Nature's Place

 
Not a bee of the pollen collecting kind. And not a friend necessarily known.

But busy, busy man. Too busy to really hear the flowers unfold. Collecting pollen of the psychic kind. Sticky stuff – already.

So busy, the pressure mounts unseen till it bursts its banks and brings all traffic to a screeching halt. Horns a honking.

Mental traffic. If I am real enough, no otherwise. Not before a crash.
 
Sitting at his desk a talkin, the phone rings, he answers – two conversations! The door knocks, he says ‘come in!’ Three, would you believe it?

Standing there talking on the phone. ‘No, don’t interrupt me, can’t you see I’m talking?’ Busy man, important man.

Is heading for a systems challenge. If he’s real enough.

“I don’t think so!” Say’s he.
 
She, a momentary glimpse of character – follow me being? The real in the chink in the sometimes necessary worldly but wearying play of personality. Mutually, silently agreed.

An awkward capture. Beauty, being – loves need.

Filling up with woe of man?

On my mind. I see Thee.
 
Tippin me hat to ya, good people!
 
As chaotic as the world appears at times there is integrity to it. The justice of returns. What I give I get, invariably. Though not always recognisably.
 
Existence, sense, is the canvas I work my magic on. Through the psyche, inside. The magic of what I attend to, be it light or dark, manifests. And just because it’s called one or the other doesn’t make it so.

Thank God for the simple good – of being a body of sense and not a mental creature.

It’s nice to be at ease of mind enough to enjoy the sunshine, the birdsong, the green grass.
 
No really! Enjoy the sunshine, the birdsong, the grass. And the way to do it is be in the senses and not thinking.
 
It’s a matter of focus.
 
Copyright Reserved / Mark Berkery