Poetry has often been referred to as the expression of one's soul. In the words of the great Sir Bertrand Russell:

Christina's World Andrew Wyeth art.com

The Question of Worth

Ask me, essence friend,
Why I arrived on Earth;
Born of water;
Now touching the shore;
The mist rises from the moor.
Vibrations lifting to sky
I stand with my question, my alibi.
Wealth; Love; and Beauty;
Sacred Art, Silent Rite;
Freedom is exalted;
Quick wit burning with hard bite.
I will not abandon you
Though I hold my tongue,
Through time
between meetings
Words come undone;
Be still my song;
I am a frozen lake
Cut off from the wind;
What passes below this surface…
We are strangers again.
The price for opening is high;
What you may remember;
Harder to come by.

When there is
Good-standing and success.
Comes an emotion - happiness.
You hold it in your fist,
Tight with jealousy,
And draw closer to the fire
Burning inwardly.
You who do not know love,
Watch the tadpoles
In Autumn’s clear water,
Shimmering unconscious
Sons and daughters.
Know no disappointment.
I am with you.
Relinquish emotion
Watch how she takes you;
Do not dress her with Good Reason
But see her force ahead
Strong, undaunted
Running to your stead…

Sit with your anger
And hold to you
Her precious life.
She will Always Be:
Through summers
Through eons
Through worlds,
With your other parts.
Your separateness
Unfolds like a book.
Close your eyes
And the words are clear.
Anger is a mushroom
Soft and plain
Powerless now,
In your upper hand;
Your final Thought
Closing fingers
Folding day
What could you do
For the Moon
Who lightens your way?

Answer the question
As for yourself;
For your worth
Is mine;
And mine like yours;
Is measured in time;
We feed the earth,
With our blood;
Fighting for the last breath;
Dualing for love.
And I question
the question of worth,
For measuring my life,
What scale should I bring
If I am grateful
To the Earth
Everyone
Everything?


Oh Holy One

Where am I now,
Oh Holy One,
On the Edge of Change?
I listen closely
For your voice
In the silence.
Demons abound,
Drowning me
In my own tears.
I am the night watchman.
In the twilight
I see you bear life away.
Taking a last breath,
And holding the body,
Light and supple
In your cool hands.
How can I be angry with what is;
How can I believe in you
Oh Endless Silence,
When here before me
The undeniable passes
The unstoppable moves ahead…
And there is no one to prevent
Change?
How can I grieve at the
End of what was
Hard work?
The body remains,
A material innocence
Never hurting your ears with its cries,
Never wounding your flesh
With vicious contact.
How impossible to hurt
All-knowing
All-embracing
Endlessly vigilant

Good one!
One could not!
Did you remember,
When I needed you,
To lay down your
Good book
And reach
Through the celestial

Moment,
As I sat at dawn;
To wake me?
Your words were
like
pretty poems.
And I wanted
only you.

Or is it I
Who remember now
How to see you
With eyes
Open,
A vision
Rocketing
Through space
With the ammunition
Of your love
Beside me?


Virtue

O thou celibacy unmoved by impulse,
abstinence flocked by daydreams
and sincerity, who skips ahead of blind
wanting to the smooth grass.
Wish for returning.
Wish for staying.
Wish for freedom.
Wish for adventure.
But the hawk catches my wings.
I fly to the sea…
a swirling blue and green before me.
She calls me to her.

To escape the slavery,
I try to make my body follow my mind,
I try to let my mind follow my body,
I see the tension.
I look for an opening,
Reflections of stars on the surface of the waves,
Release me from this longing.
Release me from my predator.
How can I stay here,
halfway between staying and flying?

Virtue mine –
wayward and wild,
I do not know
the others’ way
or book of commandments.
I try to stay
to see
why you have lead me,
why I follow you,
Here… free.

Countryside Terrace Allayn Stevens art.com

Perhaps Someday We Meet Again

In the windy meadow
the trees whisper a song
moving wild
no words could explain
I cannot hold them
still
I love
to close my eyes
no misunderstanding
feelings pass through
my heart beats
unruly
until I have
unfolded
my hands
and given you
everything
and so
I welcome
you into my
protection...
I shall always
sing to you,
live among you
my
family...


Feeling

Breaking through vines,
running from suffering,
I followed you.
You showed me
Reason.

You are my compass -
guide me to a truer wish.
You are my remembering -
tame my wayward impulse.
You are an artist -
help me to work
with your likeness.
Show me your face,
give me your voice,
spirit
lost in childhood
often I looked for you
when you sat aloof and still.
I want to waken
in your embrace.

The sun moves
across the sky
and I am lost at sea
swimming
through blue depths;
cut by coral reef
to your clear
current of joy.


The Library of His Soul

In the library of his soul
he searches for a story
that might resonate
in his heart.
If he could speak truly;
the blue moon could reflect
in a sea of “others”
but he is alone.
The father stands behind him
who might have loved himself
more in the right way…
In the night he searches
one more hour,
a moment
when others lie gently breathing
amidst blankets of insular dream.
All the experiences of the day
burn like cigarettes on his skin.
He holds the compress of
a story. I would give him a drawing
that he could study like his masters’
hands…
to soothe him like a lullaby
the lines running endlessly
together and then separate,
associations and dreams
now crossing, now running away.
And the lines his eyes might follow
into the Prussian nights,
the blessed sleep.


These poems may not be re-produced without express permission of the author.

Photo Credit:

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Copyright ©2004 Frances Briggs. About The Author