Sunday, February 22, 2015

Of The Soul


Her eyes
take in the breath of my heart…
with each beat –
and the clouds weep…
when embraced,
as does anger
and love –
these human acts
convulsed by change
correlated
by the bounty of truth
or the vision born…
by the old
seen by the tribes of youth –
and in the end
the roses still grow
and so does war
poverty
and man –
but heal the soul
to watch the action…
of the power of one – grow.


Her eyes
take in the breath of my heart…
with each beat –
as she cast a vote
which tells the truth…
of good and bad –
and of the soul.

Thursday, February 12, 2015

False Hope


She lives…
inside his head
like a polite memory
which weeps
into his soul –
buried deep
this greyed out past…
with only
the remnants of ruins
which remain –
a false oasis
is a bleak reality
or perhaps
a parched drink…
of false hope.
 
 

Thursday, February 5, 2015

Like A Mother


Mental rips,
like folded paper
creases, wearing on the soul -
a forgiveness sot
or perhaps...
a broken sword
or maybe a mother...
the person who ask..... always
if you’re alright.
 
But then you think...
the conscious
is like a good heart -
but -  a bad liar.

Then tears like ink
have dried
and their shadows
show the stains...
to tell a story
where the heart remains.
 
Then view these smudges
as if they were darkness -
and not the light...
one wishes to see.

Like a mother...
the person who ask..... always
if you’re alright.

Friday, January 23, 2015

Tranquility


Each breath
draws in ink
swirling through his lungs
latching onto words,
then letters
dribble… past his lips –
but some days….
it’s just moments
of acrid, dark blue –
expelled hypocrisy,
which stains.
Closed eyes
to breathe again
and find… a path to walk –
brush aside, the cages held
these saddled, barriers of mind –
stride towards the golden hues
purples, yellows, oranges…
and the powdered blues.
Breathe again,
draw-in the ink –
opening your eyes… 
not far off, you see
the distant dreams
and tranquility…
waiting –
standing at the end.

Friday, October 24, 2014

Of Destitute


She watches –
and notes…
that he doesn’t fit
within the landscape –
as leafy thoughts escape
discolour….. fade
to strip the vines
of mind and life –
as he joins the quilted
desperate warmth
of destitute
and strife.

Monday, October 20, 2014

When Life Begins


I enjoy the colour black
which shows
the contrails ==== of time –
a dash of shadow
then a space –
but as dark
as dark is…
then the light of light
begins
to show the close-up
seen or been
and then
that’s when life begins.
 
 

A Tug


Touch my heart –
to look at yourself
in the hope
to feel the beat…
once cocooned.

An anchor released
can feel the sea –
a tug - - -
which draws you near –
or a detachment
drowned in tears.