Spirits of Flower

Consider the rose
sweet, soft on eye and nose,
but with thorns harsh of hand;
Now consider the lotus,
pretty, but found only
in harshest of water;
Both function,
with good and bad,
which is best?

Now that woman looks comfortable
motherly
calm, reassuring
- and so she sounds
and the listener
is comforted and calmed.

Consider that woman
she looks comfortable
motherly
calm, reassuring
- but sounds
harsh, crude, confronting,
and the listener
cringes, and is confused.

And now those men:
one hard faced, tough and crude
in look and spirit,
and the listener
cringes and cries,
but does not think to be confused;
the other,
hard faced, tough and crude in look,
but gentle and caring of spirit,
the listener
is reassured and strengthened
- and confused;

But then the listener
looks within
and sees
woman,
both comfortable, motherly and comfortable,
and hard faced, tough and crude,
and man,
both gentle and caring of spirit,
and hard faced, tough and crude,
and others,
some both male and female,
some neither;
none afraid,
all free of rule and restraint;
all function,
all with good and bad;
which is best?

And now, consider
that woman
who looks so hard faced, tough and crude,
but sounds
motherly
calm, reassuring;
the listener
is comforted and calmed,
and not now confused.

And that woman
she looks hard faced, tough and crude,
and so she sounds;
the listener,
listens to other voices within,
and is unperturbed,
and not confused.

And that man,
who looks so soft and gentle
and sounds so soft and gentle,
the listener
is reassured and strengthened,
and not confused.

Now that man
he looks soft and gentle;
but sounds,
harsh, crude, confronting
the listener,
listens to other voices within,
and is unperturbed,
and not confused.

Consider the rose
sweet, soft on eye and nose,
but with thorns harsh of hand;
And the lotus,
pretty, but found only
in harshest of water;
Both function,
both have good and bad;
which is right, and which
is wrong?

© Kayleen White, 2008

A New Start (Ode to Brian)

A small, desperate band
- no-hopers, the arrogant
would dismiss them by,
slackers – liars who
did not deliver
their hopeful promises.

A small, desperate band
- from within their number,
the crushing pace, the over
whelming load, the
small, desperate struggles,
were all clear,
- the brave attempts
to meet others’ deadlines,
to do the impossible
with impossibly small numbers,
impossibly few skills.

A small, desperate band
- their leader oft gone
answering the call
of other leaders,
- and,
the demand
to do as a worker
and then, only then,
to lead.

A small, desperate band
- led in absentia,
surrounded by snarling
wolves, eyes glowering,
growling,
in the gathering gloom.

A small ,desperate band
- graced now with
a glimmer, a tiny glow,
of hope:
a new leader, a new start.

A small, desperate band,
warmed by human touch,
- heartened
by leader who faced
the slavering wolves
and guided a path through
dangers seen and not,
speaking soft promises
of help, not hindrance.

A small, less desperate band,
looking to new, gallant
leader,
flexing aching psyches,
stretching stressed personas,
daring to hope.

A small band
with great and talented
leader,
a leader so great
other leaders see him,
and grasp at his gifts.

A small, disappointed band,
once leader now grafted away,
leaving them to the wolves,
slavering and snarling,
circling closer,
planning new demands, new deadlines,
casting aspersions
of not being competitive,
not serving the
Great God
economic competition.

A small, desperate band
- no-hopers, the arrogant
would dismiss them by,
slackers – liars who
did not deliver
their hopeful promises.

© Kayleen White, 2008

I know not why

I see a rose
I smell it, lightly tingeing the air
Sweet and refreshing.

I touch the rose
Soft petals, firm in their way
But rimmed with thorns.

I hear others
Calling and cursing
They tried to caress the rose
and found the thorns
- I know not why.

I smell a carnation
And see this favourite
All colours and texture
Thorn free allure
Passed over by others
- I know not why.

Many flowers
Many scents, colours, textures
All unique
Some rimmed with rules
Some not.

I see and smell and caress the flowers
and leave the thorns
to those who,
I know not why,
wish them.

© Kayleen White, 2008

Life (a poem)

Our life's a web
a web we weave
as we dance our life.

Our dances are our own
some set to music
some to films or written words
most to love and ideas
- a few, even to ideals.

