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Harmony Blyth

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Member Since: Mar, 2008

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Operation Market Time, The Early Years 1965-66
by James Steffes

This is the story of Operation Market Time in the early years of the Vietnam War...  
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by Harmony Blyth
Friday, August 15, 2008
Rated "G" by the Author.
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This is a rather strange poem, but i was in an observant mood while i was out one day sitting by the ocean at a local beach.
I was looking at all the people around analyzing everyone and observing the nature of life and and how it changes.

Most of us deny the impermanence of things, or if we don't,we still often feel "it won't happen to us" whatever that may be.
Anyway, it was interesting watching people, and i had the urge to write something.
Without pen or paper, i was glad i had my trusty mobile with me, and i went a texting away...

The mud is thick.
Stuck in it's reluctance to move.
Benign muck.

Thoughts race, going round and round like a washing machine.
It wounds the nerves. They wont subside.
Leaving me to feel physically ill.

Does any of this make sense?
Who knows?
In this crazy world, full of hazy minds, all in a daze.
Take off your rose coloured glasses and look around this sleepy town of parochial minds and one eyed views.
It's you who long for something new, in the misconception of your surrounds.

The grasping of what you see to be untrue , you fool!

The once human form, now transformed into a gluttonous seagull, through the ignorance which was possessed.

Trying to stay afloat in a canoe on the water, as the unsteadiness of the sea is unpredictable.

The ocean topples it over, with no control, you find yourself being dragged helplessly down to the realm below.
The naraks are waiting with hot iron swords, the ghosts with bellies so big and hungry, but with a pin hole for a mouth, no food can be swallowed.

Trying to subdue the mind and stray away from disturbing thoughts and erroneous views.
Feeling the need to escape from what one thinks is reality.

I want to put on my wings and fly away, leaving this body of constriction behind me,
while drifting off in my dreamland of mysticism.

Although, am i already in a dream?

Do i need to be awakened from this sleepy mind of delusions?
Is this all just an illusion?

Things arent always as they appear.
Look beyond and you may see the truth.

Changeable in its nature, this mind we like to call our own.
But how can we, when we have no control?



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Reviewed by Edwin Hurdle 3/9/2009
This is an excellent poem,very well written,take care

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