A GLIMPSE OF
ETERNITY
This peace fulfilled,
as an oasis of rapture
within the solace
that thrills,
as a bird free, that
glides upon the winds,
warbling its notes
that ripple velvet whirls,
while he sings –
so rests the recess
of the heart, remaining still,
as a glass lake,
calm, as the ancient
hills, loathed to awake
and alert the mind
to a voice that stirs without,
demanding jibes for
bread,
plagued by anguish
without a love to own,
as near or close
about.
Paradise in this, as
a nirvana where a mentor speaks,
rolling letters, as
waves that hurl
or the winds that
blow upon the heath.
Though time floats,
as precious,
within the mayhem of
souls’ lives,
goading to work,
earn more gold
to thrive upon each quest,
to survive –
yet strange it be,
to clearly see the span of years
all, as one,
the past present and
future,
as you await each
day for the morrow sun,
enveloping all, yet
to ascertain for sure
the present moment
to esteem, to enfold,
like nectar’s honey oozing,
pure
within the tranquil
– laden, sanctuary,
be it remote or obscure.
Heaven calling
within this realm,
as hours toll, the
church clock affirms,
the onset of eve and
the coming sunrise lost, by this spell.
Traversing dreams to
feel and believe,
in the wonder of
beauty’s care,
in the heart alone,
in each natural scene.
Lest the rains will
chase away
those pages of words
that remain,
uphold this gift,
yielding joy, that rings,
the mind that senses
all, in every little thing.
Turn away no more,
to read
the romance verse, where the imagination leads
to a place, as those
azure skies,
to eternal live, to never die.
A GLIMPSE OF LIBERTY
Alone, as the soul
floats blind,
like the wild, river
to the sea,
so stays the bliss,
to indulge, amidst this sweet cradle of
peace,
as the gentle dove
rests to dream of this,
that frees the heart
and mind,
when the world seems
to dissipate, crumble,
like a shattered
mosaic,
content at last, to
remain lost and bewildered,
by all observed and
seen.
To long no more for life,
save amidst this lost mind,
where the senses
remain intact, amidst this euphoria,
though asleep to the
furore, beyond, in the city streets,
where all will cry,
will need.
Bliss to be thus,
where ecstasy swells and sings,
ambling wild and alone,
amidst myriad imaginings,
with the heartbeat’s
thrill,
treading light – foot,
through golden fields,
sensing paradise, so
near, espying, the magnet sun,
hear the blackbird calling,
upon the winds.
Can love swell elsewhere,
when it rests and remains, thus
within this glorious
midst,
where life eternal,
pulsates its beats,
brushing sweeps of
the wild green,
the willowy leaf, the ribbon – like, weaving grasses,
that bend and sway,
upon the breeze?
Trailing loose, as a
soul that wanders alone,
upon this winding
road,
elated to embrace
the dawn at morn,
the song thrush chirping,
its velvet tones,
that resound, amidst
the sunny blue.
Joy thus, blazes its
colours and hues,
like the heart’s
healing inner, voice of light,
to endless stay, as
a tiny wren -
frail and captive -
to this distant call,
to this final grasp
of what one knows,
yet loathe, too
this recurring,
pounding sound, this wave of might,
descending instead,
at last, into a welcome peace,
at the bliss of
night,
where at last, the
mind stills, gazing at rest,
at the reflection,
of the world
amidst this calm,
still mirror pool of the soul.
Hungry no more, for
nought,
but the place of death,
of woe,
where the heart is released,
from all that ensnares,
chasing butterflies free,
upon the air
carefree, as the winds that blow.
A LONELY
WOMAN
The
scars hurt: walking steadily into the night,
would to
be a night of delight.
Alas,
the wandering snake within
writhes,
hedging upon deaf ears, in the din.
To feel
a beat, a whisper of hope
when the
tired body seems barely afloat.
Crisis crumbling,
like old buildings in the blitz
recall
to memory a mother’s pain
dimly hearing,
sweet birds again.
To die
in a dream of bravery
though
anchored in a body of slavery -
leave
well alone, silence invites,
a
kingdom of peace still, in the light.
Live, as
senses will be dumb
though
clamour of the city
thrives
on feelings won.
Drift – bliss,
like the wave:
sleeping
baby, brave –
as the
tides will wash away
the
longing for light, at the end of day,
yet your
iron will only remits, as the falling rain
to hear
the lonely voice or some savage wit, once again.
Wanting
someone to forgive,
as you
taste the fruits in richness to live
yet
knowing all will fail, as the ashes turn to dust,
each man
of truth or beauty thrust -
while sensing
those scars upon your heart
outcast,
from a world that starts
with
power thronging, like booms of noise
crushing,
the flower of your voice.
So alone,
yet still at peace
within
the idyll of your dreams,
as you
hear each wave, the call of sea
to know of home, by those lonely trees.
ABIDING CLOSE TO THE
HEALTHY GREEN
So hushed and still rests,
the cool evening of night,
that seems to
lullaby the soul, thrilling,
with such an acute,
perceptive sense, of natural life -
bringing this tranquility,
into a soothing balm,
while the tawny,
owls hoot, from afar,
as if in adulation,
of this hushed, silent dream
under the stars.
Can the heart need
no more?
Only, suffice to be,
to hear, see, no more,
the mundane coarseness,
gabbling,
in the city’s dirty
streets
but only, for what,
in the end,
does not satiate,
the lost, wild spirit,
nor fulfil, each
searching heart,
for love, for a
little, peace.
