There Is Nothing To Hide

Some people give
Some people take
Some are real
Some are fake

Some know abundance
Some know lack
It seems everyone of us
Is trying to get back

To that sense of belonging
That makes us feel whole
The place where we merge
That some label soul

We inhabit our bodies
We think we're our mind
But we sense there's much more
That we're trying to find

We sit in our homes
Surrounded by stuff
Still searching for more
'Cos its never enough

We fill up our cupboards
But can't fill the hole
That lies deep inside us
While we're playing a role

We are showing our surface
When we're fathoms deep
We're longing for depth
But we sow what we reap

To accurately mirror
What we are inside
We must understand
There is nothing to hide

That under the surface
Under the skin
We're from the same place
Inside we're all kin

A Note to my Soul

Shine from me and fill my world with light.
Let love, compassion and all good things
radiate outward from my core.

Let me seek evolution whilst trusting
the goodness of universal love.

Let my life be a mirror,
to the beauty of all that is.

Let me transform, and purify, and make whole.

Let me be aware
Right here...Right now.

Let me align with my highest vision
and join hands with my very soul.

Let me live with love
...and the deepest of understanding.

Tiny Green Shoots

Waking dreams trickle down my spine. I shiver in anticipation as the light grows around me. It makes no sense, my intellect can not grasp this slippery thing that slides away from my grasping mind.

My heart welcomes the onslaught, open, willing, filled to the brim, my cup overflows and I spill myself, soaking into the rich red earth. I water the seeds scattered so long ago. One by one, tiny green shoots break the ground around my feet, quickly spiralling upward toward the encompassing light.

I Could . . .

The day is mine to do as I will, to walk barefoot on damp earth, or to feel the wind whip through my hair, or to stroke a friendly dog, or a purring cat.

I could bake a cake, plant flowers, sit under a tree and read a book, I could fly a kite, see shapes in the clouds, listen to birdsong, hug someone, smile, laugh and chat.

I could lay back and listen to music, plan and dream, or do something useful, I could clean, polish, wash, organise things, put things away, redecorate, paint a picture, write a poem, notice the sounds outside my window.

Or I could worry.

Watching The Poet - A Memory

The cadence of his words as they rise and fall
a rhythmic rocking of syllables
crashing against the shore
of my being.

Ebbing
gentle
soothing
inspiring reverie
as it retreats to a whisper.

Then the waves return. . .
wiping away the footsteps
embedded in the sand
of my lonely shore.

Washing it clean
with the power
of his words.

Dedicated to James Smith 1926-1983 - A True Poet.

I fell in love with poetry at an early age. My father used to sit at the table and scribble for a few minutes, then say - 'listen to this' and he would read aloud what he had just written.

The cadence, the rhythm, the beauty of the words had me hypnotised.

He then used to screw up the paper and throw it in the bin! . . . and I would feel a sense of loss and outrage - why did he throw it away ?!! I would often rescue the crumpled paper and keep it. But to him, the moment had gone. He didn't need to keep his words. . . I did.

I do the same, I suppose. Sometimes things well up in me and I sit with the feeling and type. It appears on the screen, no longer inside me but out there. . .

Instead of crumpling the paper, I press publish and it appears on my blog.

Technology has a lot to answer for! ;-)