When I am.

posted in: Poems 2014 | 0

A wind as thick as cream, whipped clouds sprint through the desert sky,

Our lives like sails, wrought tight as currents carry us,

Through centuries our memories, conveyed by this masterful sky,

All bound by atoms, tied together; time’s force,

The ocean in a drop; ancestry in a person, we remain one, united.

 

As I look towards the heavens, a million faces, from sky’s easel acknowledge me,

All still in the world today, all recycled elements,

It dawns on me, as the sun’s last trail sets to the west,

We are all dead, we are all vibrant, we are infinite.

 

In a world where gold leafs over age and the beautiful are not damned,

We are but a face on the book of walls.

A portrait of modern society’s making, masking the DNA of our peoples’ past.

When I hear the whistle of the wind, spiking window-panes,

I am reminded, I am not a cog in the machine, but within me, encoded, are millions of faces.

I am reminded that I am. I am infinite.

 

Quietening the many voices of persona, nature’s raw essence acts as inspiration.

Listening to a warbler, sweet summer days abound.

My mind is released and free from worry,

This sense of being, at oneness, not needing to connect the sentences.

This is me. I am. One. Infinite.

When I am me.

posted in: Poems 2014 | 0

When the wind catches me,

like a billowing sail-boat,

All of my cells, pack in close,

Skin pricks with bitter cold zest,

As a gust sees the sun’s close to the west.

 

In cold comfort I know,

with each bellow and blow,

the molecules of air are there.

Carrying me through life, through time,

I am supported by your eyes in mine.

 

As the whistle of the wind sharpens my wit,

the molecules; past and present life, overlap and fit,

they show me the wide open skies,

of possibility and unyielding hope when one tries.

An infinity of cycles is the tear-joyed cry,

when life seemed closed and I could but sigh.

A vibrancy of life, every era and now I,

We are one. I am me. I am I.

Wordly Pleasures

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Out of the blue they tumble, spilling

across the page, shouting, thrilling

to their own songs and sounds, rattling

the gates of convention, battling

to be heard – scattering everywhere

in shapeless masses, in triplets and pairs,

on envelopes and newspaper margins,

on menus, post-its and paper napkins.

A rag-bag of words, a verbal maze,

a couplet or two, a peach of a phrase.

 

From the chaos of this wordly storm

the semblance of a verse is born,

shy at first, with unsteady feet,

with thoughts and metre incomplete,

with unfit rhymes and erratic style,

with story lines unreconciled.

And it is my pleasure to soothe and nurse

the growing pains of this youthful verse;

lost in the tangles of these troubled lines

I find myself,

free from the tangles of a troubled mind.

 

‘REAL TIME’

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Standing alone cold and raw
I saw yesterday falling away
From the edges of my mind.
Was that someone elses dream
Or one I,d left behind?
I no longer know nor do I care
For there are new realities to find.
Right now is where I face today
Today is all!
Memories are yesterday,s dreams,
Each one still seen
As we wished it might have been,
Worshipped in a sacred shrine.
Now as I brush the past away
I’ll make each tomorrow mine.

A Spanish Dream

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Swallows dive and soar above the beach
Across the sea
Then banking, swoop back to their retreat
In a corner of my balcony.
From there I gaze down to the palm-fringed quay
Listening to bells tinkle
From the top of tapering masts.
Waves nudge the hulls of yachts
Then pass to shore.
Out in the bay the fishermen
Cast their nets and pray.
I stroll along the Avenida De Espana
Basking in November sun,
Pause to admire delicate blue jacaranda
Suspended swaying in the garden
Of the villa Alessandra.
At a bar along the beach
An English paper says that
Rivers back at home are overflowing.
The forecast threatens
That it will soon be showing.
I relax content now it’s done
I’m retired !
Realising my cherished dream
Wintering in the Spanish sun

Earthed

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Earthed

 

Digging up the dandelions and dock leaves

my mind begins to clear of clutter

so that seeds of inspiration

can start to germinate,

 

then as I stand and stretch my back

to ease the aching, I notice

ideas like tiny shoots are sprouting

tender, green and full of promise:

 

some, probably the strongest,

are definitely weeds, but others

bear promise of that heady mix

of beauty and summer’s bounty.

Soaring

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Soaring

 

On some days

happiness wells up

unexpectedly;

it warms me more

than sunshine

or hot showers, swells

my heart as it pours out

in sparkling torrents

like a skylark’s song

whenever I open

my mouth.

 

On those rare days

all that limits my

enjoyment of the world

is that I haven’t got

a tail to wag or even

a deep-throated

purr to share,

 

so I look up

to search the sky

for the flying gratitude

that’s up there somewhere

against the blue,

singing his tiny heart out,

unable to pause

till all the world

has heard his song

and registered

his joy.

Night Swings

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It’s grey clouds

piled together,

like a thick, threatening pillow.

And black sky,

burping thunder.

 

It’s a swarm of youth;

dark hoods and hard tongues

buzzing playfully

like locusts,

Under a willow tree.

