Listen to poem:
So spake simple Simon
Written: June 6th, 2026, for a contest sponsored by: Unseeking Seeker
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Line of inquiry:
“We look at spirit not at form
Our touch is gentle, kind and warm
We but reflect God’s love and light
‘Tis the path to which we conform”
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Simple Simon said—
“Look at spirit, not at form.”
He spoke with a mellow, hypnotic tone
Yet, my wariness and moon-gazing hinder my tune
Beyond our witty colloquies and eager
ramblers' mantras, there are yellow, ripe suns.
Our beliefs are lost in a limitless maze—
As frail pilgrim prayers hissed, and silence grazed—
into a hurricane of stars.
And still the universe expands.
Simon spoke of light—
"but meant the local light."
The meek solar glow soothes our eyelids at dawn
He never had reckoned with deep-space design,
where stars burst to blindness, and nebulae align.
He holds that maelstrom of xenogenesis spark—
and incandescent conundrums crown in the dark—
the penumbra of creation.
And still, the universe expands.
He said:—
"Touch should be gentle, warm, and kind."
An anchor of warmth for the wandering mind
And yes, true kindness holds grace—
To soothe the cold terrors we face;
Yet even the softest, matrix-molded hands—
can't mollify the physics of expanding lands,
driven by a blind, recalcitrant force.
And still, the universe expands—
He said:
We all mirror a holy, pure light—
But which light, Simon, illuminates night?
The butyraceous flicker of a candle wick glow,
The emerald pulse of chlorophyll waking blue?
Or the eldritch flare as a star falls away—
collapsing from flaws at its heart sway?
We are fleeting bearers of boned, brief breath,
a fragile, small species, drifting toward death.
adrift in a cosmos too cold, too colossal —
to coddle our cinch.
And still the universe expands.
Yet in this massive, harmonious space,
our dust strains to find an intentional place;
We reach for the Supreme Hand past suns ace.
Without the power, who framed the furnace?
of stars, hewn out of roaring race.
Simon, your way is gentle, sweet, and calm,
Spattered from phlegmatic, sapient sway
a veracity, a sign on a display,
If we have faith in the craft master
of the katabatic abyss.
And still, the universe expands.
If the day is not sunny, if clouds turn to rain,
must kindness dissolve into sorrow and pain?
Would weather flicker the heart's lamp?
And greed prowls around us, ruinous and furious
The gentle souls refuse to fracture or fold.
The light in our eyes is no sunlight or shine—
but the heart’s own ember, a spark born divine.
And still, the universe expands.
So easy, Simon, spake—and I replied:
Spirit is pure, but our egos must hide.
Light is certain, but never our own—
We are silvered ghosts on a cosmic side.
If we seek true wisdom, look past the sunrise—
past stars, storms, and vanishing skies—
toward whose breath lit the galaxies' flame.
And still, the universe expands.
Only then does empathy rise past pretense,
and love turns genuine, wide, and immense.
Several single lights are glowing,
but that beacon is a singular,
stardust-laden essence,
feeding the pure soul with radiance.
As human minds grow to hold this design,
the core of truth is finally found—
And still the universe expands.
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