With each step
we write our lives
with quills dipped in rainwater
for as soon as it is written
it fades under the glare of happiness
or is washed away by storms of solitude
The mere act of dipping
is enough to send ripples along to the roots of Gaia’s smile
where she drinks in the questions of us mortal masterpieces
for as soon as it is written
our souls, our spirits, our hearts and our minds become
lost in the frustrations of being unable to comprehend
the reasons why we are given such beauty
only for it to be washed away
The act of being kind to the rains as they fall
brings its own rewards
for when we write our lives
with quills of love
we shall be given
the truth of how to live in the now moments
of how to flow over storm-crusted stepping stones of haste
and of how to write with rainwater
and know there are no answers except for those we create
When we write with rainwater
the sun shines
and the storms rage
as we breathe
know and feel
the beauty of existence
Another poem from before that seems to resonate with the way things are going nowadays.
From 2017 published in After the Rain.
… he sits feeling the warmth of the spring breeze. A chaos of midgies hover near the edge; some are caught in a cobweb as mallards float along, birds hidden in the trees make themselves known and little buds begin their openings.
All these goings on are disturbed by the noise of a chugging barge churning the silt. A magpie swoops to the other bank to peck at something in the grass and there a moorhen comes out from the dark overhang. The magpie does a little dance and is gone as a another barge comes along in the wake of those returning mallards.
It’s quiet now but for nature’s song. The magpie returns with its mate pecking and tugging with hungry abandon, and there they’re off to the trees.
He sits trying with all his will to feel to engage with all this beauty but of course he fails. He’s not a part of this, he’s merely an observer and this saddens him …
Flowers are amazing creatures
they react to, and follow light
and what are smiles
but little torches of love.
What is it but a drowning sorrow
as the sky weeps its release
What is it but a chilling fear
as winds scour the earth
What is it but silent heartbeats
as snowflakes settle one by one, by one
What is it but a waiting
an apprehension of thought
a waiting of age
soon to be lit
It is this
this very moment
when upon looking up
a butterfly in winter
shivers in its beautiful strength
shivers, and is gone
Magic arrives when it’s needed.
This message is ready for the few
for those souls
bereft of the beauty
we sometimes take for granted.
The beauty, of course, is not physical
but those things we feel
without and within
it is that echo
breathing, touching, vibrating
it is that echo.
Sometimes a sadness overshadows
a loneliness begins
a feeling of loss is found
and all we want is to escape
to close the curtains of our minds
and escape into the sorrows
where there is no light
but, where there is emptiness
there is of course, an echo.
It breathes with you and for you
for you are
that breathing echo
you are open to receive
those long searched for
alchemies of love.
Magic arrives when it’s needed
is already within us
within you now
breathing its echo.
in your beauty.