No man is an island – The Hundredth Monkey

There are times of doubt and hesitation in all our lives, and as many times we are sure of the next choice, there are double the times we choose without a thought, or are driven by some divine wind in a direction we may have only considered, yet found ourselves on that course regardless.
What of the wind and waters, and what of their parallels in our lives. A little research finds that wind is a representation of the mind, and waters the emotions. Therefor as a poet, or a writer should know, whenever those symbols are present in the verse, then the mind is calling, and the feelings are running deep like the tides under a full moon.
Thought, feeling, and emotions are the stuff of our lives, regardless whether we choose to see it or take the time out to understand. Life has a message for each and every one, and it is often shouting at us, with a voice falling on deaf ears, only filled with the question – Why is this always happening to me?
What sense does it make for this writer to answer the question, if it isn’t obvious already there is little I can say to change your mind.
Such is the paradox of the writer, for all that we wish to share, there are only the parallels in nature through which we can communicate in words, with the hope, that like the tide it will lift all boats. Yet some are sieves and some are balsa, so we write, again and again. Metaphor and simile, words painting sunsets in the mind, or dreams of everlasting loves over the horizon, and hope for tomorrow when there is little that can be done, but to wait for it.
These are our dreams, to reach into the heart of the reader, and share our thoughts, our feelings, and emotions, dreaming that a lifetime of learning will conjure a bit of magic somewhere in time.
There is a book called The Hundredth Monkey, and in it is the story of how an isolated group of monkeys learns the secret of washing the sand off a sweet potato it had found and loves to eat. As the knowledge spreads through the group on an isolated island more and more learn the way. Even though some refuse, others learn, and pass the knowledge on. There comes a tipping point -the hundredth monkey- that learns the technique and suddenly monkeys across the water on the mainland know the secret to washing the potato.
I have realized this is the secret, this is the purpose when there seems to be none. For if I am to pass the dream of the writer across the waters to the mainland, it cannot be done alone. Through sharing the words, the poems, the verses and song, the artists, the musicians, the writers, all those who create dreams in others minds, will continue to push the threshold of the hundredth monkey, and one day the last bomb will fall silent, and the last sword will drop from the hands of anger and fear. This is our purpose…

there are waters
and there are dreams
hopes are not forsaken
when the light of day
leaves them in shadows
as each new moon passes
and the sun sets
there in the silence
of the mind
does the moonrise remember
that the tide flows
forever in water
or in blood
and the choices
made today
are the destinies
we are building
for tomorrow

Image: Courtesy of

Memories of love


Where are the hours
constantly moving from view
to erase all the traces
faded the light
of days forgotten
still haunting the ever
green shadows

dusty days rise
as roads unwind behind
to all the ways
we travel
long journeys
from our home
beneath the sky

what comfort would come
settled by our nakedness
sun on skin
wind and open water
the sands of time
pour through the glass
and touch our longing

these are the words
letters enduring
notes echoed in ages
bird songs and blooms
of flowers faded
in the sun
as memories of love

Photo by gfs

The best of me


a feathered dream will oft return
reaching back into life
times of ancient aging elms
and willows weeping in the rain

thoughts unfold as linen yearns
to know the hand that held its lace
once left waiting at the gate
behind a heaven still remained

beyond the moment fading shades
of flowered sunbeam colors curled
where memories still circle seeking
far from home a world to roam

and always turning daylight still
will rise and set again where love
knows the place forever found
as lost horizons fade from view


present tense

backward clock

trees know
they are meant to be
there is a saying
what is is
what was was
and what will be
will be
to be repeated
and believed

do we know time
is past a has been
or a future willed
to be
made real
the present tense
or is what was
never more
and what will be
just a matter
of knowing
we are

Roots and Wings


Storms with thunder roll
across the land
Lives are trees uprooted
by the winds of change
Emotions tolling like bells

Far distant steeples
fall silent in the rain
As the water pools
Running in the streets
Streaming through our lives

Going home again
Faded memories waiting
Behind doors unopened
Through decades only dreams
walked these halls

How can I speak to friend
of the sense and the feelings
How the living and the dead
Reach up in bird songs
under the canopies of green

Stillness echoes from the hills
Honeysuckle blossoms on the breeze
Breakfast baking in the kitchen
Time cannot steal you away
Home lives forever in the heart


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