Long Triggers Poems
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“What Causes Us to React?”
by Michelle L. LeBlanc
Copyright: April 14, 2022
When someone triggers a Reaction
What do we choose to do?
Focus on what they said?
Or find out what triggers you?
Easy to always point the finger out
Yes, it's easy to often do
They hurt me, said something rude
They are to blame for what they do
Sometimes those we love hurt us
Often strangers and acquaintances too
But perhaps they're having a really bad day
And wrongfully dumping it on you
Yes, we can react and get angry
Point the finger out and withdraw within
Or we can try to find the source
That triggers us so much therein
Whether it's deep roots of rejection
Or feelings of failure that tend to reside
Or an attitude of impatience or entitlement
Or maybe it's simply our own pride
We might never be able to change others
But we can certainly work on ourselves
It's probably the hardest to do
And will often feel like hell
But always pointing the finger out
Doesn't help us to learn to push through
For even when others refuse to change
There's always work on ourselves to do
That part is never easy for any of us
But at least there's work being done
Because making positive change in the world
Must always start with one
Maybe we need to find out how to heal
So that we are less to react
They can be mean or insensitive
But what if we get our own reactions intact?
Again this is not easily accomplished
Especially not all in one day
It will be little steps at a time
And we’ll often mess up along the way
But we push forward towards change
Whether the other people do or not
Whose fault it is, is not the point
It's who wants their reactions to rot
Let's learn to face our issues
What causes us to react
And where we need to heal inside
So we no longer feel entrapped!
What words are apt, to transfer emotion
Where lies the fulcrum of throbbing vibrance
What makes cessation, lead to elation
Which hue of dusk, triggers its remembrance
Soft brilliant hues of spiritual light
Invisible flickers in space are known
Ignition renewal through day and night
Rapture beyond measure, we alone own
Pranic pathways within, coming alive
Wisdom downloads and a ride in the void
Nodes within form, to music divine jive
Our thought rested awareness, by love buoyed
Such open secrets, hidden in plain sight
Teleports our heart to boundless delight
18-October-2021
it's september now;
the mornings are cooler
than just a few days ago,
the trees are curling their leaves
upwards, and turning yellow towards life.
one last kiss good-bye,
what choice do they have?
i remember when my roots were pulled,
it's been cold since then and
september had just begun,
it's never about choices.
the wind is whispering a song,
like a mother's lullaby,
and the leaves are falling like evening
across the sky, red-orange bliss
towards something they can't see happening,
yet it always rains beyond the blue
and i still taste it in that last kiss,
cold as the days that are soon to come,
soon the leaves will drop towards the ground
pile up and become nothing but a memory
several feet under winter's march
then decompose into nothing
more than stale air,
yet, what choice do they have?
(my mother died Sept first, many years ago and this time of year triggers much emotion)
Yesterday,
when there was clarity,
I arose resembling
the flames of sunrise.
Like an articulate artist,
entranced in nature,
I painted fluorescent hues
upon her butterfly wings.
Together we fluttered
like timeless rainbows.
Today in narcissistic times of confusion,
I'm drained from fits of indignation,
as triggers fade between black and red,
turbulence from trials and tribulations
release toxic tones into the air we breathe -
as polluted minds clip our paper plane wings.
As I descend like an anaemic sunset,
the language of silence overcomes me.
I feel like a soggy canvas soaking in puddles,
causing carnage to my heart's paper kingdom -
where journals of poetry still hide.
I seek redemption,
searching for a remedy
from this spell of darkness.
As sensitive stars shimmer upon wild waves,
I place my paper boat on stormy seas -
hoping empathetic winds
elevate me to her abode.
Tomorrow,
before the moon
loses patience with twilight,
to mute the inner demons,
I hope to reach the borders of
an angel that cries tears of treasure -
to rescue her from her paper castle.
To soothe melancholic mornings of mourning,
I'll place each crystal drop into a paper lunch bag,
so we can feed upon morsels of compassion,
because together we are an antidote for real pain.
Black hoodie, black gloves and a black balaclava
Allegiances born of belligerent father
A council estate with yards full of tyres
A rucksack that’s laden with tin tacks and wires
Cars outside boozers where loyalist losers
Don’t spot the briefcase with time delay fuses
One man and his neighbour of different persuasions
Soldiers and ministers weighing equations
Each side will tear you apart with their bombs
Some will send ‘letters’ to where you are from
Some cite religion or national pride
Or family honour when taking a side
Orange and green the colours of choice
BBC using an imposter’s voice
Still the news media expresses surprise
When pubs, cars and trucks light up the skies
A town-centre nightclub to which people flock
Across the street came Messrs Browning and Glock
In hands now committed to unleash their guns
They fingered their triggers... and then there were nuns
***
[During ‘The Troubles’ in Northern Ireland, whilst many individuals were targeted due to their religious persuasion, targeted attacks on any particular religious institution were, seemingly, rare. A lengthy chat with Mr Google named two Catholic priests who were deliberately killed, but only one nun who was killed when she happened-on-by a bombing; she remains the only nun killed (albeit inadvertently) because of ‘The Troubles’. ‘And Then There Were Nuns’ simply prompts the question (to which I have no answer) what would a team of gunmen do next if a group of Nuns wandered into their ‘hit’?]
From Latin and ancient Greek, English derived three words:
poesy is the creation, the art work of poetic composition.
poem is the created, with beauty of language and expression.
poet is the creator or maker, with the gift of poetic thought, imagination,
and eloquence of expression.
A poet is born with a troubled and jangled spirit within,
forced to express what is seen, imagined and dreamed in words
for themselves and for anyone who hears or reads their works.
A poet is a miserly wordsmith, in love with words, their meanings, sound and strangeness.
