Sun Day Wise

I wrote this poem quite a while ago – and have only just got round to posting it. Hope you like it. Let me know.

Sometimes I sit and watch, just look, mind elswewhere, not integrating with anything much bar a cup of tea and the wooliness of the carpet, warmth and what’s infront of me.

Sitting there, in the flesh but actually miles away.

Those times are precious, communing with the great whenever, the great miracle, the great nothing that fills my mind.

This is what I busied myself getting up to one morning, one day when I woke up.

My mission – handed to me by supposition that doing nothing is, unfortunately, not OK – was to write something.

Anything, didn’t really matter – just something to scribble down.

More for the purpose, the practice, the energy – to find the mindspace that’s healing, that’s creative – balm to the busy soul.

Nothing occurred to me, blank mind, early morning grog-fuddled tea-mind as sharp as a tack, as ever.

And this poem came out.

Almost a done deal, straight away.

Lovely.

Great start to the day.

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Sun Day Wise

‘Tis the weekend and sunlight strikes the houses

On the opposite hill, strikes the trees

Where the children’s den was built

By parents who love their children’s childhood.

Nothing happens here ‘cept the walking of the dog,

The doing of the project to make the new pond,

To make a box for the bird to nest –

The handy-folk hand-occupied,

The handy-folk, hand satisfied.

Nothing happens ‘cept the snipping of the rose,

The washing of clothes and the cheering at the Telly,

Nothing but the smile of the neighbour,

The hill-path stroll and the confusion of the poor lost soul.

Nothing happens but the life everlasting,

The blessing of the innocence retained –

Inherent in the doing of the good,

The treasure of the ever-trodden love,

And the familiar comfort of the folk thicker even than love.

And my Sunday while wonders with Sun

Day streaming dull, treasured with the mull

Of the thoughts banging head-skulls of figurings

The reckoning epiphanies, mind geographies

Explaining living mysteries:

Time’s immemorial strategies –

Life incessant with no will

Other than the moment’s maintenance –

Existence’s persistence chosen though there is no active choice,

Birth-dictated experience mandated for the conscious soul

Sitting, watching sun light rise

Ever-musing Sunday wise,

Watching mind-memes consciousness-occupy,

Taking time to fully think and try not to worry,

Not to descry the day which isn’t over yet,

Hasn’t started – this being the tea-steam-gaze phase,

The staring-at-the-wonder stage –

And the promise of this Sun’s day seeps my bones glorious

For the chance to play in Earth’s rich gardens,

To wonder at the world,

To mind-rip the musings of the early morning,

To bask, to soak, to immerse and infuse

And to know I’m blessed with the time to watch

Sunday dawning Sun Day Wise.