Writing the wrongs

Poetry, writing, and recovery from mental illness

Where do we go?

where do we go
in that silent space between two thoughts
before “I am this” or “I am that”
when we’re just that
butt-naked sense of being here
free of time space and memory
goals burdens and worries
practices and rituals
and shouting at football matches

beyond mere opinion,
beyond all forms of identification,
one with the trees lakes and mountains
no ego to say “here I am”
only that sense of inter-being
things just are that way and this
and all the mind can detect
is the perfume of bliss
and the body feels light
the heart beats a symphony
and every word is an offering
the weight of yesterday doesn’t feel so heavy
the idea of tomorrow is no longer crippling

so where do we go in all that?

Do you remember?
The sun shone on our footsteps
before the waves came.

Daily post: Radiate

a smile,
a whisper,
a cold shoulder

Dailypost: First Impression, A Lantern Poem

garden of
my heart

Which needs explaining
the presence of misery
or the frequent lack?

half-empty mug
alone in winter
kinda makes me sad

watching the seagulls
I realise
it’s gonna be fine

Now you are not here
in poetry I find you
dark winter mornings

this world hurts at times
but the sun shows me her smile
to provoke my own

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