The Threshing Floor

With the monsoon downgraded to a simple squall,
Forgotten for now are the trials heretofore.
The sheaves are being gathered and stacked against the wall,
Admired by the old men down by the threshing floor.

The work it is done by folk stout and thick-skinned,
Replenishing old stocks with abundance in store;
The sunlit chaff swirls in the winnowing wind,
As the precious grain spills all o’er the threshing floor!

The families they share their joys and their fears,
As the children they play ‘neath the old sycamore.
Their numbers decreasing as old friends disappear,
Each year a few less around the threshing floor.

The usurer, ubiquitous as an old gadfly,
Walks his well-trodden path from door to door.
And the reaper he casts a cold, knowing eye,
As the crowd slowly thins about the threshing floor…

But the sheaves they’ll continue to be stacked on the walls,
To be compared by the old folk to the “days of yore”.
And the chaff will continue to swirl and to fall…
Till the last ghost departs the old threshing floor!

these inexplicable
transformations i undergo
befuddle the mind,
but the heart, sipping on patience,
endures every tribulation

Miscellaneous Haiku

demons devouring
their young, jetblack cat slinking
by in the shadows

you’ve saddled your horse
and are getting ready to leave –
how cold my heart

the subtlest haiku –
rising breeze, rippling surface,
morning lake

lost and alone,
a ghost looking for springtime
over withered moors

swallows returning
in spring, giving thanks for
the gift of life

lovers loving love;
a thousand lanterns lighting up
the evening sky

Man’s survival, not only as an individual, but as a species, depends upon his creative faculty. Where there is a will there is a way. We overcome the seemingly impossible through patience, through discovering new, innovative ways of catching what Divine Spirit is imparting to us, even on a moment to moment basis. I’ve had little time to devote to writing, and so offer this piece from “an earlier epoch”, its truth still as relevant as ever. The point being, when we’ve exhausted all avenues, that elusive white horse appears. And if it doesn’t, it may be that we need more patience, for the moment to see that wonderful creature is not yet upon us. Indeed, patience may be the single most important trait we need to develop. That and faith, if not always knowing.

Dream Of White Horses

I’ll go down to the sea where the white horses roam,
I’ll keep my eyes and my ears peeled.
Ill scour the wind, the sand and the foam,
And hope that one may be revealed.

I’ll go down to the sea where the white horses shine.
I’ll bring all I know as my own true wealth.
I’ll dive through the depths of the salty brine,
And pray that one may show itself.

I’ll go down to the sea where the white horses glide,
In the haze of summer and the winter’s rime.
I’ll ride the ebb and the rise of the tide,
And accept that one will appear in time.

I’ll go down to the sea where the white horses neigh,
I’ll ask that my wit and wile collude.
I’ll lay my traps as they sport and play,
And expect that one will be lassoed.

I’ll go down to the sea where the white horses fly,
I’ll forget the prophecy that’s been foretold.
I’ll ‘cross my heart and I’ll hope to die’
And trust that fortune will reward the bold!

Thank you, dear Sudhi.

You might enjot this introspective piece from my friends, Steve and Claes;

Coolangubra; “All in Me, All in You”

Haiku Sequence;

This Road, Well Travelled

low flying geese
disappearing over the horizon;
my fleeing dreams

late at night,
a frenzied dash overhead;
skittish possum

early morning;
the strange guttural cry
of a crow

time erodes all in its path;
this road, well travelled,
rises up yet again

The Human Heart

to the mind, truth is
relative, according to
one’s understanding

truth is easier
for the heart to accept
than it is for the mind

that which impedes the
soul is only a shadow
of a greater truth

truth is one but our
understanding of it varies
from soul to soul

love unties the
shackles of the mind and
frees the wings of soul

self sacrifice
enables God’s love to enter
the human heart

Toše Proeski; “Jano Mori”

From the comments;

“Even today, after his unfortunate death, he opens even the hardest of hearts…”

A rewrite, nay, major overhaul of a poem originally written in April of 2019.

The Spirit of Life

The Spirit of Life is gentle and kind,
And gives of Itself without restraint.
It patiently waits for a welcoming sign,
And loosens the fetters of every constraint.

The Spirit of Life sustains and restores,
Soothing and healing the weary of heart.
It takes each broken dream and explores
Whether it’s time to replace or restart.

The Spirit of Life is powerful and just,
But will not tamper with the wheels of fate;
Till wilfulness gives way to perfect trust,
Soul must create what it wants to create.

The Spirit of Life always gives its assent,
But one day reclaims all things hers or his.
For the drumbeat of time will one day relent,
And Soul must accept Truth as it is.

The Spirit of Life is ancient and wise,
And knows all things at a single glance;
It clears the way and points to the prize,
Offering guidance through each circumstance.

The Spirit of Life ever calls us home,
A thin biting song haunting our dreams;
Its melody will find us wherever we roam,
Both building and laying waste to our schemes.

The Spirit of Life is gentle and kind
And gives of Itself without restraint;
It patiently waits for a welcoming sign…
To loosen the fetters of every constraint.