Deceptive therefore,
remains the life,
to but, only esteem,
with each holler, each cry,
but the aspirations,
of wealth or luxury,
while though you be
entranced,
only, to seek out,
each song of the blackbird,
the mellifluous
sound of those clear waters, that flow
filling up, the
sense
replenishing the spirit,
as to remain, lost and bewildered,
by such merry elation,
of folks’ steady, cash flow.
Call me a fool, to
indulge, in escapist fantasy,
aware, all the while,
of such, that thwarts each life,
be it, through loss
of love,
the greed and hoard
of monies, more
though you be ousted
out,
as the nerve jars,
over such resounding, paraphernalia
upon by what, or
whom, such, is gained.
Let me linger, for
many hours and years, to come,
treading light – foot,
in the silvery snow
amidst the cold and still,
so joyous,
to dance in the sun,
that, at the dawn of spring,
will heat much, that
parades and boasts its colours,
when Apollo’s gift,
comes.
In love, eternal,
with the eye and ear,
rejoicing always,
with this old, reminiscence,
of the first music,
that intoxicates, the sense,
from the very beginning,
of the vibrant green,
coating the lands
and spruce,
of each living, home
of trees.
Aware endless, of
this, so old and ancient,
that ripples waves,
of velvet tones,
steeped in each valour,
to join in, the hunt
to praise these
feathered ones,
the greatest ones,
who orchestrate, the very skies
the true reminders,
of one’s own mortality,
when death strikes,
its fatal blow –
mourners, side by
side, at each grave, shed tears,
as the little,
winter robin, upon the cold headstone,
sings with each
refrain -
its plaintive notes,
to those far distant, skies,
as if carrying, with
each song,
each whim, fret or
strife
towards the sun and moon,
to the stars, at night
perennially, upon
this eternal wheel,
this eulogy, to
comfort and bless, alone,
amidst this wilderness,
of the ancient green,
the unfathomable seas,
the sun and moonbeams,
of our one and only, home.
AGELESS SANCTUARY OF
A SOUL
Furore raving waves
of sound,
of voice and music
beats,
that sweeps its
pulse and blare, harps and snaps,
with all souls engaged,
within the bane of work trades,
to plod with grit,
as slaves.
But what of this?
To leave only, but
monies load,
this irksome harangue,
to dwell, twixt one another?
So remains the populace,
in need for love, or surface gain,
Perhaps, to feed the
flesh, on fire, each night
and fulfil each lustful,
appetite?
Yet soulless, does
each sense receive this, to be,
as the notorious,
epitome of class -
observing, alone -
this frail demise of
one, gazing lost, to all
seeming, but
fruitless, filling not, this inner well, within
where the clear waters
flow -
finding no rapport,
with minds that dwell, not
where this harmony
of peace,
as the blackbird
that swells with song,
at the early hours,
of each summer’s morn.
Regarding little,
with such enterprise,
that tarries not,
with such, as these
within an abode,
where a heart of bliss resides,
amidst the hushed realm,
in awe of each word,
that inspires, that
expounds from the head,
like the boom and rush,
of those cascading falls.
This endears light
and serene, amidst the imaginings,
like the floating,
feather that softly, falls
silent and wisp –
like,
as the cool, brush
of fragrant winds,
that carouse the heart,
once more, to live
amidst this solace,
where erupts, each prosaic dream.
No man, nor life,
could bind with this closeness,
to much, that
lingers and wavers, as upon the very brink,
yet recalls still,
this overspill, of much that is wondrous,
with each faint,
distant nuance of sound,
that receives such,
that is fair, so much of beauty
only, to merge and
flow,
into an endless call
of timeless verse,
held silent, with
one, who thirsts,
for what only belongs,
with the ethereal realms,
where solitude plays
out, this parade and dance,
of what exists, in
its essence,
but pure love of the
heart and mind,
amidst this solace resting,
within.
Hearing not, this
brawl and swagger, to labour hard,
but submitting only,
to this fertile
landscape of the inner world,
where butterflies
will flit, upon each rose briar
and larks herald
each morning’s dawn.
So, drifts the nomad
soul, that skips and whirls,
alighting upon every
beauty word,
at last, threading
ribbons of light,
by what is thrilled
to ignite, but each sense,
through what one
writes -
the eye to espy, the
listening ear
in awe, of this
streaming flow,
the eternal song,
that carries all, that resounds,
with but joy and
peace,
to the very frontiers,
of the fathomless, sea.
So, in this way, the
mind will release,
these sweet songs,
of silent words,
ageless, as the
stars born, yet only, to die,
gazing alone, to
sense far, beyond
and so, to feel each
joy, each woe,
upon this ever spinning, cosmic wheel.
Maria Downs - Has been playing the piano for fifty years. She a has painted over 150 artworks, of garden scenes, moorlands and seascapes for fourteen years and has been writing poetry, concerning Nature’s realms, the universe and the soul, for forty years, writing over 2200, verses.
Maria has lived in Lyon, France, studying French and in Florence, Italy, studying the history of art, musical drama, history of Greek theatre, aesthetics, Italian language and classical music with emphasis on the composers, Robert Schumann and Debussy.
She reads excessively and now, mainly loves writing her verses, reading biographies about interesting gifted people, playing upbeat pop music, easy listening, and Motown, Rhythm and blues and Soul music on her piano. She loves to read, a genuine “good book”.
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