The Optimist

An optimist does not lie to himself
about the true nature of the world,
Picking a good grain from a bad field,
He finds the optimum path
Making the best of whatever is.


Live for…

When we have so much to live by,
Why do we have so little to live for?


One should not expect anything from life, but instead ask:
what does life expect of me?


Poetry is like psychoanalysing yourself,
You don’t always want to share what comes out,
But you can’t write as well if you fake it.


When we touch the profound,
when insight shows us the inner world
laid out as plain as day,
all is at our feet.
But the day after, how to find our way back?
When thoughts steal the place of insight with recorded memory,
skilled yes, we have learned,
but bereft of insight,
which moves ever onward
like a star pointing to the heavens,
we must do what we did before,
to find it again –
and then again,
it will be memory.

Deep Time

Deep time, still time, silent time.
Where the echo of our lives
beats a distant drum,
barely heard now, over the drip, drip,
sigh of wind and steady rhythm of the earth.
Here I’m home and here I’m found.
Never before have I known the joy
of silent mind, enclosing all,
and only here, but it’s ever here,
Where I’m home and where I’m found.

(C) Copyright Mark B Williams 2014 Registered & Protected