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To imagine is to dream
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Category Archives: Life
Let me out
LET ME OUT
by justme
Like little lambs dressed as wolves they come
Snapping, alert ready to pounce
Enlightenment they seek.
What is enlightenment but a set of words?
That bangs against the loudest drum
Full of wind and stress to seek the better life
Self discovery they shout
Self improvement they want
Those vile slippery things
Their bellies suck the very dirt from the earth
As they slither upon the stage
With elegant head and spit they impress the crowd
The crowd of dim witted fools who look to direction,
led and savour only the moments they are told to savour.
Alas and well the man appear with silent tones and nothing dear
He hits upon the vile with fury and sends the dead to rest
No sleeping he as he stands upon the rock and looks down upon the restless dead,
no sleeping he as his hand moved to check his breath.
Die you in vain. No you are not the truth you are merely the darkness while life is gone.
Ancient Greece paints the picture of men in the cave of tramping individuals staring at a wall of lead.
They look to the fire and see the shadows of themselves.
When arm moves up or leg moves out still they recognise not their limbs.
Suddenly one who escapes comes back still they sit and have the craic.
Awaken ,awaken you foolish men your talk of right and wrong must end.
The discussion about nothing is stopped and lost.
The importance of point is always forgot,
He led them out from in the cave the silly architects who were but slaves.
The light of man upon their face.
Nothing was right in that dark place
All words and opinion shattered – yes it all
Not even a piece was left one inch tall
Like men in a cave we won’t listen to the message and shout.
Please stop right now.
Forget everything I said. Let me out !
∞
Read by the author Credits: poem © justme; Image © Michaela; All rights reserved
…and the wind still blows
Silently perfect
Credits:poems©justme; Image:©CatrinPhoto; All rights reserved
When winter comes…
SNOW
By justme
Winter’s masks draws with guise, as subtle beauty meeks the wise.
Slushy wet, slips mushy brown and swamps the dirty tainted ground.
Vanilla flakes drift and tease, breath of crystal yet too warm to freeze.
Patchwork place new boundary now.
Soft and lacey beanied hat pulled down.
Scarf breath wet defeats the plan.
If others still do, so will this man.
Silent snowman holds his pose.
Discarded slate makes a pointy nose
Pebbled buttons stray out of line.
A legless creature only one day his time.
A distant chimney coughs out it’s breath
As oil fired heat secures his death
Branches balance a powdery cold
From fern fresh yearling to oak tailed old.
Silence kills man’s whispering shouts
No babbling gossip, no lager louts.
Who says no man hibernates?
When winter comes, so close his gates.
Yet within a castle walls the human man they call free.
In heated cinnamon air and ginger hot tea
Is drawn to look upon an outdoor winter scene.
For although he sees cold, he also sees serene.
For in his heart he too once felt cold, melted and wet and sometimes so quickly so old.
Yet he sees now the beauty the perfection of all.
∞
Read by the author Credits: Poem © justme; Image © Catrinphoto
The art of living
We as creatures of habit adopt the verse, the line and the flow of letters arranged in such a perfect form, they rhyme and stress and roll and like Grimms trail of bread they create a path or lineage far beyond the single individual crumb, to us, yet that individual drop can carry the fullness of the path held within a moment, a timeless moment, a moment when the earth stops spinning, when the universe exhales and it’s heavy shoulders drop and sigh and rest. The simple perfect moment so many times is missed, the single simple drop of food is passed and stepped and bled. Yet this silent moment lays sleeping, waiting to be found, to be noticed, to be consumed, for our fulfilment. Let not the letters about living be the opposite and therefore the death of living but understand the same to be how living is and always has been and always shall be, though there not be three but one. One simultaneous attribute which dwells not in the land of opposites but is as a photographic picture, still, steady, all embracing. The art of living is not an instruction or a path but a statement of how living is.
What does it mean to be here and now ?
Credits: Writing © Justme; Image: © Catrinphoto
The parting
THE PARTING
By Justme
Like a little boat on a vast ocean
bumping and thrashing wave upon wave knowing not where she goes.
