream and reality, the temporary and the old. History has only itself to blame for being certain. Truth knows better and deals not in delusion. Truth is quiet within itself and accepts itself inviting visitation.

January Song

The invading spirit and guile of the sorceress, mystifying the early morning moments. Tired eyes, with hardly the energy for question. And the day suggests. It gazes into the tired eyes and it appeals. And after a walk on the outside, some kind of understanding occurs. The mistake is to find the same smells of the same people and the same time in the same city streets. It could all feel so eternal, if it were to be accepted on the face of it all. To be alone, is to be free, and to be free is to look freely at the day. And the day, seems to watch from some kind of distance, tempting and teasing in its tantalising way. And the day is not alone, and the day is not free. It stands over the picture available, it has its mind made up already, and it may look in a kind way and it may look in another way on its subjects. And memories stand defenceless prompting imagination to explode. I saw it in a dream that not everyone is in comfort. And anyway, there are changes and within the changes there are new people dancing, they sway to the rythmm of a new departure, they have each other, if they can't find anything else. So the city drums its beat to change. And change can hear the beating, and it stands apart. And I wonder if it really wants to know. I wonder if change really recognises the recent past, and if it has boundaries. Indeed does change know the reason for its being? And is its life in touch with life? Or is change just a wild and carefree thing that only believe in itself? And belief? Is it real? can it be enough for commitment? Can it be everything in the satisfaction of a mind, of a heart of a soul?

Acceptance

From youth to agedness, the perversity of what is life. And from age, to look back to youth is a rather poignant thing. And to the images of the moments and their outcomes. In another kind of love, a spark explodes, fiery eyes and a reason for being at this point. Time seems to come together, there is no past and there is no now, that isn't of the past, life is one, and the light fuses with the dark. Memories have exploded their way into the present time, it is all embracing of all of the living time. And neon lighting electrical dream, has its truth to tell, and still and quiet as a museum the moment stands on its own, and the evening falls to dark, and there is the memory of the day, and the thought of the bright tomorrow. And within another kind of love, love itself enquires within, movement continues to live, it will live, it must continue on its way. There is the will to be free and it will be accepted as freedom. And winter days are warm now, tradition seems to have disappeared and be gone. Time and the world and it ages have colluded to a new acceptance, to a new now. Books are dead and have passed to their rightful time, only music and art are alive in the gallery of today. And there was a thinking girl, and we smiled, I wouldn't have believed that she could've been, but she exploded in a moment of my comfort. Today there is peace in the sky, and it reaches to earth and it seeks acceptance, and I, well I, accept.

The Dream Meets Reality

Imprisoned in that dreamy reality of romance and spirituality, when telephones don't ring anymore, and time increases. Memories juggle for prominence and interchange. And music diminishes to a song about your being gone. If I could erase hurtful words and their meanings I could smile on you again with an open smile. And yet, I remember an unspoken message, telling me that there was to be no disappointment within our star. Seems to be that love doesn't blossom on a plateau, seems to be, that a love is in a world all of its own. And a world is a total thing, and needs no help or assistance. And love in its world expands to the boundaries of that world, when that world will not stand still.

Mediocrity

Metallic eyes, distancing that self from society. A memory comes true, it dwells again in the day. And there were appropriate people in my little world today, and it was pleasing to accept. And there was a dream of another lifetime, where understanding went awry and in the dream there seemed to be a gift of wanting me to gain understanding in its distant aftermath. And the memory of dream is oftentimes like the memory of a happening of long before, in the awakening and the haze. In the see-saw jungle, nothing is clearly determined nor defined, and tomorrow can easily change the truth that I seemed to see in today. So outside of this, life and truth lie in fog, and that same fog will clear sometime, until it returns again. And dreams sometimes step out of the sleeping self and enter into the present consciousness, in a quiet and invisible way. So the comforter invades. The spirit cannot deny, it isn't really aware, and has no question, no debate with either dream or reality. An explosion of radical change seems to have occurred to the world, and I can only observe it from the little part of it that I am in. I forgive my narrowness,there is no guilt. And the longing of the heart is no longer intense, it has settled somewhat in some kind of ease of acceptance. I question my interests nonetheless, and why I should take myself to them. Perhaps now I should believe in mediocrity in the true sense of the word, in that middle place.

