Long Sufficiently Poems
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Paradise:
Where healthcare receiving
is always as invited
as warm yellow sunshine
after a dark blue hurricane,
Where wealthcare giving
always begins with cooperative invitation
into vulnerable unshaded curiosity,
transparent courage
radiantly shared,
Where our traumas
remain critical exceptions
that prove Earth's positive energy
democratic health/wealth bicameral rule,
When GoldenRule wealth
of co-passions felt
and personally/politically known
are as common as safe breath restoration
sufficiently resonant from LeftBrain calming Here
through proficiently synergetic gratitude
for RightBrain's timeless Now
When safely receiving care
is always as invited
as warm yellow sunshine
after a dark blue hurricane.
There's something to be said
for doing the right thing,
even for the wrong reasons.
Reasons are about becoming, a work in progress,
as doing is about living, a lifetime process,
both fully where
and when
and why
and what
and how we are
each day following disembodied wandering rights
of sometimes restless,
other times restful
dreams,
recreations,
playtimes more cooperative
than competitive,
And nightmares
about doing the wrong thing
for economic and politically
left-brain thought to be correct reasons,
natural and right-brain spiritual,
Seeking paradise adventures
engaging health-embodied relationships
communing with reasons
felt more right
than anthro-elitist wrong,
Inviting something,
perhaps to be loudly said,
often to remain silently fed
but discretely unsaid,
while doing healthy things
for complex wrong and right wealthier reasons,
seasons,
compassions,
communions.
Yet, within this LeftBrain dominant ego
remains something deductively unfinishable,
some warm accompaniment unsaid,
not identifiable
assignable
for doing right things
with reasons of robust resonant intentions
to ride this creative tensioned cusp,
that sacred tipping secular point,
in-between not not wrong alternatives,
And know
this timeless ineffable advent
is sufficiently resilient adventure.
It seems to make a difference
when my personal
sadly mortal lifespan
unfolds a lively competition
against time
for lonely win/lose
0-sum expectations
Shared by individual EarthTribe species
unfolding a cooperative
win/win NonZero soulistic
eternal co-arising inside/outside,
contextually valued time
for cooperative
co-empathic lovely anticipations
reconnecting peak experience
transubstantiation
Which feels like rather too much to ask
and yet not enough
for deep sacred learning
sufficiently
efficiently
win/lose 0-sum
LeftBrain dominating
solidarity's resolve
with a solid Yes or No,
a simple Fast or Slow
individualistic anthroprivileged answer
to competing questions
In good government sectors,
Inside capital-driven outside energized urban environments,
In healthy cooperative societies,
In proper green-civilizing schools,
and domestically robust economies,
Outer boundary views
remain openly and resiliently cooperative,
while less universally compassionate internal views,
from within each everyday and night non-sabbath,
non-elite ego-fragmentary, yet still eco-interdependent, parts
may compete for fair healthy investment share
to become sufficiently noticed
known
and appreciated.
In privately incorporated company(ies),
competition schools
and within ZeroSum economic assumptions:
If humanity Wins
then Earth must inevitably Lose,
promoting political systems running away
without balancing ecologically empowering economies,
Outer culture-boundary views
appear ponderously, narrowly, thickly, impermeably closed-off
by past competitions in self-defensive ego-promotion,
While more internal cooperative cultures
may privately long for healthier resilience,
for wealthiest co-passioning market corners,
cracks
healing positive revolutionary feelings and needs
to restore paid forward forgiveness
healing neglected, yet still malleable,
co-responsive climate fissures.
Despotic WalledSystem defensive dogma,
personally narcissistic
and politically cynical
and economically sadistic,
with realistic faith only in competitive business predators
results in short-term divestments away from cooperatively-owned health,
with outcomes stealing from next year's
next generation's authentically open opportunities
to compete against time
to cooperatively win
Earth's annual health-market popularity contest,
A realistically healthy government sector
invests Earth-patriotically
ego-rationally
and eco-logically
in deep learning economies
promoting long-term communally resilient health
re-investments of and for Earth's positively energetic democracy.
The onset of construction
Left a gaping excavation.
They built a chain link fence
Around the hole.
Once the footers and foundation
Were sufficiently established
A dump truck load of gravel
Did its thing.
I have faith the task
Will be accomplished.
I have hope the work
Can be efficiently done.
But until I shovel
All that broken stone
Into the trench surrounding the slab,
This jobsite won’t be up to building code.
Of the virtues,
Faith, hope, and charity,
The only one that requires
Personal action
And accomplishes anything
In this world is charity.
Faith and hope are mere freeloaders
That only look after themselves.
Contest: The Pensive Poet
Sponsor: Constance La France
Yesterday, while disencumbering
the uppermost shelf
of an age-softened cupboard,
I disinterred a notebook
whose quiet custody
I had neglected
for longer than memory
readily admitted.
Its linen cover
had acquired the sepia patination
reserved for faithful objects.
The loosened binding
had relinquished
its final covenant,
while wayward folios
leaned from its margins
like hesitant emigrants
uncertain whether
remembrance still required
their return.
