Long Mindedly Poems
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Advent is the first celebration of the Christian church,
Its first calendar event, not in December but in November,
On the last Sunday of November, and is normally, usually,
The first festival/celebration of the church year, remember.
Shops sell advent calendars to excite us into Christmas,
Where you can open small, numbered flaps to reveal,
A Christmas sentiment, thought or event as an icon,
Which lets you broad-mindedly appreciate xmas for real.
The four Sundays of Advent mark four different things:
The first destroys the myth Jesus was a total surprise,
Because it finds ancient predictions in Isaiah and Micah,
As the media were the prophets then, with wide open eyes.
The second Sunday lights a purple candle for hope,
Hope for societal revolution of the poor’s healthcare;
And also secondarily, hope in god who would ramify,
This plight so difficult in Jesus’ time, now a familiarity.
The third emphasises that you will find joy, pleasure,
If you believe that Jesus’ message was valid and required,
At that time in which the rich monopolised medicine,
Such that that his followers had to persevere as inspired.
And the fourth Sunday celebrates the Christian church,
Coining a word, incarnation, for the belief in Jesus as god,
For believing that god’s finger touched the baby’s skin,
Validating that parental obedience, that poverty of the kin.
And Advent candles suggest that truth was secured then,
By Jesus death which stated the worth of liberating,
Disabled and ill people into health and happiness,
Because this societal light shines multiply as pervading.
While waiting but not watching for the sun to set, perhaps the bullfrogs are creating the shadows with their croaks, my friend screams out because he has been bitten by a fly. He is not quiet enough so the flies obtain special pleasure from teasing him. Meanwhile bluebirds skirt the lake surface like the most perfectly designed fighter planes in twos or threes and argue rising up on their tails into the air. While insects prey upon and tease the bare flesh and blood of we humans, they fear the silent violence, the sudden huge presences of these family birds.
A larva with a leaf tip for a cocoon descends a white birch by a long thread. We free ourselves from our writings to observe phenomenon. Then thinking about dinner. The flight of J. Krishnamurti, the eagle guru says even artists (after physicists and mathematicians) may penetrate the unknown if not too absorbed in their own emotions and imaginations. We common people too who loving our wives can love everyone.
What eyesight the bluebirds have to swoop the lake from shore for a flying insect or descend from fifty feet on a thin straw grass and return to chew absent-mindedly! Just fun having song sung among men. As for the syntax, a daisy could swing it unthinking and coast. Along the beehive rocks ants crawl on connecting interlacing instructions. All around us and inside too as if stars were unseen but present it's true. So a man desires breakfast with his lady; could it be more amusing, material or smell?
As the eyesun descends below spun clouds, spirit or the eagle or the drum? Round. The dialectic obscure couldn't be more better said. So round and serious. To love everyone with clearer vision than a bluebird or a lake is to transcend the innocence of insect and take flight action and feed the babies of fate. Phew! Dinner outside the cocoon. I brought myself a student upon the hill or mountain and said to myself I said Obo rebop in summer sweater and what less overweight can carry test uphill so slow? Presently, reformed, informed by the bluebird's eagle spirit, clear cleanhead, I return coagulating mightily ideas the bites of insects ow! to breakfast home and everywhere unknown. Hearing bird with clear conscience echo make.
To My Beloved Daughters (for when I’m gone)
It happened. Please, don’t shed too many tears,
(I know, you won’t listen, fine!)
A few, all right! But followed by loud cheers
To celebrate mom’s amazing path in time,
Glorified by her and in her own rhyme!
Last letter of undying love and advice -
Live open heartedly, mindedly and wise.
Worries tuck away by dusk, sleep long and tight -
Morning vision is much sharper than at night.
Eat smart, not more, thus spare yourselves from diet,
Draw the line between enough and the last bite.
Smile more, frown less, laugh often and out loud,
Good, old chuckle scatters away the darkest cloud.
Live in a present moment, yet consider
Your heart, lungs, kidneys, cervix, guts and liver.
Recklessly indulge, and one of those will fail
Commodity of vital worth – not on sale!
When your own precious kids grow up to know,
Please tell them that their grandma loves them so!
With each kiss and hug you grant them with a glee
Add some and more tender extras just from me.
Not quite sure, from below or from above,
But no doubt I’m watching over you with Love.
