Window Pane

 

 

 

Thirty-seven years later,

And he stands there,

Still.

As my wheels make a circle,

On the gravel of his no where. 

 

Bags in hand,

Without explanation or sorrow,

Yet he manages to smile,

In that broken-hearted way,

Of a boy,

Who is a man.

 

Because he has never learned to trace,

The path of his tears,

Which fall onto our window,

I stare out of for days.

 

I listen for his footsteps,

Which echo,

Inside the temple of my rage,

Because I cannot cry.

 

Only silently trace,

With tightly held fingers,

The outline of my heart,

On this cold winter’s pane.

 

With a band of gold,

Which has frozen the lock,

On this rusty door.

Chasing down pills with

A bottle of wine.

 

 

Tides

 

Your breath enters me,

Softly,

As a breeze may,

On a warm summer day.

 

Re-kindling what was

Lost,

Into the tides of time.

Your voice,

A soft whisper,

Which remembers.

 

Something infinite,

As the sands are infinite,

In the arms of the water,

That dance forever.   

 

These tides,

Which bring the pearl,

Towards the center,

Of me.

Awaiting something beautiful,

To come of this,

With time.

 

For we are these tides,

Endlessly meeting,

Forever wanting,

Yet never reaching,

What was yours and mine.

 

Time

 

 

 It was there, 

In the sound of the wind,

A fading memory,

Lost to the forgotten shadows,

Of time.  

 

 And still you whisper to me,

Quietly,

As footsteps do,

Where your name,

Once existed,

Beside mine.

 

Hands circling,

The rose,

You once held,

Now tinted with age,

As we are. 

 

And still,

I remember you,

As a child remembers,

The rose-hue fragrance,

And warmth,

Of a sweet embrace.   

 

My hands,

Forever folded,

Around the stem,

Where the petals,

Have fallen,

Into the winds of time.

 

 

Photos

 

They trail in the wreckage,

Poor souls,

Their fading footprints,

Found on dusty photos,

Behind the Royal Doulton

Figurines. 

 

I have dressed them in suits and ties,

Some against their will.

Men look best that way I figure,

What with their straight lines,

And small hips.

 

They had taken me out to dinner,

And I had kissed them occasionally,

When the right moment struck,

Not very often.

 

We would dance until dawn,

Drunken stumbling aside,

Head over heels, deliriously happy,

They were.

 

Without realizing,

The inevitable crash into oblivion,

Would leave hearts trailing in the

Dust like so many rattling,

Tin cans.

 

 

When I Close My Eyes

 

 

 

 

 

When I close my eyes

for the very last time,

I will tell them it was 

you that mattered,

 

Even as the winds have

scattered,

the petals from your hands.     

    

For in your eyes there was,

A galaxy of stars, the sun,

A brilliant fire quickly spent,

The crown of light when God

was done.

 

For destiny it would seem,

Is eternity within a dream,

And I would rather slumber,

Never to awake,

 Then rise to greet each morning,

 And my love for you,

 forsake.

 

Big Girl

She smiles and then puts on her lip stick,

No wait, eye shadow first, followed

by lipstick, then powder. 

She makes sure the corners of

her lips don’t turn into a crack of unseemly red,

because she is past the age of uncaring indifference.

 

She has learned to cook well,

But her fingers hurt from too much chopping,

and peeling,

No one knows this because they are too busy

smiling,

with the same smiles reserved for the mail man,

and

that guy that sits behind her sister’s cubicle at work,

And, oh, don’t forget the dog.

 

She feels guilty because the turkey is cold,

But no one seems to care,

They are too busy thinking about what to say next,

And she is worried that perhaps it wasn’t good enough.

 

Her mother would complain about this,

But she isn’t there because she left her dad just before

Christmas and so she had to cook the turkey and

everyone carried on and smiled

as though nothing had happened,

but everything had changed.

 

She doesn’t mention this in company

because it would cause a crack to form

in the invisible wall which exists between them.  

She ponders whether to shoot the dam

in the living room versus the kitchen

because the kitchen has hard wood floors and

she doesn’t have a mop.

 

She would tell you that she is doing well except

that her therapist would say otherwise.

He calls it denial or something with a psychological name

and she listens because her family doesn’t resemble the ones on TV

and she has grown tired of herself.

 

They talk about the girl she once knew,

The one she takes to the park sometimes,

hand in hand, smiling as they dig a hole to bury daffodils.

Crying, because the flowers

have wilted and they want to remember them as they were,

not for what they have become.

 

She stops crying because she knows she should,

And because she doesn’t want to be ridiculed or

have smudged, swollen eyes.

