The Witching Hour

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The witching hour,
Sleep seems far.
Trains of thoughts,
Not just the one,
Go chugging ahead in the dark.

A journey tough.
Convoluted and rough.
Too many tracks.
Mixed signals.
Lonely and stark.

Crowd me not with fears.
Keep away the tears.

Shunt them out.
Stall the pace.
Resorting to emergency brakes.
It’s not defeat
Just fatigue.
It will be sorted out.

For now please-some space.
Sleep-a blessed escape.

We’ll set the pace,
On tomorrow’s face.
Find a way to feel again.
Find a way to deal again.

Poetry Month.Day 13.

The Eyes Have It

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And because a quote on eyes caught mine first thing today…

Poetry Month Day 11.

The windows to look through,
Insight to the soul.
The fire of the belly.
The furtiveness of a bully.
The eyes say it all.

Clouds to the rains of grief.
The answering gleam of mischief.
The hardness of anger.
The tenderness of affection.
The eyes have it all.

Shuttered in pain,
Staring in shock.
Averted at lost hope,
Alight with laughter at shared jokes.

The joy of togetherness.
The angst of loss.
The sadness of acceptance
The bleakness of thoughts.

The unsaid.The ignored.The unwelcome.
They never lie.
It’s the beholder who in denial,refuses to look,
Accept the signs.

The eyes say it all.

The Seven Selves by Kahlil Gibran Poetry Month Day 7.

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In the stillest hour of the night, as I lay half asleep, my seven selves sat together and thus conversed in whisper:

First Self: Here, in this madman, I have dwelt all these years, with naught to do but renew his pain by day and recreate his sorrow by night. I can bear my fate no longer, and now I rebel.

Second Self: Yours is a better lot than mine, brother, for it is given to me to be this madman’s joyous self. I laugh his laughter and sing his happy hours, and with thrice winged feet I dance his brighter thoughts. It is I that would rebel against my weary existence.

Third Self: And what of me, the love-ridden self, the flaming brand of wild passion and fantastic desires? It is I the love-sick self who would rebel against this madman.

Fourth Self: I, amongst you all, am the most miserable, for naught was given me but odious hatred and destructive loathing. It is I, the tempest-like self, the one born in the black caves of Hell, who would protest against serving this madman.

Fifth Self: Nay, it is I, the thinking self, the fanciful self, the self of hunger and thirst, the one doomed to wander without rest in search of unknown things and things not yet created; it is I, not you, who would rebel.

Sixth Self: And I, the working self, the pitiful labourer, who, with patient hands, and longing eyes, fashion the days into images and give the formless elements new and eternal forms-it is I, the solitary one, who would rebel against this restless madman.

Seventh Self: How strange that you all would rebel against this man, because each and every one of you has a preordained fate to fulfil. Ah! could I but be like one of you, a self with a determined lot! But I have none, I am the do-nothing self, the one who sits in the dumb, empty nowhere and nowhen, while you are busy re-creating life. Is it you or I, neighbours, who should rebel?

When the seventh self thus spake the other six selves looked with pity upon him but said nothing more; and as the night grew deeper one after the other went to sleep enfolded with a new and happy submission.

But the seventh self remained watching and gazing at nothingness, which is behind all things.

Tree At My Window-Robert Frost Poetry Month Day 5.

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Tree at my window, window tree,
My sash is lowered when night comes on;
But let there never be curtain drawn
Between you and me.

Vague dream head lifted out of the ground,
And thing next most diffuse to cloud,
Not all your light tongues talking aloud
Could be profound.

But tree, I have seen you taken and tossed,
And if you have seen me when I slept,
You have seen me when I was taken and swept
And all but lost.

That day she put our heads together,
Fate had her imagination about her,
Your head so much concerned with outer,
Mine with inner, weather.

 

Wholesomely Spent Sunday

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Spent Sunday wholesomely.
Started by delivering car for servicing,productively.
Went into the pool swimmingly.
Lunched on idly, deliciously.
Caught a nap-briefly though deeply.
Collected clean car- expensively.
Went into the pool again, now lazily.
Ate a huge meal-hungrily.
Now off to bed sleepily.
Awaiting Monday..resignedly.
This poem sounds like all the relatives of Bruce Lee!

Poetry Month Day 3.

Poetry Month-Day 2

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The Invitation

By Oriah Mountain Dreamer

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 doesnt interest me
what planets are
squaring your moon…
I want to know
if you have touched
the centre of your own sorrow
if 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
to be realistic
to 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.