Reality

Have you ever thought perchance
That life is just a life-long trance;
You're sleeping in some crazy dream
And not awake as it may seem?

Perhaps the world you know as real,
And everything you think and feel,
Is mythopaeic, nothing more?
Of what you know, can you be sure?

If doubts arise then question this
That answers may not go amiss,
And consider then what sleep might be
When dreams of other worlds tease thee.

Hang On For the Ride

There was torment in the darkness, nightmares forming out of dreams
That hideously distorted, undoing all my seams.
The darkness overwhelmed and took me with it under
To depths I had not known, and tore my self asunder.

And in those awful places where no one seeks to go
The devils in my mind did regard my stage their show.
So tossing, turning, tearing, and relentlessly with pain
Those enemies within began fighting for their gain.

But they became the losers, despite their efforts strong
Tortured, causing agony, by stringing me along,
In the hope I would surrender, capitulate to them
An early hollow victory to an expensive requiem.

The cost of giving in would be too much a cost indeed
And holding out 'til daylight with hope did sow a seed;
If faith can wrestle evil and not give up to doubt
Night does give birth to daybreak, the light to let one out.

Hang on for the ride, my friend, and hang on very tight,
There is peace for those who win, believers in the Light;
His Spirit conquers evil, bringing healing in His wake
And the devils in the depths will lose their stolen stake.

Storm Damage

We walked to the tree that was blocking our way,
The winds having died with death in their sway;
Death from Thor's wrath, with mighty thunderous fall
The tree had come down in the wet wintry squall.

Others stood gazing, bewildered as well,
That seventy years had succumbed and then fell;
From Earth's endometrium a placenta left swinging,
A mass of roots matted, to cliff face left clinging.

We stood there in mourning, in silence and sorrow,
Surveying the tree that would see no tomorrow;
Broken and battered, branches bent strangely angled,
With torrents of dirt that had tumbled entangled.

The woodmen had cut with their chainsaws so crudely
Huge slabs of the trunk, naked growth rings so rudely
Exposed to the skies, with their sacrifice weeping
Sticky wet sap of life's remnants still seeping.

We walked away softly having murmured a prayer,
For the scene was quite awesome, one hard to bear;
And the night sky descended, draping all with a shroud
Of darkness and grieving, gentle tears from a cloud.

In Memory

I planted freesias on her grave;
her favourite flower, the last I gave
her on that final Mother's Day
before she quietly just slipped away.

The perfect scent and perfect flower
speaks softly of that final hour
when shadows fell as night time came
and nothing more would be the same.

She lives not there in that cold earth;
my loving mother who gave me birth
and nurtured me 'til torn apart
by death ~ but now is living in my heart.

The Long People

Visions swimming in the clouds
Their heads emerge above the crowds
Beholden naught, the morrow's mood
And manna their God-given food.

With feet fixed firmly on the ground
And all around them know no bound
Their form is stretched by in between
Elastic thoughts of things unseen.

These are the people longing, long
With souls that sing a silent song
And go about their humble work
But not enslaved, nor duty shirk.

New Directions

When new doors are to open some other doors must shut,
Which can be rather painful like a kicking in the gut.
But whose to know ahead what rewards may be in store,
When open to alternatives more than beating at the door.

It is wise to walk away when the latch is firmly locked,
And every other entrance is very clearly blocked.
It is time to just be silent and listen carefully,
For that tiny voice that answers when you're asking prayerfully.

Sometimes you can not hear it for the commotion in your mind,
And the immediacy of feelings, not always very kind.
But as the day goes on and other paths we travel,
The moment always comes when the mystery unravels.

And then the door has opened, but a different one again,
To show you other things that can take away the pain,
And lead you new directions that are even better still
Than the one you thought was best but wasn't quite His will.

Non Wordsworthy Nightmares

I wandered lonely as a shroud
Looking for a ghost to clothe
When suddenly an echo loud
Of shrieks and moans around behove
That I had stumbled on a wake
A party of the dead forsake

Great names I saw and worse there still
Were those who taught their errant views
Not based in truth nor of His will
Seducing others from the pews
To worship new ideas of self
That lead to death with deadly stealth

Could this be hell this dreadful scene
Of godless souls now dead and gone
Tormented ones whose lives had been
And now become an eidolon
Left to poets who chance to muse
On sinful nature's deathly dues

These night time wanderings I must stop
They do my wits not one bit good
If sleep would not escape to drop
My mind into this haunted wood
I might have more that’s sense to make
Some rhyming words of worth to spake

Oh Wordsworth I have let you down
This fan of yours in pensive mood
Is vacant when the words don’t crown
Inspiring thoughts in solitude
And all she hears are eerie cries
Of creatures that volatilize

Grandma's Magic Lamp

Grandma's ancient magic lamp
Produced a genie who had cramp
From being stuck inside too long
Then came out wailing "Something’s wrong!"
While hopping, leaping, all about
Too compressed to straighten out.

Startled by this odd event,
(Although she'd rubbed the ornament)
Grandma gasped and said "Oh Lord!
Grant me help, your shield and sword!
Protect us from such evil jokes,
Oh bless us please and save us folks!"

The genie swore and said he’d never
Stay stuck inside another, ever;
His turn had been and now was done
But one last wish he’d grant someone
Before resigning from this role
Pursuant of some other goal.

The wish he’d grant would be his own;
His turn for once and his alone.
The genie rose to his full height
By puffing up with all his might,
Then wished he wasn't vapourware
(Ignoring Grandma's fervent prayer).

And poof! The genie was no more,
An error he could not restore.
But such is magic, never best
Since it backfires when manifest.
A prayer to God is no mistake;
He blesses us for His Son's sake.