Poem - The Ocean
Poem - The Ocean
I ask Sophia
‘Is a life like this really the best we can do?’
I don’t expect an answer, but
It feels right to ask the question
Below departing clouds of grief
I see birds on a small sandy island
Many birds feel pecked so they peck at others
The fascination of irritation
‘You mustn’t understand, got to get on,’
Says practically everyone
Get on with pecking the innocent
And walking in blindness?
Many birds have feathers missing and several scars
Inflicted by others’ fear
There are small twigs on the beach that can trip them
If they forget to look
Below that, by the tide-line
Two charred pieces of driftwood
Both tiny
One called fear, the other ignorance
The waves bump them into the shore
Patiently eroding them to nothingness
Then there’s the ocean
The ocean is boundless and deep
An ocean of wisdom and love
A curved smooth horizon in every direction
This IS the bottom line
One sip and the bird is whole
Are years of torment a necessary prelude
So we never forget this sight?
Completed return to the land of feeling
Reawakening of inner sight?
Her reply? A blink of an eye
Can others see this without suffering? Yes
Would I have still seen this if I’d had some protection? Yes
Do we choose to suffer – the New Age dogma? No
Laying the blame coats the glass with soot
Escapist ‘theories’ keep it dark
Authentic suffering is the cleansing fire
Without will, but willingly
Knowing I know nothing
I dip a toe in
And help the pen move
Mystical Poems
Copyright Peter Fairbrother
‘Is a life like this really the best we can do?’
I don’t expect an answer, but
It feels right to ask the question
Below departing clouds of grief
I see birds on a small sandy island
Many birds feel pecked so they peck at others
The fascination of irritation
‘You mustn’t understand, got to get on,’
Says practically everyone
Get on with pecking the innocent
And walking in blindness?
Many birds have feathers missing and several scars
Inflicted by others’ fear
There are small twigs on the beach that can trip them
If they forget to look
Below that, by the tide-line
Two charred pieces of driftwood
Both tiny
One called fear, the other ignorance
The waves bump them into the shore
Patiently eroding them to nothingness
Then there’s the ocean
The ocean is boundless and deep
An ocean of wisdom and love
A curved smooth horizon in every direction
This IS the bottom line
One sip and the bird is whole
Are years of torment a necessary prelude
So we never forget this sight?
Completed return to the land of feeling
Reawakening of inner sight?
Her reply? A blink of an eye
Can others see this without suffering? Yes
Would I have still seen this if I’d had some protection? Yes
Do we choose to suffer – the New Age dogma? No
Laying the blame coats the glass with soot
Escapist ‘theories’ keep it dark
Authentic suffering is the cleansing fire
Without will, but willingly
Knowing I know nothing
I dip a toe in
And help the pen move
Mystical Poems
Mystical Poems
Copyright Peter Fairbrother
1 comments:
All goodness be upon you this fine day One One.
I am so much in liking of this poem that I have written it upon the wall of my most humble hut. I truly am understanding it as I have been the victim of extreme pecking from the PohPok bird, a native of India. It did almost put a hole through my skullbone it did. Luckily it migrates to upper Mongolia for 6 months a year. As far as the driftwood you mentioned, I found a most wonderful chunk while traveling back from the England country. I did nail it above my hut door. It is in the shape of the temple Timboktoka. I'm sure you know of it.
Oh Woe is upon me One One,
Most terrible events have transpired. Goat did eat the village wall of corn! The Englandians people are now once again the only ones who can brag of having one. We have a large supply of tikitiki beans with which to build a wall but tikitikibeanwall just does not be having the right sound unto it.
Then, the other night but one, Amur was walking in his Kumquat field when I did come upon a crop circle! I was looking upon it when I did hear an approach from my behind. I turn to see an alien! It was wearing a helmet and on its uniform was a large letter R. It spoke unto me and asked if I knew a creature named Eleven. I tell it no, the only numerated person I be knowing is One One. It did then ask if I had any Sap plants as this Eleven and others, I am thinking it called them Aldo Claras, must swill leaf sap many times per day or their brains do turn to mushy pudding. It wants to destroy all sap plants and then enslave the Aldo Claras and make them be working on his coffee plantation. They will be forced to drink only coffee. It did laugh most evil at saying this.
It was going to shoot me with its raygun but I did beg to be spared. I tell it I would sing a most beautiful song I wrote called "To".
I sang and it did let me live.
Until next time, unless the Pohpok bird does get me, I am most humble servant Amur, third cousin to Ghandi thrice removed twice returned then once again removed much to my dismay.
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