Peace Of Mind – A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game #5

Part III
Peace Of Mind

Peace Of Mind

A Cool Spring Breeze

Peace of mind… what is that?

A state of Zen reached when one is so easily able to shut the thoughts off and simply be with the rest of reality? A state of awareness of the fact that reality is happening and so are you, but you are a part of it and there is no you? Is that at least close, or could I be no further off?

Is it a reward for spending years and years of your life meditating until you finally get it? Is there an it to get?

Is it a Cannabis high?

Is it a cool spring breeze that knocks the last dangling dead leaves from the branches so the leafbuds can bloom again?

Is it a rare state of being in which only a chosen few may partake? Is it the natural mindstate of a human, and the fact that so little of us seem to have it today a marker of how far from nature we’ve come as a species?

Maybe, or maybe not. I know not what peace of mind is, but in lying beneath this tree on top of the mountain on this beautiful sunny day, I do believe I’ve found it.

To Bee, Or, Not To Be

Tiny wings carry the bumbling bee,
fumbling through the air
in between the leaves,
humbly seeking not to be caught,
all the while preaching his hopes
to be sought.

Left his old hive in charcoal and ashes
just to rebuild it,
despite all the scratches.
Then he leaves once more, on better terms perhaps,
for pastures anew,
leads himself into a trap.

They all clap their hands,
welcoming him in while dirtying his stripes
with the dust of a chimney standing tall,
but caked full of soot.
He smells the fire burning, pretends evil not afoot.

Trades his wings for a mind,
his stripes for a hoodie
with an open third eye and a future full of goodies.
One last handshake and the bee says goodbye,
embracing humanity,
leaving the hive.

Untitled Mountaintop Poem

Another long day of giving chase to paper later,
bright yellow sunlight
with white clouds all a’layered,
blocking out some,
but not a lot of the blue;
just a fool on a hill out to appreciate nature.

I lie back in the grass and gaze into the sky.
An airplane makes a pass,
space is where I want to fly.
Close your eyes and focus
and hope one day to see
that inner space is outer
and all you need’s a key.


The dirt is mud,
the Earth flooded by rain of days passed.

The gray of the sky reflected off waves babbling by,
a stream once dry,
a’flow again.

Some see puddles after it rains,
while others see the sun,
recognizing the change.
A Token of hope,
a purchase made with spare change;
a child’s mope reversed into a delightful gaze.

Gray forests barren,
green only on the rocks;
rainy drops fallen
from high above the tops
of mountains,
through my valley where I choose to take a walk
through a wintery wildland;
no reason to talk.


Birds of a feather flock together
whether or not they learn to fly.
No matter the weather,
rain, snow, whatever,
Crane don’t chill with Magpie.

Vulture, beak full of brain
of a maimed piece of roadkill,
is joined by two of its kind,
hungry to eat their fill.
Even The Eagle,
majestic, lethal,
unmatched and alone in the sky,
settles down and shares his crown
in a thatch nest with his bride.

Birds of a feather flock together
whether or not they learn to fly.
So find your others,
your sisters and brothers,
spread your wings and hit the sky.

Just Like Us

I see you up there.
You grow and shrink just like the rest of us,
I would like to think.

Or could it be that you always stay the same,
appearing to blossom when hit with rain?

I mean,
bathed in light. Sort of ordained,
not like a priest,
but higher up all the same.


A rose by any other name
would smell just as sweet,
though the nameless flower
claims a beauty more unique.

Though she walks through the valley
of the shadow of death,
she fears not the demons,
merely puts them to rest.

I wandered lonely as a cloud,
floating over valley after hill,
until I found her, my medicine,
I swallow like a pill.

Let us go then, you and I,
into a future so uncertain;
to be blinded by your light,
refusing to draw the curtain.

Along the course of my life
I’ve been bored by material girls,
but she’s my cannaherbal chick
from the psychedelial world.


As you lie down to sleep at night,
or rise to face the day,
do you thank god only for sex,
or do you rejoice over pain?

To live your life one day at a time is surely an act of grace,
but one cannot truly love the sun
unless one loves the rain.

But how does one love,
embrace that force of a higher plane,
if once that one doesn’t get their way,
they lash out with words of hate?

The act of living the human life is an art painted by tears
of joy or pain? Both are the same.
I just thank god I’m here.


The cold outside is biting,
yet the sun shines so inviting
on this,
a blustery winter day.

Bundle up all you want,
the gust will cut through your cloth
like a hot knife through melted butter.
Dead leaves clutter the forest floor beneath a layer
of white ice,
snow frozen into sheets so slick
you could slip and slide on them.

Rudolph with the red nose,
icicles dripping from nostrils as tears freeze on rosy cheeks
and eyes become difficult to shut.
You’d think blinking would make it better,
lo, all the wetter your face becomes;
yet still you feel the glow
of the forever gleaming sun.

The price to pay for time spent in nature,
worth every cent.


‘This face is pretty steep,’ I think to myself
as my feet begin to slide.
To my left, the flat edge of a cliff,
and to my right, the icy water slides.

Behind me, well… if I fall, I won’t survive.

The top is in sight, literally, at level with my eyes.
At the same time, though,
the other five feet of my body dangle,
hands clasping holds and feet boldly angled on the rock.

I’ve had a headache
and tasted paper in my mouth all day,
yet none was eaten.
My family supports my drive but they clamor to steer.
I am seen as wolf,
yet I breathe as deer.

‘Maybe… a sign to let go,’
I think for a time,
possibly half a moment,
a secondary thought in my primary mind.
I gaze down once more; below me, the muddy forest floor.

A shake of my head. A cackle of laughter emerges
as the ice cracks on the reservoir in the backdrop.
The music picks up,
audience on the edges of their seats.
I vault.

Ah, to climb over the top, calling the devil’s bluff.


It’s hard to be creative when you stay inside all day
and no matter what you sing the rain won’t seem to go away
and it drifts down from the sky in the form of frozen flakes
and the cold of the ozone is shoved right into your face.

Like, I get it, it’s winter,
the sun ain’t gonna shine.
The mountains are leaking ice, far too slippery to climb,
and the trees are all leafless besides the evergreen pines
and the daylight seems to fade
too soon when opened eyes.

They say spring’s around the corner,
but I don’t know what they’re on.
I’ve heard that it gets darker
just moments before the dawn
but we’ve been sitting in the shadow for three months Mah, come on.

One can’t appreciate nature
‘til the hollowness is gone.

And how hollow it is when the cold tickles your ribs,
when the wind rips through your clothes
like the sharp end of a pin
and makes you feel naked,
like garbage without a bin.
To harbor these feelings,
to sink the ship and swim.

But when that long dusk finally breaks into the dawn
and the forest is alive like a prancing baby fawn,
when the ice has all melted and the green grass grows on,
the cold will be a memory,
will serve to make you strong.

This has been part III of the book A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game. Here is everything you need to know about it:

A Lyme-Brained Rhyme Game

I’ve written a few other books, too. Click here to see the list.

The Hillside Commons has a Facebook page, too. Here’s that.

If you’re there, hypothetical reader, thank you for being there. From this day on, we move forever forward~

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