Joan Small Inspirational Poetry

Treasure Through Time

The cave mouth gapes wide open. My mouth gapes open too.
I step inside all trembly, then the stairs come into view.
Down down into the darkness  - ‘What am I doing here?’
My torch’s beam shines thinly. My hair stands up in fear?

‘There’s treasure in that cave, son.’ The wise old man was gruff.
‘The gold is there for those who seek – but only if you’re tough.
There’s monsters to protect it, and ghostly ghouls, and snakes.
They’ll  fight the man who enters there – the one who comes and takes.’

‘But you’re a boy, not full-grown yet, you have a magic shield.
The glowing light of innocence. Before this all will yield.
You’ll travel back in time my son when you go down that hole.
And in the time of ages past you’ll reach this worthy goal.’

The words he said are echoing as I open wide my eyes,
And down the stairs I carefully creep. What now before me lies?
A rustling in the dark – I shine my torch and see a tail.
The shiny scales slip through a gap, and then I hear the wail.

A mournful song both sad and sweet that echoes in my head.
It draws me forward, when my legs wish for retreat instead.
Around me hang the crystal capes. Formations glowing white
Make sparkling crystal castles. It is a wondrous sight.

And then the wistful moaning fills with whispers all around.
I press on past a glistening pool towards the haunting sound.
While shadows drift on by me, but none will come too near.
I brush a web out of my hair, then words begin to clear.

‘Who enters in our sacred place? What is your mission boy?
What makes you think to steal from us? Our treasure brings no joy.
For all before you who have tried have had a dreadful death.
You’ll know you’re tainted when you feel a darkness on your breath.’

What is that smell, like rotten eggs, that taste upon my tongue?
My breath is short and stressful now – I can’t expand my lung.
And look – my hands – they’re cracked and dry – how did I get so old?
Is this my just reward for thinking I can be so bold.

What time has passed? Where are my mates? My life so dull, but great?
How many minutes – hours have passed – how long since I last ate?
The treasure is not mine. How could I be so dumb – not brave?
To take the dare and trust that man, to enter in this cave.

I have one chance – to run I must – turn back, retreat, get out.
And sucking in my last strong breath I give a hefty shout.
My jelly legs refuse to move, my arms are useless too.
I sink down to the mossy floor all wet with glistening dew.

I lie upon the floor and let me head rest on my arm.
Then hear a noise, a jangling sound. It is my clock alarm.
I jolt awake. The sun is up. It shines into my eyes.
I am no longer in the cave. It’s surely a surprise.

Home in my bed -  that smell is here. The rotten stinking one.
My footy socks tossed on my bed, beside a mouldy bun.
The dog has left a grubby patch where he’s curled on my feet.
While books and clothes are strewn about to make the scene complete.

I shake my head. It’s coming clear. Of course it was a dream.
I wasn’t seeking treasure there beside a cavern stream.
The Wise Man had my father’s face when Dad said, ‘Clean your room.’
I raced downstairs, come running back with bin  and cloths and broom.

In just an hour my room is neat, with sparkling floor – no smell.
I call my Dad – ‘Come look at this. I think you’ll like it well.’
My Dad, impressed, says ‘Son, I’m proud. You’ve shown that you’re not lame.
For your reward, I’ve tickets here to next week’s footy game.’

The moral of this story is that all we have’s today.
There is no time warp that will take us to the far away.
There is no treasure we can steal, but only one we earn.
And I’ll become a happy man if this one thing I learn.

© Joan Small June 2009

Coloured Transparent Transformation

The day dawns gloomy, dark and cold. A wind now chills the air.
The sun has gone to hide its head as if it isn’t there.
Thick coats put on, umbrellas raised, to work go rushing feet,
As droplets fall to wet the world. Cold winter made complete.

Then people draw into themselves, the gloom descends down low.
Too cold to talk, to touch, to smile at people we don’t know.
No time for fun, just work to pay the bills that always come.
No time to keep in touch with friends, ring family or call Mum.

Just work and slog, and slog and work, and now I have a cold.
Is this what life is all about? My face is growing old.
On board the train through window’s mist I see cars moving past.
It’s warm in here, but soon I’ll step out into winter’s blast.

My foggy brain perceives a glow. What are those colours bright?
Has someone lit a sign above to turn the gloom to light?
A coloured bow across the sky as sunbeams peep through clouds.
The people in the street all stop, look up – enlightened crowds.

And as the rainbow lights the town, smiles light each upturned face.
A glint of hope, a sign of life revives this busy place.
The wondrous colours – orange, red, blue, yellow, indigo,
Green, violet – chakras all reflect, and make our bodies glow.

At rainbow’s end the pot of gold, a symbol of the whole.
The God within and God without that makes us all one soul.
We can connect, touch, smile and laugh, for we are one in love.
The rainbow brings to us this truth. A miracle above.

© Joan Small 20/6/10

Irritations

There’s lots of things that niggle. And some things irritate.
Some others get my back up, and put me in a state.
Sometimes I’ll find that people are just getting up my nose.
Their negativity is bad, indeed not smelling like a rose.

I’m climbing walls, frustrated, or biting on my tongue.
For fear I’ll put my foot in it, and friendships will go bung.
For hasty words out-blurted, will hurt another’s pride.
Where nothing good is there  to say, it’s best to stay inside.

Yet hurtful stings unspoken, can cause an inward rot.
Create disease and heartache – those ailments we’ve all got.
Somehow we have to find a way to let it all hang out.
Or else the rot will soon become arthritis, flue or gout.

I beat my head against a wall, in anger stamp my feet.
Or tear my  hair out by the roots, in Irish I  might ‘greet’.
I’m throwing things, or punching at my pillow on the bed.
My face becomes an evil mask, my eyes and cheeks turn red.

What are these weird emotions that overtake my mind?
When truly I am awfully nice, quite loving, sweet and kind.
Ask anyone and they will say – Oh yes, she’s quite a girl,
But do take care, for on her head she has that dreaded curl.

You know the story of the one with curl upon her forehead.
When good, she’s good, but when she’s bad she is extremely horrid.
Just like us all - we’re angels yet, but when the world gets tough
The devil pops up from inside – and things get pretty rough.

Don’t try to be the perfect one, but find a healthy way
To let it out, not bottle up the things you want to say.
A kindly friend, a counselor, someone to show they care.
For all of life is easier if you take time to share.

© Joan Small July 2007