Category: Poems


In honour of Miss Emmy…


I wish I could have known you!

Image: lucyandlife.com

Image: lucyandlife.com

It doesn’t interest me what you do for a living. I want to know what you ache for and if you dare to dream of meeting your heart’s longing.

It doesn’t interest me how old you are. I want to know if you will risk looking like a fool for love, for your dream, for the adventure of being alive.

It doesn’t interest me what planets are squaring your moon. I want to know if you have touched the centre of your own sorrow, if you have been opened by life’s betrayals or have become shrivelled and closed from fear of further pain.

I want to know if you can sit with pain, mine or your own, without moving to hide it, or fade it, or fix it.

I want to know if you can be with joy, mine or your own; if you can dance with wildness and let the ecstasy fill you to the tips of your fingers and toes without cautioning us to be careful, be realistic, remember the limitations of being human.

It doesn’t interest me if the story you are telling me is true. I want to know if you can disappoint another to be true to yourself. If you can bear the accusation of betrayal and not betray your own soul. If you can be faithless and therefore trustworthy.

I want to know if you can see Beauty even when it is not pretty every day. And if you can source your own life from its presence.

I want to know if you can live with failure, yours and mine, and still stand at the edge of the lake and shout to the silver of the full moon, ‘Yes.’

It doesn’t interest me to know where you live or how much money you have. I want to know if you can get up after the night of grief and despair, weary and bruised to the bone and do what needs to be done to feed the children.

It doesn’t interest me who you know or how you came to be here. I want to know if you will stand in the centre of the fire with me and not shrink back.

It doesn’t interest me where or what or with whom you have studied. I want to know what sustains you from the inside when all else falls away.

I want to know if you can be alone with yourself and if you truly like the company you keep in the empty moments.

 

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Listen For The Silence!


The Crow by Ralphie

The Crow by Ralphie

Listen for the silence,
underlying all the noise.

Harken and listen well,
for it is there, all-knowing.

Only the silence of the mind
can bring full meaning.

Only the stillness of the heart
may encompass true love.

In the emptiness of being
lie all answers.

(by Ralphie A Burcke)

 

Ode to a Tree.


Image: biologicalexceptions.blogspot.com

Image: biologicalexceptions.blogspot.com

Whatever makes a tree
want to be a tree?
The seed of longevity,
and the desire to serve.

To hold together the earth,
serve as home to legions,
convert toxins into air…
A true being of magic.

A creature of energy,
renewing itself always,
in concentric rings
of ageless power.

Next time you meet a tree,
bow your head in awe,
be very humble
and give thanks!
 

Summer Rain


50167-its-raining-its-pouring-illustration

How beautiful is the rain!
After the dust and heat,
In the broad and fiery street,
In the narrow lane,
How beautiful is the rain!

How it clatters along the roofs,
Like the tramp of hoofs
How it gushes and struggles out
From the throat of the overflowing spout!

Across the window-pane
It pours and pours;
And swift and wide,
With a muddy tide,
Like a river down the gutter roars
The rain, the welcome rain!

The sick man from his chamber looks
At the twisted brooks;
He can feel the cool
Breath of each little pool;
His fevered brain
Grows calm again,
And he breathes a blessing on the rain.

From the neighboring school
Come the boys,
With more than their wonted noise
And commotion;
And down the wet streets
Sail their mimic fleets,
Till the treacherous pool
Ingulfs them in its whirling
And turbulent ocean.

Has HE Given Up?


Do you think God still believes

in Man these days?

Do you think He has faith,

that we’ll turn out all right?

Or did He give up…

and has taken up knitting

instead?

Where Have All The Trees gone?


They matter, first and foremost!
They are the serene breath,
and soulmates of us all.
They should be treasured!

The present smells so putrid,
of death for future generations.
A prison made from dreams gone sour,
of concrete, steel and ugliness.

The demigods and nymphs of old,
have been replaced by meat,
fit only for consumption,
by pigs with capital pees.

The earth is past its sell-by date.
It should be trashed and binned.
Shall we replace with another?
Where have all the trees gone?

 

My Neighbour…


Source: Wikipedia

Source: Wikipedia

My neighbour is the silent type.
His lawn, it doth speak for him,
mowed to sheer perfection,
it frowns upon my weeds,
that laze about without a care,
and smell of sweet inaction.

Artists…?


Image by Kimberly Maclean

Image by Kimberly Maclean

People call us weird… for loving life?
Or for seeing through the bullshit?
And ’cause a simple sunset melts our hearts?
Maybe for finding beauty, where you see drab?

If you were to express your feelings in a poem,
or whistle a tune, invented on the spot,
just for the heck of it, or to show you’re glad,
would that mean that you were mad?