I smiled,
certain I was about to encounter
the young man
who had once believed
every grief
could be persuaded
into cadence.
Instead,
there were astonishingly
few poems.
Several folios
enshrined nothing
beyond a solitary date.
Others preserved
a single unfinished line,
abandoned in transit,
as though interruption
had quietly mistaken itself
for permanence.
One page
offered only a title.
Another,
a single hesitation—
Perhaps…
Thereafter,
I resumed
the slow liturgy
of turning pages,
until the room itself
entered recollection—
the metrical persuasion
of rain upon old windows,
intonations now exiled
from ordinary hearing,
faces whose names
had withdrawn
into the republic
of silence.
Then an apprehension,
gentle as dust,
settled upon me.
For a notebook
harbouring so little language,
it possessed
an inexplicable gravity.
No law of matter
could justify
such weight.
Until I understood.
Paper does not remember ink.
It remembers
hesitation.
Not the poems
that were written,
but every lyric
that declined
the imperfect shelter
of articulation;
every valediction
deferred into silence;
every avowal
that arrived
after its recipient
had already departed;
every recollection
for which no utterance
proved sufficiently
hospitable.
A blank page
is never empty.
It is merely
guarding a poem
that has refused
premature existence.
I returned the notebook
to the shelf
with a reverence
absent from my first touch.
Some books
are fastened
with paper and thread.
A poet's notebook
is bound
by everything
it persuaded itself
not to forget.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Dawns a courtroom closing in on midday, and a cheery sun
uncovering its place being less demanding--a sage who
dons sufficiently in her vocation that imparts one who bears
a respectable position, and one of a high office--so without
delay, the judge withdraws to his chambers for consultations
with the defense attorney and prosecutor, et al., she then
advances towards the lone defendant from her private seat
in the gallery--an officer of the court, immediately takes
notice of her movements and in anticipation presented her
with a chair for her pleasure--the defendant who sees her,
respectfully stands, whereto, she politely informs him that
he may remain seated and air him in a one-sided
conversation being the soul speaker, and he as the soul
listener. Albeit, exceptions to that disclosure evolved at the
end as there is cause for the conversation to become ironic.
*The opener of My Short Story: White Lies, in two parts; I'm
afeared of old habits unchanged as alit surface, amid dim, and
aligned depth of mired cliché, sways a gavel 'ere ...
The day my life commenced … wondrously great
Propels each endeavour as good success
Surely designed and authored by the Lord
Who grants grace, sufficiently abundant
Toward grand fulfillment, never worthless.
First among those days is my blissful birth
As parents’ love-fruit who bloomed in their care
Following such are triumphant moments
Marked with milestones, carved and etched in my heart
Worth thanking God for with joyous praises.
My second birth is best of all the days
Divinely miraculous, since Christ-wrought
Quickening my spirit from being slain
Healing with forgiveness my sin-sick soul
Assuring me gift of eternal life.
The rest, I label as marvelous days
Though stained with failures and frustration woes
Others are notable, leaving me scars
But reigning are significant days’ bliss
Spent through faith-function for Saviour’s glory.
My days* to me are Almighty’s presents
Precious against selfishness’ futile greed
Cherished treasures for glad earnest sharing
While consumed devoid of any regret…
Such is my prayer midst human weakness.
*Psalm 90:12 So teach us to number our days, that we may apply our hearts unto wisdom.
April 2, 2020
3rd place, "STRAND PICK A,ANY THEME,ANY FORM" Poetry Contest
Sponsored by Brian Strand; judged on 4/16/2020.
Today
I say good-bye,
but I do not want to.
I say fair-well,
but I do not mean it.
Be gone!
No…
I am not angry.
I am sad,
I am empty,
I am left wanting.
We did not do enough,
see sufficiently, or speak all the secrets…
that needed telling.
There were songs, yet to hear,
birds yet to watch,
more, more, more…
to be done.
Where you go,
I can not yet follow.
Yet, I know “He” is with you there.
Hold you dearly for me,
tell you all is well,
I will be along…
soon.
When the dawn passes,
and the afternoon is hot,
the evening will wane…
The stars will come out.
I will see you again.
It is hard to wait,
but the joy of our celebration…,
will be like the beginning
of time itself.
We’ve put men on the moon and machines on mars
a century ago we’d only just made cars
once on ships crossing seas travelling afar
in 100 years we’ve changed who we are
There were no high rise cities lit up by electricity
no television channels to sit and see
less nudity swearing they censored explicitly
with knowledge and understanding less sufficiently
I think I read once one in three born with a tail
and if you lived passed 50 you’d done very well
you didn’t see foreign lands no pictures just tales
and they still believed in witchcraft, goblins and spells
When you went off to work it was a job for life
and few men got married to more than one wife
they were racist and sexist the class divide rife
overworked and disease we control now took life
It’s another day for you and me in paradise
cus this world we live in is bloody nice
imagine the summer without any ice
imagine your peas without any rice