The Poetry of John P. Hindle

(in response to  ‘ Garden’  by Hannah Frank)

Charged by cosmic light,
nature’s stirring emotion
casts its spell,
in the geostrophic wind
of senses
in a pensive breath,
waking the dead,
rising a spirit
from persecution and pain,
the light of the moon
shines out of darkness,
breaking the division,
in the blizzard of time’s decay,
growth reflects the soul,
for the flowering bud,
sensitive to touch
in the hands
of precious attention,
while expression
bonds echoing whispers,
submissive to the scent.

I can hear sea sounds in the shell,
charging earthly dynamos,
waves rebellious elements,
push against the coast line,
stones slither and dodge,
they clatter, they crush, they break,
small boats head back to shore,
bringing back fish again,
eager for the next catch,
wind pushes the fall,
amid rain clouds,
sailor men trawl,
together in early morning’s wake,
into sweeping vast waters,
with friendship and union,
another power station breaking time,
in the distance between man, machine and earth.

I close my eyes
and see a thousand images
of the day
contemplating peace
I take a deep breath
and feel love
touching my soul
elevating my spirit
until I am not weak
I lift the darkness
until I can see myself
light enters shade
but a hidden world remains
currents in transition.

I take time to breathe
the love from the earth.

I cast my wings
until they catch the wind
flying with the bees
in the humming of the garden
I understand creation’s dynamo
far from the engine
of civilisation.

Darkness fades into light
on this awakening to truth.

Searching for freedom
in this serene sanctuary
the heavens blow
uttering belief
amid the sandstorm
of lost souls.

Turning the world upside down,
in this external pilgrimage,
God in technicolour,
the comfort of our home,
questioned in the sea of humanity,

washing our sins away,
doing work without
desire for reward,
living in oneness with ourselves,
all in togetherness
on this road to enlightenment,
a collective display
of devotion
in mind and heart,
behaviour disciplined,
in the name of the Lord.

These pictures of history
cast shadows
on my world,
traditions fall,
in every step of progression,
but the bitter taste
left still
in apprehension,
misfortune in the poor,
the seeds of wealth,
scattered in contradiction,
plaques the masses,
while the monk meditates
in knowledge,
as rich as the next man,
in a paradox
of spiritual degree,
the manufacture
of this civilisation
is seen,
while nature speaks
and angels sing,
the listening ear beneficial
in the darkness.