A poet is an artist, painting with words and expression, but not constrained by form or method.
A poet is a skilled craft person, creating and making works and compositions,
but is not restricted by tools nor craft rules or disciplines.
A poet is a skilled musician using rhyme, meter and rhythm to create word scores,
but can also use line breaks, punctuation and the words themselves to create sounds.
Often the sounds made are jarring and discordant to create an effect or evoke a response,
but not all poetry is for a performance.
A poet is a peddler of emotions and feelings evoked in the writer and reader,
eliminating from deep within and as reactions to what is happening or not happening.
Poets are free to use whatever verse and form they choose.
There is no right way to eloquently express their art and craft; it is the poet's choice.
The best description of a poet is a person with an eternal fountain of jangles.
The jangles of emotions, feelings and life's journey within must be expressed, written or spoken about.
Nature and the world about triggers jangles, metaphors, memories, responses and associations to be expressed.
The poet writes to be read and have their thoughts and mind outpourings jangle response in their audience.
Artistically rendering words, much loved and cherished, in ways to evoke intense emotion in the hearer and listener.
The poet seeks jam sessions of free improvised jangling with self or with anyone who reads or listens.
The poet a lover of words, a wordsmith, peddling jangles.
Drop the Needle on the Record
And that sweet soul music blast
" Baby "
Sorry
" Grandad "
A relic now from a previous age
And when you do and it begins
Listen very carefully to whence it starts
To that beautiful cracking sound it makes
And just sit back relax
As it slowly takes and makes you
drift further back and back in time
And in doing so triggers fresh new
memories you though you lost and
who you had left behind
And makes you feel both happy and
youthful once again
Maybe reminding you of your first love
very first dance
Who they were and where you met them
And what it felt like once upon a time
to be young and fall in love for the very
first time
You choose as the song to dance with
your wife at your wedding
The very same cracking noise that
enters and plays out in your head
Which you are left with on repeat and
tenders your mouth dry and speechless
When you are truly dumbstruck in
the presence of someone you not
only just like
But probably have already fallen head
over heels and deeply in love with
Re-Connection of Souls
The feeling lies dormant until that awesome reconnection
That triggers my untapped feelings for you.
It is so strong it makes my body aches
And I yearn for your love every second.
I dream of the day when our bodies come together as one
When all the dreams of love and caring manifest itself in total ecstasy.
What a day ……….it’s not yet revealed, but soon.
I feel so much love and I have so much to give
that it makes me tight within.
Crazy for the one I love and the one I want to share it with.
Who is he? May I ask? It’s you, yes you!
In my deepest thoughts I anchor the love that makes me beautiful
yes beautiful…
I know I am beautiful, sensuous, and warm
So are you….. Handsome as can be, with your softness
and your pensive mood that adorns your very presence.
Love is what draws us together and our souls entwined.
There is nothing wrong with “love”
Love is powerful, strange, but yet soothing.
Love is an equalizer of precious feelings
Without love our lives, souls, and whole being would be useless
Oh yes! Let’s enjoy the sweetness that love has to offer.
A definite air permeates
When in the walls of my room
Projected productivity is it?
Or rather the reflection of what those expect of me
Identity found... lost, through my grasp
Hard to dicier or fully know
Craving change, something swift
Yet nothing short of raw, with nature as my muse
Possibilities seem infinite, away from these parts
Just the sheer art of crossing unforeseen paths
Evoking my soul and lust for life, I sit and wait
As if the trust I should place in myself lies agape
Too close to home, I feel exposed
To judgements, expectations, and morale I hope I lack
By that I mean from their skewed sightings of things
And so the awe of discovery calls me
Replacing shame, resistance, anger, yet-
Through times of stagnancy I surely say...
Have I truly surpassed these past felt ways?
Assured, I realize triggers do arise, often times
Standing in the kitchen, pacing the halls, walking
Phone calls, a pause, anticipated familial talks...it all
Tales to be told to the generation to be
A family I will hold dear, never inflict previous cycles upon
Shared highlight reel of what once was, and everything in between
Toby Hemenway,
in The Permaculture City,
defines four prime health development principles,
adapted as follows:
Highest Use
orders health maintenance tasks,
ecological activities,
and growth/decomposition processes
in time and space
so the first activity in a spiraling sequence
leaves as many possible health yields
and subsequent reiterative uses
as harmonically possible.
Highest and deepest use
creates balanced wu-wei relationships
among health design elements
and wealth building processes
in and through ecologically rhythmic time
and place.
Needs As Potential Resources Analysis
identifies necessary health inputs
and wealth outputs
of many nutritional kinds,
products,
behaviors,
characteristics
spatial quantities and temporal qualities
of each subsystem in an eco/bio-system,
including humane-natural/spiritual systems,
and connects needs of one element
with outputs of another.
We thereby design harmonic relationships
of WinWin balance
among design elements themselves,
ourselves.
Zones
organize design systems
by how often they are used and need cooperative maintenance.
The most used systems
are placed most vulnerably nearest in spacetime
to the ZeroZone user
or center of identified activity.
Zones build health and organize wealth relationships
between a system
and the user of identified zero-center.
Sectors and Species
are influences from outside;
influences that cannot be altered from within the spacetime system in question.
They can be Yang competing physical influences,
such as wind and fire,
or Yin-cooperative intangible influences,
enculturing,
creolizing,
such as zoning,
care giving and receiving customs,
LeftBrain polypathic power,
and RightBrain emotional polyphonic triggers.
We place design elements
in relation to species and sectors to feed or bleed energies,
or let them pass through
with no decompositional effect.
Sectors and Species
create regenerative relationships
between parts of an eco-bio system
and Yang forces
and Yin-influences
shaping enculturation,
acclimation outside toward inside
each ZeroZone system.