The Hard Problem

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Nobody knows what it is to be alive

or at least there is no description 

to satisfy all parties, as to when

the lights are on and why we’re 

any more conscious

than this rubber plant, say,

or for that matter this table

or bent wood chair.

 

They call this the hard problem,

the one the best academics

can’t plough their heads through,

that leaves us with only best guesses

as to what that feeling might be,

 

the one that rides within you

on bright mornings in spring

where all the pieces of the world

seem to rise up as part 

of some greater orchestration.

 

Where the chorus of birds, 

the percussion of feet,

the horns of the shining traffic

and even the rubber plant,

nodding by the open window,

seem happy and alive to the 

rhythm of their own existence.

◄ The Secret of his Success

The Wrestler ►

Comments

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Tom Harding

Thu 14th Nov 2019 22:59

Thanks both, the sweet mysterys of life

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raypool

Tue 12th Nov 2019 22:15

Ah Tom, sweet mystery of life forever eluding us, but luckily there are poets like yourself who muse on it and therefore give us cause for celebration.

Ray

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poemagraphic

Tue 12th Nov 2019 17:35

What else is there?

Being in tune with the Cosmos! (Whatever that means)

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