EGO v CONSCIOUSNESS

 

 

 

Ego loves to complain.

Ego 'wants' all the time.

Ego holds onto baggage

like a scab clings to a sore,

 its life dependent on pain.

..

Ego cries: "I am this and I am that!"

Ego is the voice in your head

that identifies and separates.

Ego has to struggle to survive

against 'them,' against 'enemies,'

against 'the powers that be.'

Ego feels bigger and better

 when it criticises and condemns.

..

Ego is not who you are!

You are consciousness.

Consciousness does not reside

in your heart, your brain,

or your mind. It is spirit

and cannot be defined.

Consciousness is timeless,

it has no beginning or end.

..

You cannot know consciousness,

only become conscious of it in yourself.

Sense it, it is the underlying I AM.

You are a human: BEING.

Why not BE HAPPY?

..

Fulfill your inner purpose,

be present in the NOW.

Your past demands it!

Your future depends on it!

Live in the moment,

cherish it, it is all you have.

..

© 2008 Nicky Jones



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LOST & FOUND

 

I lost my mother last night…

 

"Where are you, Mama?" I cried,

my cheeks wet, soaked in tears,

my mind in turmoil recalling the years.

 

Minutes passed with no reply,

and I wondered why she had to die,

and as I pondered life's tough choice,

deep inside I heard her voice:

 

"I am the rain upon your face,

I am the sigh when you embrace,

I am a rainbow in the sky,

I am the gasp, a newborn's cry,

I am the thought that gives you pause,

I am the love and that's because,

I am you and you are me,

together for eternity."

 

"Come back, Mama," I cried,

sure that I would always miss her,

though time dragged on without a whisper,

and as I challenged God's cruel ways,

Mama seemed to smile and say:

 

"Home is here and free from pain,

I'm thirty-five and young again.

Do not grieve or weep and wail,

it serves no purpose, so prevail.

Live your life and happy be,

we'll reunite, you wait and see.

The Mystery is hard, I know,

try trust, have faith, make room to grow."

 

And with these words I realised:

"I love you, Mama," I  then cried.

 

 

I found my mother last night…

 

©2009 Nicky Jones.

 

NEWBORN

 

Love at first sight!

I lean forward peering down,

at eyes wide, a small frown,

looking back at me.

 

A tiny head the only sign

of a precious moment encapsulated,

riven in blood on the mind's eye,

forever.

 

Sweat dripping from my flushed brow,

we face each other now.

For the first time

I smile.

 

He’s nestling there against my thigh,

I sigh, and sigh…

It's over...

The beginning.

 

I feel cold until

against my breast a downy cheek is laid,

the labour of love repaid

tenfold.

 

And so begins our journey,

a subtle link that starts as a ripple,

then little lips meet milky nipple

and suck.

 

My child was born midst pushing pain.

I cry, "I'll never go through that again!"

But clasp my babe close and know

I will.

 

 

Nicky Jones. 

SHEPHERDESS

 

The Shetlands’ lay down tracks three deep,

the Balwen too, each footfall claiming,

care of dainty cloven tip-toe feet.

 

She walks the hills dressed in their garb,

tweed and wool that heather blends,

skirts girded, belted leather barb.

 

The hundred sheep all loved and known,

have born and grown with her alone,

their souls entwined, her very own.

 

She merges with her weathered view,

gorse and bracken tuft and spread,

kept back a bit by teeth and tread.

 

Yarn and weave the sheep provide,

never meat, nor milk, or supple hide,

lives are lived out, and round about.

 

The Shetlands’ lay more tracks for her,

the Balwen baa and nuzzle knees,

she sighs and smiles and brews some tea.

 

The kestrel wheels above, in sky

that pinks into evening dour,

as men and mice do scuttle by.

 

The shepherdess at one with life,

lives beast-like taking all in stride,

she rides the rain, she rides the tide.

 

It all adds up to balance ledgers,

as spirit takes and spirit gives,

and all she has and all she is, she lives.

 

Lay and lines and dowsing tines,

beneath her boots keep straight and true,

her light a beacon skyward shines.

 

The Shetlands’ gather in and flock,

the Balwen climb the nearby hill,

she tips a crook and takes her stock.

 

 

Home.

 

2011 Nicky Jones.

WRITE LIKE YEATS

 

I’d like to write like Yeats!

Forget dancing like Jagger;

who needs that outdated swagger?

Forget singing like GaGa,

she’s current, for now, cash cow.

Yeats, he is timeless,

his lyrical, mercurial seed sown

years ago. It fell on fertile ears;

they sprout, pout with inspiration,

write in his style, beguile,

try to emulate the great.

 

Yes, I want to write like Yeats!

 

Nicky Jones.

 

 

THE GAME - Part Four - Madness

 

 

 

 

 

Looking back she could see her big mistake,

how she fell into the madness pit, where

snakes were hiding, biding their time.

A ladder led to the top, an unseen drop waiting.

The Game was wrong, she knew that in her heart,

but as many were embroiled in it,

toiled away in deceit, bread and butter

in that day and age, a stage for lust,

even love and a happy ending.., at times,

or so it seemed to her, looking on.

That's when she decided to enter the fray,

 

Nicky Jones

THE GAME - Part Three - Married Men

 

 

 

Eventually alone, after he left with Jane,

she tried to make a new life for herself.

Out of the woodwork crept married men.

She knew all of them, some well, some less.

They offered support, a shoulder to cry on,

hoped she was managing her distress.

She was shocked by the creepy-crawlies,

the woodlice tapping at her door,

always a man alone, with a gift:

kind words, flowers, a card to hand,

of course...…nothing else planned.

 

Nicky Jones.

THE GAME - Part Two – The Catalyst

 

In the event her husband had been

putty in the seducer’s hands.

It took over a year for the penny to drop

into her distracted head, normally awash

with chores and meals and baby squeals.

When it did land, bouncing around her bonce

like a rabid dog on a determined mission,

she decided to confront everyone.

The heartfelt denials and lies,

disarming at first, but on closer inspection

turning her into a person she didn’t know.

She began to think jealous thoughts,

dark, hateful, unhappy wraiths

that buried her under more than

nappies, dog’s hair, lego and toys.

Standing at the window, a baby in her arms,

a toddler at her feet, she seethed and sobbed,

robbed of her sanity, imagining the worst.

 

Nicky Jones.

 

......................................................................

THE GAME

 

  

 

Part One - THE CATALYST

 

She wasn't anything special,

a rather Plain-Jane of a little woman,

with a curly perm and flaring nostrils.

She had a big personality, however.

She used it to seduce.

That's how it all began,

with a not so subtle seduction.

The man in question,

the object of Jane's desire,

was good looking, tall and athletic,

and pathetic when it came to romance.

His wife, oblivious to the footsy under the table,

felt able to relax, bask in the knowledge

she had two little children at home;

daddy was hers and hers alone.

 

Nicky Jones.