Small stones for March

March 1
Days draw deep

and quiet, as noisy

magpies sing.

March 2

Autumn whispers through

the tangled skirts of

fading Summer.

March 4
Love breathes hollow,
ashen-faced, upon
hard chest of grief.

March 3

Clotted skies of

sombre brooding;

Autumn taps her feet.

March 5

Hope, holds steady

pace, on Fear’s

parade ground.

March 6.

Rain like mist,
whispers to the
reaching grass.

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On caring

There are times when those,
we love, become ravelled in
deep places, dark abodes, of
being, and they can no longer

hear our voice, sense our
presence, feel our love, and
instead, they build walls of
thought, to hold back the tides

of connection; placing cold
fingers in seeping cracks, to
ensure, that the feelings will
not break through, to wash

them clean of the pain, and
hurt, and all we can do, on
the other side, is pray with
love and bright compassion.


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Prayers carved brown
the detail, written deep
in doors, ignoring ancient
papers, to set the stone
once more.

Fire bled into being,
seared body, mind and
soul, as soldiers now
victorious , dreamed of
home long gone.

Time dragged ragged
fingernails, across the page
of life, and rent the darkness
viciously, to show us
something bright.

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Life does often seek to manage mind,
where sanity demands another face,
and reason edits out discordant sound;
so is the heart embraced in mental vice.

Reality becomes a ghastly, raging foe,
where thoughts fill narrow ranks as demons,
defies the bounds of what we want to know;
hope on salted ground is surely leavened.

Insanity can hold the upper stony ground,
and mock from echoed distance all we are,
so do the angels hold out waiting hand;
salvation shines although its touch is rare.

Slant does twist the world of outer truth,
invokes that dance polarity to then ensure,
a mirror which reflects what is, as both;
in opposites, all then revealed as pure.

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The soul does sing

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As time caressed the desert dust, spread as living dreams,
so did the camel pass through needle’s waiting eye,
and in that crushed, deep driving force delivered;
so was the myth made manifest through endless sky.

Those archetypes did drift in resinous waiting sleep,
as clouds like trees did hold, and lifted desperate branch,
so angels roused from idleness were gathered round;
hope flounced dress in shivers, fragile as mere chance.

Tight the Goddess wove her truth into material, managed form,
where words held close to number, brought reality to birth,
and Fate does know who then to kiss and hold in settled place;
across the ditch which keeps pure heaven from this earth.

Souls did sit in patience, sipping slow their all-forgetting tea,
that cup of brew which would remove all knowledge of the cost,
the cloth of memory wiped clean, brushed that dark, forgotten door;
thought falls quietly into the hole of deep unknowing, and is lost.

As Snow White opened wide thin, reddened lips to surely bite,
upon the apple Eve had thrown delighted, into the cosmic ring,
so did the future stir and hopes of incarnation begin again to foam;
Self held hands with Spirit, smiled at Soul, as dawn began to sing.

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