Did you ever dream of anonymous faces,
transformed by a smile, just for a while…
and of the anonymous becoming friends?
Perhaps it takes art for wars to end!

In Search of a Chair.


“For years I said if I could only find a comfortable chair I would rival Mozart.” – Morton Feldman

Image from emmascrivener.net

Image from emmascrivener.net

From Ralphie:

I set off…

in search of a chair,

not any old thing,

but one that enveloped

my spirit and soul,

a conduit for my muse,

and above all,

a safe haven

from distraction.

In which to think

monumental thoughts,

as deep as the sea,

spanning the heavens

and the mountains below.

After eons of searching,

I found this great treasure,

and brought it home.

I admired it for weeks,

before venturing to sit

in its hallowed seat

and started to think…

or at least I tried,

but nothing would come.

I’d spent all my energy

and all my deep thoughts

on devising a way

to get at my goal,

and having found it,

saw that I’d lost.

Share in Beltane…


Image by  Sin Madison

Image by
Sin Madison

Let us prance and kiss berries,
And let’s swoon at the Moon…
Let us fart at our demons,
And drink wine with a spoon…

Let us curse all traditions,
And invite a new past…
Let us wallow in change,
and forget all we knew…

Let us brew a bright life,
and make love to a flower…
Let us braid the Moon’s beams,
and shower in stars…

Let us stare in the fire,
for many long hours…
Let us welcome the elders,
and share in Beltane…

Beautiful Words From Christopher Poindexter.


From Word Porn:

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Silvery Majesty.


Image by forum.zing.vn

Image by forum.zing.vn

Staring in you beauteous eyes,
I sometimes spy an older you,
in a mellow future dream,
of utter trust and silent understanding.

A vision of silvery majesty,
luxuriating in spent urgency,
as need blossoms into sharing,
along ages of lilting laughter.

A lake filled with tears of joy,
to relax our still-smiling bones in,
with the beat of our contented hearts
singing lullabies to one another.

 

A Farmer I Would Be!


MDG : Seed and GM in Africa : Plowing a field and sowing seeds in Ethiopia

When I grow up,
I would be a farmer,
who sows seeds of light
in pockets of sorrow.

Who cultivates smiles
in moments of distress
and listening ears
for those in need of one.

Who shares what he reaps,
with every living being
of the land, sea and air.
Will you meet me there?

Oh, For to Meet in Her Eyes!


From The Organic Witch;

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The hand of Mother Nature…


Image from Andrea Velame

Image from Andrea Velame

The hand of Mother Nature
cradles her many children
in the gentlest of ways,
to keep them safe from harm.

Nimbly and sure-footed,
across intersecting tightropes,
she balances our greedy needs,
against the greater good of all.

Like all good mothers would,
she protects her flesh and blood,
who by their mindless straying
would surely come to fall.

(A-) Wake!?


Dancing under the moon

Dancing with the deaf
to an emerging loony tune,
played by a lonely angel,
in the eye of the Moon.

A heart beats the drum
of its insane longing
for the silence after death,
the release from clamour.

A soul holds still and waits,
for the shedding of matter,
a reunion with the source,
from whence it gushed forth.

Water…


images

Falling water,
twists around itself,
to catch every minute ray,
and stare dumb and found
at the rainbow
it creates.

Water still and mute,
entices mighty Moon,
to enter its hallowed being,
for to whisper secrets,
as foretold by the heavens,
of the weaving of time.

Water rushes onwards,
screaming mad with fury,
at the injustice of it all,
to eradicate the slate,
and start anew and wait,
limpid clear as before.

The Monthly Climax.


Image: Note di Emozioni

Image: Note di Emozioni

The blood Moon rises,
full-breasted and aglow.
She stands tall and stares,
never once blinking.

Forever bound to Earth,
in a rhythmic dance,
with mesmerizing tides,
of longing and of sharing.

Pulsing, thrusting, needing,
until the monthly climax
brings forth the miracle
of her children’s dreaming.

Turning the Tables.


From Ralphie:

My demons are back, yes… again!,
but instead of fighting them,
I hugged them instead,
thereby turning them into friends,
which surprised them no end.

Gone is the enmity, gone is the fear.
Surprising, what a change of perspective can clear.
Kindness is a way of life, a way of being,
especially gentleness granted oneself.

Hundred.


A thousand books my library
Contains;
And all are primed, it seems to me
With brains.
Mine are so few I scratch in thought
My head;
For just a hundred of the lot
I’ve read.

A hundred books, but of the best,
I can
With wisdom savour and digest
And scan.
Yet when afar from kin and kith
In nooks
Of quietness I’m happy with
Sweet books.

So as nine hundred at me stare
In vain,
My lack I’m wistfully aware
Of brain;
Yet as my leave of living ends,
With looks
Of love I view a hundred friends,
My books.

