Archive for the 'Poetry' Category

Who will teach him?

Sunday, March 2nd, 2008

Who will teach him?

He stood outside in shirt sleeves

At 2 in the morning in the cold and drizzle

Like drunken Geordies often do

Proclaiming his love for her and

Not understanding what he had done

As I guess many young men might find themselves

She had been out with him a few times

But did not really know him

Until he was drunk

He had pushed her in his frustration

So she threw him out and

Called him a taxi

“I love you and just want to talk”

He kept repeating to the front door

But got nowhere

The intense feeling of rejection

Even penetrated his drunkenness

Although he did not experience it as this

He was so convinced he was right

And everyone else was to blame

It was the only way he could escape intact

When challenged, he denied doing anything and mouthed obsenities

At those who were really to blame until

The taxi came and took him away.

Who will teach him to be self responsible

That whether he knows it or likes it or not

Moment by moment it is he who is creating his life?

Who will teach him respect

For the self first and then for others who are

Innocently affected by his righteousness?

Who will teach him that finding inner peace

Is the path of the true man, the real warrior

Living in balance with all his relations?

Who will tell him the story of the two wolves?

Not if but when …

Thursday, December 28th, 2006
Here’s a wonderful poem from a new friend:
‘Not if but when …’
 
Bush ‘n’ Blair say: It’s not if but when there will be a major terrorist attack.
 
The World Health Organisation says: It’s not if but when there will be a global pandemic.
 
The World Bank says: It’s not if but when house prices will fall and the economy will crash.
                           
                             ***
We say: It’s not if but when poverty will be history.
 
We say: It’s not if but when there will be peace of mind.
 
We say: It’s not if but when consciousness will rise.
 
Brian Davis
creative dream company

The Dreaming Canyon

Thursday, October 5th, 2006

The sculpted canyon walls
Hold a memory of the wind and rain
That rushed past on their own important journey.

My memory holds the sculpted patterns
Of life rushing past me on its important journey.

 

And, like the walls,
My patterns would have been very different
Had life edged an inch to the left or right.

 

But my memory designs are not cast in stone
Only the ethereal energy that appears rock solid.

 

I am a gifted shapeshifter,
The gardener of the seeds of truth planted in my reality.

 

In my caring hands, the shoots are sculpted in a beauty way
That allows the life force to flow along the canyons of my choosing.

 

There are many seeds of truth that flow this way and that.
Now they flow a way that feeds my power.

 

Mike Bell, 25th Sept 2006
Plaza Blanca, New Mexico