I’m aware that all mothers sound trite
Not always funny, but almost always right!
Love. Mom.
November 22, 2020
Purusha, the consciousness, and prakriti, the matter,
Like glass vessels in the basket of existence clatter;
Beyond corporal, cerebral, and emotional realms,
To Spiritual reality the consciousness whelms...!
Like a migratory bird, having its mission fulfilled,
The soul flies to its homeland exhilarated and thrilled;
Exploring silent salient lands of known and unknown,
Reaches the zone and milestone of peace and joy sown and grown...!
Like a flower and plant and tree encounters the seasons,
Of summer, monsoon, spring, winter, and autumn with reasons;
So too the spirit, mind, and soul passes all fine phases,
Like a horse single-mindedly towards its goal races...!
The lithosphere, hydrosphere, biosphere, and atmosphere,
The exosphere, geosphere, hemisphere, and hydrosphere;
Across each realm, the creature reaches with no resistance,
Attains pilgrimage of perfection and pure existence...!!!
07 May 2023
Pick-A-Title, Vol 36 - Poetry Contest
Sponsored by: Edward Ibeh
Rhymes Checked At: Rhyme Zone
Syllables Checked At: How Many Syllables
It was the way he stuffed his hand down the front pocket
Of his blue slacks
As if he was standing in a movie lobby
Waiting for friends
Nonchalant
Wanting to watch you watch him with an unbreakable stare
And almost a grin
His chin
Jutted out like Trump’s
To a shocked yet thrilled crowd
That holds its breath and thinks
You don’t really have that kind of power
Do you?
Chin way out
Maybe he’s counting loose change
Down there
By the circling of his fingertips
Or weaving his pinky through a keychain
Maybe it was a judge in his pocket
Or protection by police unions, Rupert Murdoch the Koch Brothers
Those darkest angels of all
Or the lowest call of all for Law and Order
That was the comfort he sought and found
Whatever it was he felt no need to hide his deed
His freedom
To take his time suffocating another black man
Beneath his knee
Breaking the man’s wind pipe by crunches and inches
Like ten minutes to him was but a last day of vacation
Wishing he could make it last so much longer
Though he’s still not satisfied
Wants to finish the job right
Wants to observe us all doing nothing about it
For a very long time
More chin more grin
Wants to tail this damn troublemaker
All the way to the pearly gates of the county border
With that hand absent-mindedly
Poking around
Fooling around
Killing time
Deep down there
Searching for the bottom
Of his pocket
Bored
With doing his duty.
That only sun, only moon, only star each one quests for
That beacon that burns on eternally in each one's core
Isn't it love—that's kind, warm, gentle, selfless, and endless?
Isn't life without it, like a fine flower that's scentless?
Going beyond mundane attraction and affection heights
It's love that rises from a heart that kindles lacs of lights.
Delight of devotion, desire, and dream for the divine
It shines, like lamps of Deepawali, within each one's shrine.
Through, with, and in its light, each one single-mindedly walks
Each one breaks all blocks that hurdle the trails like boulder rocks.
Doesn't one face the futile amusement of absurd death?
Breath merged with the divine breeze—doesn't one attain rebirth?
Light is kin to vapor,
to certain fogs,
and the effervescence of ideas,
yet Edward Hopper’s summer light,
when it comes late in the afternoon,
is solid, opaque,
the color of soft butter,
heavy with heat and remorse,
raking low through the window,
its yellow rectangle
falling across the floor.
The woman is nude,
standing still,
alone in that block of light,
the shadows of her legs
subtracting thick black lines
behind her, pointing toward the door
not seen through which her lover
departed only a moment ago.
See how the bedcover is rolled down,
the sheets wrinkled,
the after-cigarette
casually held in her right hand
while she stares absent-mindedly
at the floor as smokers will do between drags,
lost in thought and recollection
and questions of how did it come to this?
Her angular naked body,
no doubt soft and yielding
while in the throes,
has become a rough impasto,
perhaps Hopper’s way
of portraying her authentic self.
Oddly, her left breast
appears to be an afterthought,
forcing her shoulders toward me,
while her hips and eyes
face the window.
Can the human body rotate this way,
clockwise and anticlockwise and clockwise
simultaneously,
requiring the oddest skeletal geometry?
My own geometry
is a more modest version
of this torsion,
so perhaps Hopper’s vision
isn’t impossible after all.
