 There is a silence and a stillness, to this place I love to be.
Where the simplest trickle of the water, brings a sense of peace to me. I've descended the steep hillside, like a little mountain goat. To a secluded cove, dear to me, only accessible by boat. I'm now in rapture, warm and naked, close to my beloved sea. Where the sun and cloud have separated, to leave sky blue, totally free. A breeze comes to caress me, and every follicle of feeling. Where an energy is present, bringing any amount of healing. There's rock pippets here, grasshoppers, emerald green beetles. Cathedrals of stone, jagged edges, very tall dark steeples. There's a majesty in the calmness, in the gentleness and karma. Whatever hour you are present here, each one equivalent to dhama. Kingfishers have been seen here, wooly sheep, and racing pigeon. Bringing messages from afar, great mystery by the legion. Two ravens croak above, black eagles of the divine. My heart begins to soar, my spirit starts to shine. I've written many a word here, letters, poems and true prose. I've had many a thought here, of dreams I do propose. A skinny dip is often called for, a plunge into the cerulean deep. Where silk wraps all around me, sending me off to a dreamy sleep. Kestrels hover on an updraft, eyes focussed on next prey. I'm happy, I'm in clover, on this very special day. Time to reflect and mull things over, bringing insight and pure wisdom. This is the place I call home, where there is true love and more freedom. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2020 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below.
0 Comments
 We cling, to the branch of our birth.
To the only twig, we will ever be known. Through storm, or gale, or merest wisp. Whatever essence of air, has ever been blown. We're stuck, steadfast and rooted. Glued tight, to our parental limb. Eternally joined, by umbilical chord. Or simply attached, at nature's whim. Through every battle, that's ever been encountered. Every war, that has ever been fought. To whatever beauty, our eye has been captured. Creatively imagined, or conceivably thought. We've grown, through the budding of spring lime. And matured, through deep hearted, midsummer green. We've faded, in the waning of the autumn red. Being stripped bare in winter, never again to be seen. But here lies the glory, not only in the living. But in the dying and the deadness too. Where in one final, gusted breath of existence. Stalk is clipped from stem, in two. So then, upon the breeze released. Cartwheels are spun, on currents of time. As we join, with all others deceased. In one spiralling dance, of drift and mime. To where one's final resting place will be. Where tethered boat, does ebb and does flow. Taking the rough with the smooth, in the estuary. Where seagull, pochard and cormorant go. To the clean slate, is where we must eventually fall. Wind gathering us, by the heap and the pile. Adding compost to the new, with the souls of the old. Until the next acorn does drop, resetting the dial. By Simon Blackler Copyright © Simon Blackler 2018 If you care to comment on this poem at all please feel free to do so below. |
AuthorSimon Blackler Archives
October 2021
Categories
All
|
RSS Feed