             And she doesn’t tell anyone because she is a big girl,          

And everyone knows that big girls don’t cry.

 

 

 

21rst Century Woman (Part I-Continued)

  

Twilight finally descended,

With darkness coming slowly,

amongst murmuring voices.   

Eyes,

retreating now from the veiled

pretense of their quiet disdain.      

 

For he was unlike the other men,

his hands had been weathered,

by the gathering of red earth

under strong fingers.

 

A life of sun, 

and unforgiving winds had fallen upon his brow

and shaped the deeply etched rivulets, 

around his unusual face.

 

For he could make whole again,

Given to him by the power of dreaming,

That, which was forsaken,

in the place that had given him life.

 

As water might to a seed

which finds life from adversity,

amongst canyons of parched soil.

 

He was not ashamed of this

and so we danced, under the gleam

of pressing heat and white, flashing lights,

Beads of perspiration lining the fading

tint of my lips.

Hypnotized by the breathless air and

the feel of his hands along the curve of

my hips.

 

And slowly I am drawn

towards the core of something raw,

Aware of heightened senses,

primal, seductive.

Awakened by something indefinable.

 

My feet fade into nothingness, 

Spiralling downwards,

into the night which falls away to wondrous stars,

Where did they come from so suddenly?

 

When I awaken I am wilted and without strength,

And I find him there in a halo of light;
Dark eyes peering into mine, inscrutable,
For his arms have encircled me as the halo

of the sun might,

 

And in those arms for one brief moment,

I catch a glimpse of new beginnings.

     

 

Circle of Life…

 

 

 

I have been thinking about what is important in life. And about what makes people happy. For most human beings, the concept of happiness follows a strangely generic and common theme. These include the pursuit and acquisition of money, owning that car with a particular name, and living in a neighbourhood in which the postal code is never verbalized, but speaks for itself.  But does this create happiness?

I had a dream about a perfect circle. The image of it was very vivid and clear. And then I thought about the meaning of a circle. Its perfection comes from its form; a circle has no beginning or end. It represents oneness, completion, perfection and infinity. It may also represent the “circle of life” or the totality of the Collective Unconsciousness.  A circle also denotes spiritual awareness and the wholeness of body, mind and spirit.

 Carl Jung called all circular images a “mandala”. The Tibetan word for “mandala,” dkyil-‘khor , literally means “that which encircles a center.” A “center,” here is a meaning, and “that which encircles it” – a mandala – is a round symbol that represents the meaning. The goal of the mandala is to serve as a tool on our spiritual journey as it symbolizes cosmic and psychic order.

And so a circle represents perfection. However, human beings are not “perfect”. In fact, humanity is quite flawed. And part of this flaw is the pursuit of things which we mistakenly equate with happiness. In the end such fervent prayers to a false altar becomes an empty vessel; a vessel  which can never be filled and is devoid of that which nurtures. 

What does nurture are the relationships that we form with friends and family. Because when all is said and done, it is these relationships that form ”the circle of life”. Because when you are in need, it will be these hands that circle you with love and kindness. This concept is based in antiquity and is mentioned in the bible, “and now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love. And so in the circle of life, it is love which is most important. And it is this tenet that often gets forgotten in the pursuit of the material; an endless but ultimately fruitless pursuit, for such things cannot create happiness. 

And so when I think about a circle I envision the hands of many joined together.  For the individual, it is the hands of your family joined together, with you in the center.  For greater humanity, it is the hands of the world joined together with the universe as the center. Can you imagine what could be accomplished if the entire world could join hands together with kindness and love?  Now that would be a pursuit worthy of effort.    

  

   

” Don’t look at your form, however ugly or beautiful.
Look at love and at the aim of your quest. …
O you whose lips are parched, keep looking for water.
Those parched lips are proof that eventually you will reach the source.”

Rumi

You Raise Me Up…

You Raise Me Up..

Well, please forgive me for the shortness of this post. I have been up literally twenty-four hours completing a research essay on Stress Management Theory.  And sometime early this morning, as my head was bent over my lap top, the title of this song kept announcing itself in my ear. It almost felt like a message, so, out of exasperation, I google-searched the title and came up with this beautiful song.

In the early morning dawn, some rather strange events can ocurr.  I also happen to love Josh Groban and his beautiful voice. I was comforted by this song, and after playing it I smiled. Life is quite mysterious indeed….I go now to close my eyes and rest. Enjoy the song.

