Pearl in a dust-bin

Sometimes I think my mind is on another planet, or even another dimension where it’s writing with gusto leaving me blank and pallid so I apologise for my silence lately. The feelings I have to be able to write just aren’t around and I’m not going to force the words to appear.

However, I have been reading quite a bit and as you can see on the right there I am currently reading the huge four volume A Short History of the English People by John Richard Green. I’m about three quarters through volume 2 and Queen Elizabeth is on the throne being pestered by Queen Mary of Scots. I’m also reading Sir Walter Scott’s Lay of the Last Minstrel.

Previous to this I read a wonderful book by Marie Corelli called The Sorrows of Satan and if you get a chance I recommend it. Here are two quotes from the many excellent examples of her writing in the book.

…Be sure that if you are unhappily celebrated for either beauty, wit, intellect, or all three together, halfsociety wishes you dead already, and the other half tries to make you as wretched as possible while you are alive…

…To be missed at all when you die, some one must love you very deeply and unselfishly; and deep unselfish love is rarer to find among mortals than a pearl in a dust-bin…

I hope to be back soon with poems.

Happy Sunday and thanks for visiting 🙂

Eye of the storm

It’s
understandable I suppose

we reach a point
where nothing exists

we reach that moment
when birds fail

and the trees
already slow in their time
inhale the heartbeats of life

One dares not
open the door
for fear of the shattering

and the not knowing
of what lies
beyond the silence

 

Crushing butterflies

Those clouds
heavy with rain
resembling pain
sit up there
and just, utter their contempt
as they shuffle along
manifesting

while down here
pain resembles snow
with its weight
pushing, tugging; silencing life

crushing butterflies
till they themselves
become misty rainbows
when the sun breaks through

How they fall

How they fall
the dead
already dying
before the fall

not long to go
it seems
as leaf’s breath
wind chimes death

imagine now
the dead
not quite ready
to relinquish

the call
isn’t such a thing
for no voice
of vibration exists

cold in the warmth
of coloured grief
where leaves
learn the lesson

of how to fall

Is it possible to feel

Stars
hairs upon skin
her universe
ever growing
light
falling into death
naked beneath time
silent in the study of life

Stars
how many heartbeats will it take
her open copulation
laughing in the dark
birthing shadows
gargoyles
crimson pools of thought
expanding
dying
silent

Stars
is it possible to feel
her soul
light
life
the beginning?

Is it possible to endure creation
without losing one’s mind?

the harmony of nature

to see nature
in tune with herself

to hear those vibrations of her harmony
of her unconditional love

to know the fragility of her power
and the power of her fragility

to understand her violence
isn’t an act of thuggery, but growth, continuance, life

to become a part of her, of her passion
we have so much more to do, to undo, to become

to step out upon a path and to touch her tendrils
and to have them touch us with one of those, vibrations

to realise she doesn’t have a goal, a tactic, a gaol
for she is her own graveyard, where each and everything reincarnates

she is; it’s that simple
we; we have yet to begin to know the meaning of silence

Watching the snowflakes

Silent explosions of creation appear beyond the window
as I listen to, or am bombarded by, the eternal ringing in my ears

Silence is an impossible dream

Watching the leaves in spring stretch and yawn
Watching the rose petals romance the world
Watching the beautiful deaths colour the postcards
Watching the snowflakes’ individualities show us how

Silent explosions of creation appear beyond the window
and here I sit crunching ginger biscuits

Silence is an impossible dream