I am the philosopher, the loner, the crone
I love the woods and those quiet times alone
I sit in the dusk and the bright shining dawn
The birds are the ones singing in the new morn
I watch at a distance the people like ants
I write what they do and of their blue pants
I watch and I listen to their incessant chatter
Always a problem, does it really matter?
In nature the animals just live their days
They eat for necessity, they run, and they play
They don't sit and worry about what others do say
They don't waste their lives in a curious dismay
I wonder with the entire world's chaos around
No wonder the Lords people are hard to be found
The animal's lives are spent in short minutes of time
I hope in the next level, people won't be so blind
There is a peacefulness in watching the little critters at play or in flight. Man will never reach that state of near perfection. Their mental makeup--like high-tech computers--has exceeded intellectual need so that life has become one giant jigsaw puzzle--too often without direction.
Once, the ghost people, told me in a dream that here in this world we had people more blind that the the ones with the blindness affliction, they was the people that don't wanted to see.
Your poem call that memory, as it should.
I love the way you sort of float detached from the reality of life to see what we all too often fail to notice. this morning I had the pleasure to look out my back window and once again see three fine white tail deer that I leave treats of apples out for. their world so simple...
I hope so to Theresa for we spend so much time worrying we forget the blessing we have in front of us. Well written and lovely piece. Love and hugs, Bonnie
This combined narrative dialogue and play is about the uncreated, unborn and undying transcendent Self of God-consciousness and Buddha-nature. It describes an odyssey of transcendent Consciousness Awakening and Remembrance.
Histories of the world are generally written to either celebrate technology and science, or to herald doom. My book examines the path of the spirit in the onward rush.
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Your poem call that memory, as it should.
Georg
I love this poem, Theresa. I can understand it. Thank you for sharing your philosophical perspective. Love and best wishes to you,
Regis
Newfie Hugs, Rose
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