Perhaps...
Her lover has gone now,
the afternoon’s business done.
They will go their separate ways,
which was the plan all along,
of course.
http://www.ibiblio.org/wm/paint/auth/hopper/interior/hopper.woman-sun.jpg
Here on the cusp of all things, is where I succumb
Ceding my stuff blindly, toward oblivion and none
Unwilling to persevere, without a modicum of fun
Listing in perpetual stasis, til the spasm’s undone
And yet a god may save me, or a talisman of love
Some prophet of euphoria, quelling ennui thereof
Placing good tidings, into a universal equation
Edifying eternity…..revealing its exact duration…..
Alas he speaks in riddles, and treads a mobius strip
Each cycle forming a twist, convoluting his trip
Determined I follow, my awareness in collapse
Narrow-mindedly stumbling into mortality traps
Now I sense the endgame, but decline to exalt
Its a distortion, an abortion, a cataclysmic fault
Chance meeting with a nihilist, yields positive results
Unable to see past zero, he reveals nothing but cults
Here on the cusp of all things, is where I begun
A contorted brain-f*ck, had no choice but to come
A demon of clarity, with an open ended measure
One who gives to please, but prefers taking pleasure
To believe for one moment, I’d live off a dying spark
Only denies potential, when again life goes dark
With more light to come, my sunglasses prepared
Eternity’s not polarised, just infinitely layered
If a blind man articulates, I’ve seen all this before
Screaming and convinced “I’m a seer at my core”
Could be he’s mistaken, or deluded with Déjà vu
Begs his final question, “do I have a point of view”?
Not for nothing am I something.
My alter-ego absent-mindedly swats a fly
from the tip of its nose.
The hard stool I am sat upon squirms,
if it had one more leg it might have left the room.
Take you for instance, your unfounded faith
in reality,
it's always changing,
your life is a changing room,
your clothes never fit, and your choice of hats
attracts the attention of interdimensional aliens,
who, as we all know,
are always looking to nest somewhere.
I think the chair needs to take a dump, it's straining
under my weight, and my alternative persona
is now sneezing uncontrollably.
I bolt for the door, chasing after my soul,
which suddenly has decided to take a vacation
far away from my
hard to explain, presence.
"Reality shall not be infringed". I yell.
A saggy skin is turning gray -
fingers, long and thin,
hang below my ankles in disarray.
I should like to try more time-travel
but shockingly,
I think this is the end of the line.
Does it always feel good to be King?
Or Queen?
Diva?
PolyPathic Genius?
PolyPhonic Perfect Pitched Prophet?
White fragility,
like loneliness,
is the psychic
and economic
and disempowering risk we take
Each time and place
we consciously impress
subconsciously oppress
unconsciously suppress
anti-consciously repress
uneven
over-invested white male privileged opportunities
To recognize history as polycultural systems
and climates as polypathic networks,
sometimes health and wealth balanced polynomials
and sometimes more monochromatically problematic,
Played out
in win/lose economic capital advantages
and egocentric/anthrocentric
competing political game environments
habitats
eco-centers
assumed to be ZeroSum
by left-brain dominant win/lose energy conservationists
and also NonZero-Sum
co-arising dipolar 4-season revolutionary
by right-sacredmind win/win emergent progressivists,
change agents vulnerably fragile
and transparently eco-feminist privileged.
Games of physical aggression
too often produce violently wounding
fragmenting
punishing
retributive justice strategies
and spiritual
metaphysical detachment
dissociation
from disempowering privileged intent
Games of metaphysical aggression
grow out from leftbrain dominant language,
patriarchal-ism word and value choices
labeling win/lose natural realism v
win/win liberal in love too optimistic v
lose/lose conservative of static entropic death
too pessimistic
too fragile
too privileged to feel
Ecologic-rooted theologies on sacred Right
and theological ego/eco-logos
for win/win feminist Left
Physical fragile metaphysicians
inhaling,
and metaphysically privileged win/win healers
exhaling.
Does it always feel good to be King?
And Queen?
And Diva?
And PolyPathic Genius?
And PolyPhonic Perfect Pitched Prophet?
Who would know
with ultra-nonviolet gratitude
this empowering East dawning side
of Gaia's BlueGreen Earth
clapping more right mindedly?