 

The Promise…

                                                           

I am working on getting a photography album together for all of those who love photography. I must admit, I am not a very good photographer, but I am a genuine and supportive “back-seat” cheerleader for all of those who wander the planet in search of the “perfect shot”. I generally have an eye for form and structure; but lose all semblance of technique and skill when asked to perform the skill of combining an “eye” with that special attribute called technical skill.

Based on this premise,  “never the twain shall meet”. What I do best is paint, in acrylics and oil. Therefore my plan is to take some pictures of my paintings and post them onto flickr. I have been attempting to do this for the last few days without luck; so please have patience as I try to figure out how to accomplish this; given my obstinance, I shall find a way….

My paintings are rather abstract; I do not get obsessed over trying to capture the details of “real life”.  That being said, I use texture and colour to interpret the essence of reality and to construct what I believe to be a close definition of what we all see, not just a personal analysis or interpretation of our shared visual reality.

For example, I painted a picture of the family dog as he sits and looks upon a forest with some pretty wild mauve and pink colour combinations as a representation of the forest and sky. This painting hangs on the wall of my sister’s bedroom. The only kind of painting I can think of that resembles this style is Van Gogh. Imagine “Starry Night” and you might get an idea.  I too love heavy texture and colour and would rather paint with a wild hand then get hung up on minute details. I am hoping to share with you my paintings as well as the photography of a close friend, so please be patient.  

My next poem is called, “The Promise”.  Recently, I have been thinking about the “yin and yang” of relationships and the motivation that exists between men and women as they strive to form relationships that compliment the “who and what” of their being. The truth is, when all is said and done, no matter what the “outside appearance”; we are most satisifed when we discover someone with whom we can laugh, share secrets, enjoy conversation and generally have a “shared vision” for life, love and happiness. Nothing about this or the person is “perfect”, in fact, they are quite often ”imperfect”.  Thus, a dissonance exists between what we perceive as “perfect” and what is ultimately a whole and unconditional fulfillment of our needs.   

How do we know that such a person is the “lock that fits the key”?  They will love and care for you unconditionally and seek your attention and company long after others have left for more promising shores. They see in you what you see in them, a shared vision and understanding, a desire to overcome obstacles; and an overwhelming desire to be in each other’s presence, no matter what the circumstances. 

So, as I have alluded to in previous posts; we often spend a considerable amount of time and energy seeking what we “want”, but in the end, we often receive what we “need”. This what I call serendipity. We all have a need for understanding, unconditional love and happiness. This desire, if recognized, exists in us all. We are motivated to pass along what we have spent a lifetime attempting to achieve. That unexplainable and indefinable gift that occurs only once in as lifetime. That nebulous concept that is so difficult to explain but forms the foundation of life.  Without further adieu, I present to you my poem, “The Promise”. 

 

 

 

The Promise

 

Her skin is soft, pale,

and speckled,

Like the petals of an orchid,

Fragile yet strong,

Hiding the dusky stems

that nurture

the pollen,

In the center,

of a circle,

that is life.

 

With knowing eyes,

She sees though the thickness,

of his skin,

And the walls he has built,

around a soul,

that is invisible

to all,

but her.

 

She climbs easily,

over the walls,

of his garden,

To find what he

cultivates with care.

 

Climbing with ease,

She circles,

and entwines

her pale arms

around the walls,

Like tendrils

of vines,

As they seek,

the morning sun. 

 

That part of him waits

for her,

Quietly,

as roots might,

Lying dormant,

Remaining hidden.    

 

Growing there are buds,

Tightly folded,

and waiting,

For the life of her breath,

And the wetness of his lips,

against the paleness of her skin.

 

He speaks to her

about the gift,

That waits

beneath the ocean

of his desire.

Within him,

Seeking,

with patience

and love,

For what is soft

and expectant,

Folded,

yet giving. 

 

For they shall plant seeds

together,

And scatter them,

But none too far,

With careful hands,

In the soil of their

roots.

 

For he desires

the flowers,

Which remain hidden

beneath the ground,

So that he may place them

gently,

in the silk of her hair.

For they are also

part of her.

 

Their promise,

is tightly kept,

Like the leaves of the bud,

Around the stems of their flowers.

Waiting,

For the breath,

of the sun,

to awaken them.

 

He listens to her,

Eyes closed,

Comforted by her presence,

Waiting once more

to become part of her.

Seeking roots

within the soil

of their desire,

That brings life,

and feeds nations,

Forgives,

and brings faith.

 

Entwined,

Inseparable,

Expectant and vigilant,

As the seed is,

within the woman,

By this man,

With a love,

That even eternity,

cannot surpass.