Our webs are all unique
some love one
some more, one after the other
or a few at once
and others are alone.

Our webs are all special
they all glisten and dance
in the winds of life.

(c) Kayleen White, 2008

Our field (poem)

I knew how to plant a field,
so I did, for another,
on the promise of a share
and something to barter for now,
something to feed me and mine
keep body and soul together
and clothe and shelter us.

And the other was pleased
- happy at all our field grew,
so he gave me a little more,
another field,
and some dirt to add,
and promised a share
- lesser, but more to barter now.

And I toiled in the other's fields
plied my craft for their gain
- and my family and I,
for didn't we have more to barter now,
while we waited for our share?

And the other was pleased
- happy at all our fields grew,
so he gave me a little more,
more fields,
more piles of dirt and fertiliser
- manure, some called it,
to mix and add,
for lesser share - but
more
to barter now.

And I toiled and toiled,
and thought of my family,
and all they could barter
- and looked at the mountains of dirt
one called overtime,
another called paperwork,
yet another called loyalty,
and from my closed in plot of earth,
I looked at the sky shrinking away,
and called my field,
the place I plied my craft,
my grave.

© Kayleen White, 2008

A dance (poem)

Twist and sway and work
Arms and legs and body
Glide past that peak
Savour this rhythm
Exult!
As we go
Round and through
and maybe over or under
and I allow myself
to be overwhelmed
As I dance the dance
of the sea.

Use arms and legs and body
To guide this craft
This thing of beauty craft and wit
Through tossing mounds
Of dancing water
Water all moving
To and fro
Lift up there
Dip down here
We court and flirt
Each with the other
We three - no, we four.

Exult in body and mind and soul
As Goddess the Wind
Strokes wave and boat and I
Caressing here
Brusque and dismissing there
Laughing at tumult
As wave or boat or I trip or fall;
This
This is glorious nature
A matter to be lived with
A dance to be loved
- but not mastered;
Never mastered.

© Kayleen White, 2008

Death's new door (poem)

Sorry: the formatting has been bloody lost when I added the Content Warning - on several posts, and I don't have the time to fix them all so I won't fix any.  

I wrote this late one night while taking a break from the vigil from my mother's bedside (we shared this duty, so all could have a break from time to time, or tend to our daily duties). It was sribbled on some paper towel, which I've been worried about losing ever since ... I thought I knew death The sharp, sudden of accident the noisome grasp of illness the gentle fade of great age even the violent brute of war, or cime through lives gone past through intimate sharing of medium's tasks through touches from others lives and deaths I thought I knew death but this this death I knew not. Mayhap the nigh unimaginable disbelief of the condemned as their hour approaches comes closest - but they they go in good health. They know not the gargling breath the pause the long, long pause when watchers hold their breath and will to breathe then the twitch the unnerving twitch and one more gurgling almost strangled breath This door they nor I knew not. But no, I do know this door now For I am witness to it I, and my fellow watchers Sitting, conversing sharing the task of holding our dear one's hand this death we share, as witnesses. Share in awkwardness do we talk and make this place light in celebration of life? Or mope show sombre respect. This etiquette we know not. But know we do Our one shared love Our common respect For this dear one Who touched us in so many ways This love We know through even death. © Kayleen White, 2008

My stupid, stupid heart (poem)

Carrying on the theme from my last poem ...

My stupid, stupid heart
Haven't you learnt by now?

Half a century of pain and battering and scars
and still you turn me into a teenager?

You won't listen to logic
- she's too young
- you WORK with her, for God's sake
- you already love another
What's wrong with you?

Logic.
YOU won't listen to logic?
Who's logic?
Mine?
Yours?
Theirs?

Mayhap that's the truth of it
- the logic's their's
- they're the one's who say
who and when and how you can love
they,
with their stupid, stupid rules
that love must fit
before it's permitted.

They,
with their scarred, scared minds,
clinging to the comfortably small,
They're the ones who do the biggest scars of all
on MY intemperate heart.

She's not a logical choice;
I have fights to fight before we can be
(if she'll have me - we've not even talked on this
and she goes away soon);
But the fight of the rules of the small
Is one fight I can do without.

My poor, poor heart,
Keep falling in love for ever!

© Kayleen White, 2008