delicate… balance

incomprehensible complexity

in every grain of sand

every subtle breath of wind

through every fleeting, lucid moment.


It’s DIRT-y


TreaD it DOWN.

Pierce it, Flag it

Mark it as Owned-



balance upturned

scales of justice



for the blood lost

for the innocent

for the pure





will see

the balance



Precious jewel in the sky

our earth turns

in time



and then

They are gone.



a miracle sigh



Reflect back

my actions


Love or Malice

Mend or Break

my faulty heart

Spanner thrown in

Not a design fault

I reflect my



Like a clone.

I am human

I carry the name

I carry the shame


I am forgiven.


(Inspired by OM’s poem at

I can’t help being human.  Along with mulling over OM’s poem on humanity, I also read something on ‘becoming’ (by a blogger I am thankful for and cannot remember the name of!) and started to think about the power of stating ‘I am.’  Then I related it to what I know of prayer.  It related to believing that we will receive what we ask for in prayer.  I pray to become filled with love, in Jesus’ name.  His life is worth *all* of ours, so he paid our death penalty, if we believe that he did.  The statement ‘I am’ is not a whimsical affirmation. ‘I am forgiven’ becomes true because I believe I AM.  I believe I have already received, so my prayer to ‘become’ filled with love, is actually “I AM filled with love.”  Amen is ‘so be it,’ signing it off as a done deal.  It is already done.

The proviso to ‘I am forgiven’ is ‘as I forgive others who wrong me.’  And the next proviso is ‘if they come to me and say they repent.’

My heart is pure if I am Ready to forgive.  It is clouded over with anger if I am Not.

I am filled with love.

I am One with Love.

I Am Love.

Anyway – that is what brewed in my mind overnight while I slept, and this poem ‘Reflect’ distilled this morning when I woke.  A poem is a man of few words.  And he is a massive man of thought.

Defending home and family

Thieves line the streets

and eye up my home

breaking it


spilling out

the treasure






in the house next door





My neighbour



A gentle soul

Bars her windows

and walks her hallways at night

Armed with a large axe.


Peaceful am I

yet today

I take sharp saw

and sever the limbs

of our feijoa tree

as a warrior

inflicting a blow

against the enemy


Frenzied sweaty minutes


Deep entrenchment

filled with deadly spears

Awaits with weapons

held ready


The nurturing fruit tree

defends our home.


Next year brings little fruit

as the scars heal.


This poem grew from thoughts of how instinct takes over, when a parent comes face-to-face with the threat of harm to her children.   I patrolled my perimeter, and kept the night watch.  I ran to shoot the intruding gang, storming up and along a stone wall to confront them.  With a camera.  I don’t own a gun.

Certain circumstances draw out my fighting spirit.  And war-cry.  “Clear Off!!”

I felt regret at my lethal spikes when I saw these were children.  A bunch of bedraggled kids with no-one there to care.

Shocked children’s faces staring in blank incomprehension from their thick skewers, lined the perimeter of my imagination.  And the next day I spent the massive effort of untangling my trench and laying my weapons flat.  Next winter they warmed my home with flickering fire in the hearth.  My babies and I slept in the lounge.  With no curtains to hide us from our neighbour on night prowl with her axe.

We don’t live there no more.

The adult minds behind the repeated burglaries sent children as stool pigeons to do their dirty work.

Pretty well this is the way I view war.  Bloodied fragments of children everywhere.

If I were to kill a marauding man-eating dragon, would I send destruction upon him while he is holding eleventy-million children hostage as a twisted-sickening ‘armour’ around his scaly body?  The screams of those children receiving the force of my wrath would torture my mind and my soul.  While the dragon grins and wraps another cloak of blood around his stinking body.

His time will come.  And it is almost here.

On anger…







or not.

Blazing out

of control

starting a forest fire

Or smothered

beneath spadefuls of earth

tendrils of smoke

drifting higher

Evil thoughts mix in to make a chemical concoction which spells danger and the fire is not put out, it is wild and uncontained and the town explodes with the furnace of fury unleashed and the scorched remains do not satisfy because it does not quench the thirst for conflagration.  Revenge.  And all wicked desires

rolled into a flaming snowball which grows with each revolution, the wind fallumphing it into exorcisms of ferocious rage.  and Discontent it cannonballs through the desolation to the next object of directed destruction.

Before fizzling

A mere powdering of carbon, left as a footprint on the doorstop.

As you wipe your feet

and your eyes plead to come in.


and with diminished demeanour

and I wait

for the sound



picked up


where we were before.


{Editor’s note: I woke up with the word ‘paroxysms’ glowing in my mind.  And shuffled in with a yawn to edit the ‘exorcisms’ out of its place in my poem.  Then after much thought and extra googling, decided it would be cliche to have paroxysms of rage, and that anger does sometimes seek to ‘expel the evil’ from the target of its wrath.  Such as in a case of revenge.}

Paroxysm was perhaps an answer to the cliche ‘fit of rage.’

Other options could include: Seized with rage. An attack of rage. Sudden violent rage.  A fury of rage.  Whirlwind of rage.  Tumultuous tornado of wrath.  Demolition ball of destructive distemper.  Towering inferno of irascibility.  Bellicose belligerence.


King of Happiness, the True Knight

This one is for Opinionated Man in reply to his poem of knights and dragons… (

King of Happiness
Desires Fruition

Lords over the world

Astride mountains of gold
He murderously stole
From the True Knight’s Master

The world bows down
Offers flesh and crown
for coveted dragon delights

The jaws of a trap
In wicked grin
snap shut
as another falls in.

Many Bold Knights
don armour to fight
as if the gold were their own

Cold green eyes
burn hate and rage
as True Knight falls away

Leaving cold-hearted glory
and Fortuitous story
and a dragon he battled today

His Master knows
The Life Span
of a Dragon

How quickly he is slain
and eaten by fiery flame

No revenge remains
The King has seen his Justice.


Your MaJesty, the jester’s tears will be tears of joy.

Adding the audio of The Jester Cries…  (Copyright The Opinionated Man, all rights reserved.)

Kiwi flavoured comedy shared… Not a racist joke…

Not sure where else to put this, so I choose to drop the link here for those who want their ears tickled.  I had a bit of a laugh while hunting for Kiwi songs to add to my collection at Grooveshark.

I guess the timing was right after recently reading serious posts on racism…

Albie the Racist Dragon

I felt very worried about the burnt little Albanian boy, until the final jellybean fell…

More kiwi songs, and comedy, and some assorted others at  Be my guest 🙂


Power of Life and Infinity

Beyond grasp

and limit

Not ours to control


(No manhandling, manipulation, putting into place

No molding to convention, religion, politics or race

Impervious to puny rants and rage)


Those tiny men of Lilliput, tie down Joe Bloggs with strings and tape


The morning sun flares

Sudden brilliance

Exposes them to public shame


A single gust of breath

blows them all away.


I look up

into the sky today…

Is there Racism in Tolerance?

I like controversial topics especially when well-managed.  This is my first reblog, and I invite you all to add your views to Opinionated Man’s post at HarsH ReaLiTy.