590px-Ancientlibraryalex

The Joke.


Knipsel

The harridan who holds the inn
At which I toss a pot,
Is old and uglier than sin,–
I’m glad she knows me not.
Indeed, for me it’s hard to think,
Although my pow’s like snow,
She was the lass so fresh and pink
I courted long ago.
I wronged her, yet it’s sadly true
She wanted to be wronged:
They mostly do, although ’tis you,
The male bloke who is thonged.
Well, anyway I left her then
To sail across the sea,
And no doubt she had other men,
And soon lost sight of me.
So now she is a paunchy dame
And mistress of the inn,
With temper tart and tounge to blame,
Moustache and triple chin.
And though I have no proper home
Contentedly I purr,
And from my whiskers wipe the foam,
–Glad I did not wed her.
Yet it’s so funny sitting here
To stare into her face;
And as I raise my mug of beer
I dream of our disgrace.
And so I come and come each day
To more and more enjoy
The joke–that fifty years away
I was her honey boy.

Tick Tock.


From Lieven Grillaert:

1512344_10202909452765120_925100328_n

How can i tell what is in your mind,
the twisting of your thoughts
has left me wandering in the dark
has left me searching for an answer

its cold and lonely in the dark
where even silence makes a sound
and danger lurks around the corner
and no answers can be found

so tell me please where do i go,
what roads i have to wander
to find that little spark of hope
to find that wanted answer

what keys are there to open up,
the hidden doors to your heart,
so that i can find some needed peace
so that i can finally sleep

Sharing Me.


imagesI left tiny particles of my being,
scattered around the world,
attached to kindred souls I’ve met,
to form a forever-bond.

Connected till infinity,
with those dear to me,
whether here or in the beyond.
Of this thought I’m quite fond!

For My Friend: Paul Davenport.


If you wish to know the real me,
you should see me with my friends,
my family, my brothers from the street,
those who have seen it all,
and still came out laughing!

Yes, you, you do not see me or them,
you judge, you ignore, you do not know,
what went on before.

My friend Paul, who is no more,
who planted forests in his days,
who had property in Belize,
was found dead and took away,
for stinking up the neighbourhood.

Why did he drink, you ask yourself,
as did I, who drank aswell…
Well, not until my lady died,
did I understand, what he was about.

I came told him the news,
and he hugged me, as friends do,
and told me: “It will pass!”
Then my friend, whom I thought I knew,
told me a snippet of his tale:

“It happened to me aswell, and more than once,
my friend, five times was I to be wed,
and five times they were lost,
to me, the world and their family.”

I queried: “How in the world do you endure?”
He answered: “One day at a time, me boy!”

And now, my friend, dear Paul, he is no more.
No more kind words from his smiling face,
but Paul, you still are here,
for not in a zillion years shall you be forgotten!

“No!” to Darkness.


indexThrough multifold layers
of shame and deceit,
darkness beckons,
to swipe me off my feet!

Down into the pit,
for yet another hit,
but ‘no’, such a simple word,
is quite an effective remedy!


Putting memories of misery to rest.
They be best in the grave,
where, no harm done,
they may lie safe.

I’ve no need of pain, no more.
I cut the bonds of these old sores.
But still, somehow,
the emptiness remains.

My Sweet Rock.


index

I hurled my searing pain
at the nearest rock,
and, the sweetheart, it wept!
I embraced it instead.

I begged its forgiveness
and swore nevermore,
by my selfish inattention,
to cause it heartache nor sore.

Woman…


I saw your soul and fell in love.

One naked glimpse of your feminine perfection

has changed my world forever.

You can not unrock my universe, ever!

Even though you choose not to be in my presence,

your presence will always remain in mine.

Words Are Not Me!


downloadWords are not me,
they detract from the value of me,
I am ‘me’, not this or maybe that,
I am ME, can you not see?

You would persist to give me form,
to conform to your norm,
but NO, I am but me, just me,
I wish you could see, just me.

To call me a poet, to call me a cad,
is an injustice to me, me old lad.
For to add an adjective to a soul
is an insult to the being.

I do not need your perspective
to exist, for I merely AM,
yours, ours , but mostly just mine.
I wish you were blind!

For to see is an illusion,
to hear is a betrayal,
I am pure energy, I ‘am’!
NOT your opinion, so sorry, but NO!

The Sick Rose. By William Blake.


From Wikipedia:

387px-Songs_of_innocence_and_of_experience,_page_39,_The_Sick_Rose_(Fitzwilliam_copy)

O Rose thou art sick.
The invisible worm,
That flies in the night
In the howling storm:

Has found out thy bed
Of crimson joy:
And his dark secret love
Does thy life destroy.

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