 

It’s sodden grass

under feet

and porridge mud

with thick toffee skin.

It’s the moon above me,

yellow, thick, and throbbing,

like sky’s blister.

 

It’s rusty chains

and green poles

that creak.

And feet becoming wings

which launch me.

 

It’s a haunting sky.

Feral hair

whipping rain in lashes

on my face

and falling into thunder

feet first.

 

It’s leaving earth.

Becoming black clouds

and mist.

And For one moment,

It’s feeling big.

 

It’s letting go,

It’s jumping.

And landing in a pile of legs

and grazed skin

and smiles.

It’s conquering again

 

 

Stress Free

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I feel better when I am;

 

Stress Free

 

Sitting in the sun

not thinking what to say:

nothing urgent pending:

It is a lovely day.

 

 

By Frances Smith

 

 

Dawn Chorus

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I feel better when I am:

 

Awaiting the warm rising sun in

the cool end of the night; sweet

singing sparrows, blackbirds and

pigeon owls caress my shoulders

drawing my eyes to the tree tops

dangling in mackerel blue;

 

Sweet scents; of suckling honey and

lily white jasmine with wafts of dewy

fresh hay like velvet in my nostrils;

fresh love in my lungs igniting the

nucleus of my being with every breath

deeper and deeper into my soul

lighting faith and grace with

joy and energy for life:

 

Good Morning.

 

By Frances Smith

 

 

Nothing but Now

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Yes to sunset on the sea
Painting a path towards my feet
Sweet as the ocean bathes the sun
We can find a way to love

Thanks for the rhythm and the song
Thanks for the cycle carries on
I’ve got sweet music in my ears
As the moon again appears

Yes to feeling. Yes to pain
I will suffer love again
Sleep on healing wings of peace
Rise with a heart that still believes

There is only this time
And so the cycle carries on
There is nothing but now
I am the rhythm and the song

Yes to children in this world
They don’t know of hate and war
Pray for the gift of lasting innocence
Pray for the bread of love’s endurance

Let my heart give sad lament
When the growing tree is bent
By the winds of man’s ignorance
They don’t know what they’re against

Sing for the souls that we have known
Those who make the skies their home
Thanks for the ones who say I love you
Praise to the One who made us new

There is only this time
And so the cycle carries on
There is nothing but now
I am the rhythm and the song

I bless the morning of my birth
Thanks for the living on this earth
I bless the breath that I have drawn
Thanks for the coming of the dawn

Look to the ones who love me too
Thanks for the old and for the new
For there is nothing but this time
Thanks for the Love that never dies

There is only this time

There is nothing but now

sunrise

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have you ever watched the sea at night?

huge crashing waves leap and tear at the shore,

the moon casts her ghostly sheen

and the waves carve a mean silhouette against the dark

as the world spins

and the ocean swallows your soul.

 

but in the morning, with the sunrise, there is calm.

the leaping beasts that roared from within

are quiet.

the light bathes the waves with its warmth

easing, soothing

until their cries are the seagulls in the dawn.

 

 

 

Feeling Better

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Snowed in, 10 feet deep, with a fridge full of food,
Coal and wood a-plenty, five days and nights
of stillness.

Penniless, with the hot sun beating down balmy,
need nothing! Everything – in this moment – is perfect,
priceless freedom.

Alone, without thoughts of the past,
or thoughts for the future, breathing, steadily
free from fear.

I feel better when I am in your protecting arms,
My tears of sadness turn to tears of joy,
And that unspoken bond of love,
Fills our hearts and minds.

I am Accepted; I am Loved; I feel Wanted.

I feel better when my mind ceases the cruel games it plays,
Achieving serenity and peace in meditation.

I thank God for the caring souls of the medical profession,
Who’s diligent and selfless duties,
Strengthen and assure my ongoing recovery.

When the treatment is sound and the medications work,
I’m grateful, I’m thankful,
At last I’m content.

When the darkness of nightmares or the sting of insomnia,
Is lifted, is abated,
Through careful self-help.

So this is how I live,
One day at a time,
I feel better,
With you by my side.

So this is how I live,
Being thankful for life,
Respecting myself; Loving myself; Forgiving mistakes,
Positively Thinking.

And to those who only see the illness; the diagnosis,
I say:
Walk in my shoes, if only for a day,
I hurt like you hurt and bleed like you bleed,
We feel better, when we learn to care for one-another.

Richard Proffitt. 2015.

rebirth

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The earth was dreaming about a moon not yet
born, when I entered its dream as a ghost
with the moon in my eyes in silhouette
held by the creator who joins me to toast
the birth of a new moon that dreams of a
sun collapsing. The earth, moon and sun dream
in unison giving me form, I whistle
forever sounds of fire dying, embers teem,
welding an impulse within the progeny.
Paintings and compositions allude in
multitude to resurrection. Adroitly
the creator completes his masterpiece, herein
a man on a cross. I will bring my progeny
to fruition and amend an impulse eternally.