promises are like butterflies
wonderful, even spectacular
but when you touch their wings
they cannot fly any more
i don’t promise
i care
love
The White Cow
the palace of gold and blue
stood high above on the hill
shimmering in heat like a mirage
the chatter of monkeys was shrill
in the river below elephants bathed
later that evening, so clearly recalled now,
as the sun dipped down in a pink haze
we saw a sadhu with a white cow
we followed to a tea stall
by the steps of an old temple
the cow so beautiful, gentle
its eyes lined with khol
wore a garland of marigold and a bell
that rang softly as it gazed at me
reaching my heart and casting a spell
on the temple steps we sat
slowly sipping hot tea
beneath a sickle moon and one bright star
we spoke in quiet voices
until the man and the cow both bowed and walked on
i see that cow as clearly years later
as if it was but a moment ago
i listened to the sadhu’s every word
it was the white cow i heard
it spoke only of acceptance and love
Mystified
How do people fall in love?
Is it purely chemistry?
How does that work
When you can only feel an atmosphere?
Body language, eyes,
A smile at all the right moments.
But more than this it must be.
All meetings are by chance
So how is one more meaningful than another?
Instantly and mutual.
With friends it’s all we have in common
That makes and holds us, long or short,
But love? We fall before we even know.
The head may struggle to hold back
But the heart is already given,
And who can ignore the heart.
So without a metaphor or rhyme
I ask myself these questions.
The older I grow the less I really know.
No certainties any more.
I am mystified.
My heart is not.
There is a Love, Like No Other
There is a love, like no other
I try to find the words to tell
It swells the heart
And swims in the throat
A golden burst
Both high and deep
More than passion
It glows, not burns
Soft and wild
Sublime embrace
That reaches out
Explodes, yet stays within
It reaches for the Universe
Strong and peaceful
Always growing, always huge
Yet dwells inside a human heart
Heart-long-leap
Boom-gush-torrent
Doors flung open
Wide and warm
No touch or kiss
Can quite express it
I need a word that says all this
But I can only call it Love
Sonnet 116 – Shakespeare
Let me not to the marriage of true minds
Admit impediments. Love is not love
Which alters when it alteration finds,
Or bends with the remover to remove:
O no; it is an ever-fixed mark,
That looks on tempests, and is never shaken;
It is the star to every wandering bark,
Whose worth’s unknown, although his height be taken.
Love’s not Time’s fool, though rosy lips and cheeks
Within his bending sickle’s compass come;
Love alters not with his brief hours and weeks,
But bears it out even to the edge of doom.
If this be error and upon me proved,
I never writ, nor no man ever loved.
I posted this because it’s my favourite sonnet and I believe in it not just in relationships but in life – Love is the star to every wandering bark
At the Water Meadow
After three days of sunlight
the May bursts forth,
shining white stars amongst hedgerow leaves.
In the marshlands tall grasses wave feathered plumes of gold and cream,
tender on green silken stems.
The sycamore bedecked in bright green catkin tails sways in a gentle breeze,
a reminder of lambs.
A blackbirds sings atop the cedars outstretched limbs,
a dark silhouette against bright blue sky.
Dandelions with sun-filled faces
spread across suddenly verdant pasture.
The air is filled with the scent of new mown grass,
fresh cut blades scatter at the grey roads side
as I wander home in the falling light.
At my door,
one dandelion forces its way upwards
through the red tiles of the doorstep,
spring strong, shining,
a signal that summer comes.
Life bursts into bud
quiet fanfare for summer
warmth, wonder, delight.
Love is equally enlightening.
Star of Wonder
see the shining star atop the tree
a star in every house and street
a mirror of the celestial map
a tribute to the stars above
shining out where pavements glitter
sparkling in the frosted air
beaming out from lighted doors
greeting every passer by
a star in every window, every home
a light that gives a thanks complete
a light of joy and silvered wonder
welcoming families home with love
this bright star so high above
a glorious guiding light
not intended for one night
but held aloft a life time long
What we will do for love ….
Asked to write a love poem and finally lost for words!
This love? that love? how many have there been?
and who of them was first? probably fair Psyche,
she who burned Eros’ wings, in the dark unseen
and put his feet to flight. There’s a lesson there.
It’s hardly likely, after that, I’d fall in love so quickly ,
but I did, with Guinevere, and she ran off with Lancelot!
ah how women do deceive! it made me feel quite sick!
After that I sat about and thought.
It all seemed like a shot in the dark.
Wendy was too soppy. Maid Marion seemed brave and kind
but she was always off with Robin shooting arrows in the wood.
I wanted one who was strong and good, the sort I couldn’t find,
one who liked what I did instead of what they thought I should.
Some one who understood! I was young and stupid.
So much for Cupid! Wild thoughts ran round my head.
A friend came by to see me, said “STOP READING BOOKS!”
”If you want to know what women are like drag one into bed”.
So I did. I chose one only for her looks. A big mistake.
It’s more than looks that make a girl. I soon found out.
I went back to the library and searched amongst the shelves.
I read history, not mythology. I was seeking hard, firm facts.
Not much mention of the woman I needed there.
Battling, defeated, Boudicca had some appeal,
Joan of Arc, a little mad, Cleopatra sounded bright.
All were doomed. Past age. All done and dusted, Dead.
And then I found the poets. Their voices burned the page.
Poems of love and loss and passion, sacrifice, desire
It set my heart afire. Visions of real love filled my throbbing head.
I saw that you must work at it, losing is better than never having.
Its torture, sad, tragic, maddening. It’s happiness, joy, and magic.
It’s worth fighting for and always trying. Real Love is never dead.
I sat in a noisy cafe, reading Shakespeare’s Sonnets,
glanced across the room. I saw her there composed.
She seemed complete.
She was reading Keats. I smiled.
“Bright star, would I were steadfast as thou art…”
Good start. Our glances became frequent.
I took up courage, walked across. “You like T.S. Eliot?’
”Oh yes! I love him! Dylan Thomas?”
I smile again, nodding, offering her coffee.
We smiled and talked and talked. I walked her home.
Spent all night writing poems on her doorstep.
Fortunately it was summer. I didn’t freeze to death.
My poems only purpose was to make her love me.
I wanted her to love me more than all the poets.
She inspired me. She desired me. She was the first –
my sonnet.
Winter Epiphany
Gazing into a fire of pitch black coal,
blazing heat, dark caverns, flickering flames
licking the rock with red, green and gold,
for a moment I am a child again,
entering caves and challenging dragons.
So easy it was to dream in those days.
The world dimmed and faded, vanished away.
I look to my heart, converse with my soul,
look to memories, remembering names,
loves that were new, joy, pain, loves that grew old.
This love I feel deeper cannot be changed.
No darkness can quench this burning desire.
In love we enter a magical land.
The cold world grows dim, fades, vanished away.
My heart and my soul adrift in dreams,
places more real than black stone or hot flame,
I sit at your side, gaze into warm fire,
at home, in peace, nothing vanished or lost.
no promise
love is strength
caring is stronger than promises
promises are like butterflies
wonderful, even spectacular
but when you touch their wings
they cannot fly any more
i don’t promise
i care
The Dreaming Path 