Tomorrow

The liar and her hauntedness, and I was wondering through years, how she would be affected by the way that she had treated me with those lies. And tonight I await the bells, as another year far away from the time that I was in with her, ends once again. Feelings and affection can be devious in the wrong hands. And that unseen gift may well be abused,and the multi affections for an apparently lovely young lady, can drive a young lady to extremes. Today,I cared about the memory of pure feeling,inside of myself there was commotion, and it frightened the trees. And the sun can shine in December,it can clear away the memories of the cold of spring. And what are those bells anyway? and what do they really mean? I think that the truth lies within the solitary mind, or the way to it. And even then, the day lies still and will not reveal its truth. Beauty sometimes deserts itself and seeks to confuse, it can take the easy way out. And I can only see beauty as a simple thing and as a precious thing away from hurt and its offsprings. And away from hurt, lies the power of friendship and togetherness, and there is an evening where the shadow cannot cross the picture, where it is disallowed, where it may not enter. And I saw a lady today and she smiled on me, and I have her in my mind this evening. There are stars in the gentle feelings of affection and they avoid untruth, they are the places to reach and they are places of love and truth. And tommorow is a new year, and tomorrow will be a new day and tomorrow will be a new time.

December in a Cold Country

The King and the Queen have become like phantoms, they both have returned to the way that they previously were, in their comfortable versions of repetition and existence. The book is speaking of departure and memories. Winter looms, there is no food on the table, and the hunger lies somewhere at the back of the heart. Predictable conclusions are screaming their truth, whilst life remains in deathly eyes. Extraneous loving feelings try to persist somehow in their confrontation to the dark reality. A world has changed, it is no longer on fire, there is an empathic smile nonetheless towards the place where weakness appears, as perceived by convention. The electric landscape is showing urgency and its dynamism is aggressively suggesting a new and extravagant freedom. In the city, the lion has succumbed to truth and has awakened to the idea of tranquility. Nothing is new and change is repetitious in itself. Dogs bark and prams are pushed, there are new people born, the continuum remains intact. December skies with the prospect of a new year. A new year with a new number, a change. In this room, the sound explodes, there is no requiem, as there is no death, just a deviation from a constancy that scared itself away from permenancy.

How to Fix a Dream

In the dream you looked a bit different from the way that you really are. Your hair blew around your face somehow and I brushed the offending strands of it away. We became closer than before and talked of our histories. It turned out that we had come from very different places in life, and our smiles were empathic. There was no time to rush away from the moment for, time was gone and was standing by and listening to, and watching us, and smiling over us. I then walked outside of my dream to find that things had changed, and that you hadn't really been here with me at all. I wondered about how to fix a dream. I hadn't had to deal with this kind of thing before. I was thinking about the relationship between dream and reality,I was sure that there had to be one. And your words played in my head,and they spoke to me once again. Your words have a habit of doing that, I wonder if my words have the same habit of doing that to you? And I wonder if I appear somehow different, in the dreams that you have of me? And still I wonder about how to fix a dream.

Let the Darkness be Gone

In the morning when you awake, when there is darkness in your soul, try to take the time to remember your true spirit. Search into the memory for your real self, the self that means the most to you. And search with spirit and soul and your light will shine. Your darkness is not a conclusion, it is not the end, it isn't final. It is just a visitor, look at it in the eyes and know that it is an enemy, to be overcome. Accept time, and time will accept your patience and together you will succeed.

The Mysterious Stranger

The mysterious stranger, walking in life's underground, his eyes express indifference and his look unresolved. He walks between light and darkness, through his remembrances. There is no joy and there is no sorrow for him, he walks alone, and his secrets are dear to him. and each moment has a particular colour and he seeks to capture its hue. Sound is not the greatest meaning, and words not the greatest truth. And in a city full of strangers, he is the stranger. He is out of time and out of place with a certain kind of reality, the physical kind, the obvious kind. He walks alone and is conspicuous in his aloneness. The mysterious stranger walks in the dark and accepts its relationship with him. There is no imposition, no rebellion, no trying to make the world to come around to him. His eyes are tired and he senses the time of the ages. He feels and senses about the natural elements, he is in touch with creation and he is silent. Somewhere in the past has magnetised him and drawn him and wont give him the usual regular freedom. And he is close to freedom and he is close to not being drawn to attraction, whether negative or positive, but there is a power greater then even the mysterious stranger's, and he collides with antipathy.