‘The world is upside down’
‘It’s topsy-turvy’
‘Things will never be the same again’
Lines heard everywhere we turn
Is it really so?
Are their proponents in the know?
Or do they loutish parrot
what on screens we stare at?
Block out the vitriolic noise
Knead the contours of your heart
Soothe and smooth your mind, from the mundane depart
Alive once again ~ for life is art
Never mind my suffering
Oh, my love
Never more
I visited your city, your life
But never mind
Look, just watch, your creature
Broken life, destroyed heart
But never mind
From now a killer kind
Oh, my only love!
But never mind
Do not worry about my life!
Never fear this bad style
Do not feel, do not eat!
I just loved
You
Forget it, keep it in mind
Oh
Never mind
Never mind!
Love you
Never mind
Goodbye
But
Never mind
I was tying my shoes
Wrapped with thoughts of death
Wondered if the stone beneath me
Would appreciate the human dire
Splashed over it like ketchup
And no, it wasn’t thoughts of suicide
For I know death is not really what I want
Maybe I do write letters sometimes
About my last day on this ground,
but they're just words caused by pain
And yet I can’t help but wonder
If murderers do feel fear when they kill
I wonder if the sin of lying is equal to killing
Higher, through this loftier
Discretion of mind
Than what does flash, sky-winging
To Earth's space confined
Places one, which bright state in
Is joy's true Heaven.
Clearer, purer. Whose source is
God. Ever risen.
Lyre-clasping, a warbler, too
Myself, of love songs.
Miss, smiling meek, attested!
Which trait there belongs!
The borders fell like fever from a long-tormented frame,
No steel was turned, no legions marched, no decree spoke their name.
For when the node of silver wood began its quiet rise,
The phantom lines of sovereign pride dissolved before their eyes.
The ancient ghosts of territory, of fortress, and of crest,
Like winter frost before the sun, sank deep into the breast.
The pain that once had armed the hand and built the concrete wall
Was opened to the anchor node, unmetered, shared by all.
A mother’s cry in Sector One, the drought of Sector Four,
No longer stopped at checkpoints or the barricaded door.
The collective mind, in empathy, received the bitter sting,
And wove the ache of centuries into a single string.
Where once the barbed dividers stood to guard the hollow grain,
Now surged a tide of healing hands to wash away the stain.
The map of old Vaeloria, where blood-bought nations bled,
Became a tapestry of care, by quiet mercy fed.
No citizen was left an island, stranded in their grief;
The shared scar of the species brought its ultimate relief.
I awake and here I am,
naught but a mere mortal man.
Why came I this weak way,
restrained in fragile skin,
little but stiffened clay,
imprisoned as are all men?
Flesh will away, that soon day,
to the dust where it had been.
Then I will really be Me,
with mind and soul soaring free.
- Darrell Simmerman copyright 2024
Sprightly walk on landing,
then I step down each rung,
with habitual due dispatch,
an enthusiastic heart beats,
mind awash with apt fervour,
whilst fixating on elation,
that weaves rose bud tints,
to dawn townscape purliue,
on a fair earthborn agenda,
whose brief a germ kernel,
mission sprouting benign,
seeds among the coterie,
red sunrise street dwellers,
who sense crimson aura,
a fond radiant saunterer,
that tonic touchstone,
oops .. watch the last step
Swirls rise and fold through the field of color,
outlines drifting at the edges, searching for shape~
each one carrying the quiet pulse of an idea.
Figures brighten, blur, then pass into another idea,
their borders dissolving inside currents of color
that refuse to settle into any single shape.
Nothing here is finished; everything leans toward shape,
toward the next flicker that might become an idea,
toward the widening spiral of ungoverned color.
ENVOI
In the creator’s mind, color keeps opening, shape keeps shifting, idea keeps arriving.
ISSUE EXCHANGE RATE
WITH CANADA TRUMP DOES HATE
SIMPLY MORE RAGE BAIT
step back from the cliff
your twenties' brain on the edge
change is not decline
age redraws the roads we know
changing the way your brain thinks
stress rattles the frame
old minds need to avoid storms
rumination rusts
stronger pathways bear the load
as the brain's framework evolves
inside ageing brains
new supporting pathways grow
forming a framework
where nerves trace what years reshape
building a resilient mind
ongoing support
is needed to sustain growth
keep damage away
the stronger the inner frame
the further collapse retreats
movement wakes the brain
trodden pathways branch and bind
feed the frame, not flame
less abuse and fewer harms
give the scaffold room to grow
let the mind wander
explore unfamiliar ground
build fresh connections
try some things you cannot do
strange pathways form as you go
a time traveler
looks back, looks here, dreams forward
builds mental contexts
adds layers to the framework
as time bridges connections
there may be no cliff
if the pathways are well used
framework stays alive
by building mental bridges
transforming decline to change
MIND WHERE YOU KNOCK
(A Tanka Trio)
A door opening,
Yet, it could be the wrong door;
It could be Satan's:-
He's fooled so many of us,
With his bastardize guidance:-
When a door opens,
Check out whose the opener;
God cannot be aped:
Satan washes guilty hands;
Jesus washes weary feet:-
A door opening,
Can be for good or for bad.
Be in awareness:
God's open door enlightens;
Satan's open door blindsides:-
Every time I sit, really just sit
I'm reminded that this
is enough
to let it go and just settle
without expectation
but alert awareness
here and now.
Enlightenment, liberation, grace, peace etc.
whatever we call it - the ideal we're aiming for -
isn't a matter of building or achieving
or a process of developing or becoming
it is instead what we naturally have
when we stop the building,
relax the grasping.
Yet it is easier said than done
especially when we're young
and our ability, our habit, our desire
to grasp is so strong.
And so we use that desire
homeopathically
to grasp and really hold
until exhaustion.
And then instead of holding such ideals
and concepts, and methods
so tightly
just let them go.
Or if we must
hold the concept like the reins of
a wind horse
gently, delicately between two fingers
ever ready to release
in this
complete moment.
And simply sit, just sit
and trust that that is enough.
(First published in my 2016 book, Little Pine)
The mind has
its own bleak landscapes
that freeze the will,
confine the soul
to an inner space
no larger than the self.
I know such worlds
of ice - dark ones
that press against
the window and give
no light. I am familiar
with the howl
of its bitter winds
that pick at every crack
as if trying to get in.
I have felt
its icy grip tighten
almost to the point
where I could not
draw a breath.
I know too
of other places
in the mind, deeper ones
that plumb almost
to its source
and summon landscapes
of an inner calm where
there are trees,
wide undulating plains
and rivers winding
their glistening way
to the sea. Landscapes
that are drawn
from the sacred,
composed of poetry
and prayer and carry
the faint recollections
of a somewhere
not far and yet,
a lifetime away.
A BLEEDING MIND REFLECTION
Check your mind’s pressure.
Enlightenment could be low,
And ignorance, high.
Both ways affect its calmness,
And, its true wholeheartedness.
KELOIDS OF THE MIND
Mental scars of mind;
Raised reminders of journeys:
Scars of conquered trials:-
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