Possible

The route we take is written,
no dearth of chances there,
what’s possible is limited,
by natures individual, the

bulk of being long decided,
the stars do tweak the light,
but some pretense can drug
our minds, and challenge

who we are. It is in time
still teeming, the challenge
of our lives, we jump into
our being, and shock the

stories blind. For who we
are was long ago, the story
that we wrote, and sealed
in life material, on which

we make our notes. The
play of life is staged and
set, as we decreed and so,
each soul incarnates now:

we live so we may know.

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The Ground

stood upon the ground where they had been,
among the fallen stones and dark timbers,
and dreamt of life as they had known it once;
now gone, all broken, dispossessed around,
as detritus and ruin of a home once loved.
So did my ancestors still speak through rubble
and whisper dreams in ever-spreading dust.

There was no trace of life as they had lived,
mementos gone and attributes of being, all
carried off, or broken where they stood by
driven days and yearning years, held up in
mortal months where lack of human hand
decreed, they could not last and hold their
shape, no matter how much one may wish.

Cobbled into being through the mind and
heart, scrabbled from the ebb and flow of
dregs, imagined shape of something now
long disappeared, was all which could be
summoned from the screed past did fling
in casual summons at my feet; daring me
to bring back what was irrevocably lost.

Only in the whims and dreams of fancy
can we recreate our history, and even
then it holds no true form beyond poor
imagining and futile yearning, for what
is gone is always gone, unless it lives
eternal in a place beyond this jigsaw of
material, and for that, there is no proof.

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Chiselled

I chiselled at your image,
revealed the puzzle clear,
made luminous your heart,
left nothing else to fear.

Dumb were left the angels,
superior and wise,
lucid was my loving;
hollow were your smiles.

Foreign were the moments,
feckless were your aims;
drank the wine of sorrow,
saw the darkening stain.

There would be no winner,
once the die was cast,
drunk on sour misery;
mourn our time now past.

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Feast

Feast of life does generate,

 the way to study time, and

 then to laugh and find escape,

 to sack the days not born.

The veins of soul lie empty,

 the Self no more than ghost,

torn the days of memory;

 heart’s engine, broke and lost.

 So do the years then gather,

 rejoice in all that’s been,

 call upon fate’s angels,

 to close the gaps between.

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YOU CAN LOSE PEOPLE

 

You can lose people you know.

Or they can lose you. It amounts

to the same thing – loss and a dis-

connection between you and them,

 

 

in ways never expected, never

imagined, never dreamed in the

deepest nightmare, never thought

possible, never considered, never,

 

 

never, never….. but it happens and

you realise, that somehow, in a

moment of endings and beginnings,

they are gone. They are lost to who

 

 

they were, and so lost to you, and

in that losing, that letting go, that

disconnecting, lies a new path to

your own becoming, and to theirs,

 

 

although now, the chances that

your paths will cross have become

less, at least until, you find them

again, or they find themselves,

 

 

which amounts to the same thing.

You can lose people you know.

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To search

To search within the almost seen, scramble in the mind,
to rummage through the coats of past, seeking so to find,
who I am and who I was and who I still might be;
so does love draw gentle hands across eternity.

Who was I then, who am I now, and who will I become,
so do the questions roll and taunt when certainty is gone,
and who I might have been, or could, has drifted on the wind;
so do potentials reach an end, before we can begin.

That morning when I woke in fear and huddled into Self,
as dreams and deep imaginings were tumbling from the shelf,
so then I saw in scattered wreck the tramplings of my heart;
and realised, that who I was, had never played a part.

And yet it had been written, this tortured, searching path,
which led from birth and on to death, as pure and soulful art,
for in the journey to become, to know and render true;
I learned the shape of  what was me, perceived, what was called you.

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Bliss

Bliss

In that milky pout of bubble,
which births from your tiny
lips, there rests a purity of
being; timeless, ancient, bliss
which resonates through
centuries as life’s perfect kiss;
where virgin beginning, lives
in fragile hope of tender years.
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