Not able to stop, or steer or slow.
She rides the waves of life,first she ascends so high and then rockets to the hardened low.
Again and again and again , thumping, churning the dark dense cold.
She asked not for this journey.
She wished only to stay on land.
Her sons they cling to the sides looking for mother to take them home.
Fathers gone they must stay the course, of waves, of life,of death.
They must stay the course until one day the waves fall lighter and eventually sit still.
For now not even love can break the power of the waves.
For love is lost.
The light for now is gone.
The sun may shine but never will it warm.
Take my hand dear woman that I might lead you upon the shore.
For your home awaits you though your heart so forlorn.
I am the constant and the brave.
Place your head upon my chest.
Hush now woman of the universe,
dry your childrens tears
be still my child and just you rest.
Close your eyes and let us move with the waves,
surrender to the moment,the movement, this life
For you are a brave and perfect mother,lover,wife.
Can love be lost ?
Credits: Poem © Justme; Image © Catrinphoto
The cross
A CHILD’S CROSS, A MOTHER’S CROSS
By Justme
Scarlet red explodes then gently trickles descending the veined banks of weary clasping hands.
Clinging to his swollen throbbing feet.
Her mother tears drip and wash but cannot clean or clear the overflowing red
as his body drains upon her hands.
Smoothing skin stems the flow, to push life backwards, gently gentle for what life is left is precious still, to her, for him, her son.
A kneeling muddy mess, clotted hair bound by sweat and blood and tears.
Built upon a memory of her boy who became a man, not yet forty years.
A single tear, drops from him, to her.
A million years of love, with the fullness of a billion stars and space and time.
A woman cries to the heavens,
Universe, replace this woman, for this child of mine!
No voice returns the call, for heaven sleeps, while rivers roar
No hand of man or earth or heaven can sooth this daggered heart
Softly, simply the breeze of life licks her hair
Gently, easy, quietly, the soul of son slips the cross.
With crisscross sandals submerged within a muddy messy place.
She closed her eyes, this woman, this mother
And then an angel,
kissed her face.
∞
Read by the author Credits: Poem © Justme; Images © Michaela (churchyard Niedersulz)
Into the golden light
IN A WORLD OF OPPOSITES
In a world of opposites, the water is wet and the rain is cold.
For man’s ignorance means to the mind his heart is sold.
Come with me sweet children of life.
Dance the dance with all your might.
For the day is closing and soon will be the night.
The earth is slowing and you will still lose the fight.
Light your heart upon the stars, ballet dance from Earth to Mars.
Fill your body with the wine of life, leave thy troubles, plagues and strife.
Come and fly in the golden light my child, that fears nor denies the coming night, run wild.
Close your eyes and die in me,
surrender yourself,
let thy wings fall free.
For I shall hold you in my arms, I shall protect from all that harms.
For am I am the blood from whence you came,
I am the player within your game.
∞
© justpoems.org All rights reserved
In the land of Tir na Og
IN THE LAND OF TIR NA OG
Once upon a time in the land of tir na og
Where luscious strawberries beam
and scrumptious apples grow.
Where a dizzy stream does stroll
while lazy, giddy jackdaws crow.
The sun it dripped and painted
heated heather gold.
Rising from its bed
a chorus of a million tongues
With a morning inhale and to fill their welcome lungs
An orchestra from heaven
announced another day
As the flowers exploded in unison,
their own unique bouquet.
Whistling and burrowing,
Jumping and scurrying
Washing and drying,
Singing and crying
Running and crawling,
Whispering and bawling
Ducking and hiding,
Playing and fighting
Swimming and grooming,
Growing and blooming
What an exhaustive, busy, perfect day.
How could you ever want it, any other way?
Tír na nÓg ([tʲiːɾˠ n̪ˠə ˈn̪ˠoːɡ]; Old Irish: Tír inna n-Óc “The Land of the Young”) is the most popular of the Otherworlds in Irish mythology.
@ cmc; All rights reserved
Just Poems 