Filled with perfect

By justme 

For once there was a perfect time, filled with perfect, in perfect rhyme.
The laze of man, of thing and things and all the emptiness that human brings
Met with perfect, at the door, dropped it’s bag and cried no more.
Yet human man he soon forgot, built his castle, learned to rot.
Forgot that perfect, held his hand, tolled the roads, ploughed the land.

Then one day when man was old, a moment touched, a silence hold.
Of a perfect day, not noticed then, cared then less, cared not again.
It’s that call that calls him now.
Frets the beads, upon his brow.

…….perfect came and perfect went
A perfect moment, no man has spent
For perfect is as perfect be, perfect touch, as perfect see.
Yes perfect called, this man missed thee
For perfect shouts, so silently.

Perfect kissed with perfect breath
Then perfect looked,
Then perfect,


Read by the author

Credits: poem @ justme; Image: CatrinPhoto; All rights reserved.


You are our breath

It is within the moments of dread, of fear, when everything is too much, when nothing is enough, when everything is wrong because of you, or so it seems. It is in such moments, you cannot see the stars, the sun is hidden and the sounds of silence are no more.
It is in such moments that life shouts out to you, ” my child, you are an instructor of the universe, you are that which makes the rivers roll and the grasses bow, you are our breath, you give us life”

For the stars they are always there, the sun it never leaves, it is you who is the silence, yet even the silence to know itself must check upon the noise, the greater noise, that silence must be understood, that the moon must have its turn, that the stars too must sleep.
Hold your moment and court it well, for as a moment come, so shall it pass and the view upon the alter shall differ upon the lifting of the fog.
Such is your life and so shall be mine.


Credits: writing © justme; Image © CatrinPhoto; All rights reserved

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 night

By Justme 

Once upon a distant sharpened night
When the air was keen and an icy breeze held no fight
A transcendent moon throbbed it’s hazy gleam
As a murmuring trickle, foretold of a gentle hidden stream.

Daisies and dandelions, colours mute, held a colder earthly hug
As a silver glittering trail followed a steady, searching slug.
A hedgehog shuffled and crept slowly and diligently along
As all around the manmade pylons sang and hummed their electric song.

Silent wings threw cloudy flightless shapes
Time stood still for mountains, trees and lakes.
The heavens lights of flashing, silent stars, did hold.
As the Gods looked upon, the greatest story,
a perfect moment, has ever told.

What is gratitude?
Credits: Poem © Justme, Image © Catrinphoto; All rights reserved;