There are those who worship
At the altar of the ear
Who when they hear a certain note
Will shed a tear.

Some worship
Pastoral scenes
Seeing lakes and trees
They slip into a dream.

The church of haute cuisine for some
Is where they go
Every day
To kneel and pray

There are those whose smell sensation
Equates to olfactorial
Adulation
And infatuation

Some hedonists wouldn’t mind
Being blind
Tactile delights forever
Would suit them fine

Though my five senses
Work quite well
I find myself mainly interested
In my mind.

Sean Hunt  May 6 2016

Watch my poem start
Without a theme

As I wonder where
The words will come from

And what they will mean

Maybe one thing for you
Another for me

Maybe nothing for some
And something for

A 'Fortunate One'

Sean Hunt  
Windermere
Easter Sunday 2015

This little bird,
Only has one wing
Walks around on the ground,
And doesn't even sing
He only has one wing,
And he doesn't know a thing

He's a one winged bird,
He's smart  
        But he has a little heart            

All he knows, is what he sees
On the ground,
Between his knees,
Looking down on the ground
In the leaves

He's a one winged bird,
He's smart  
    But he has a little heart        

My love is unconditional,
If you do what I say
I love you sometimes,
If you love me every day
My love is unconditional,
But don't get in my way

I'm a one winged bird,
I'm smart  
But I have a little heart      

This little bird,
Only has one wing
Walks around on the ground,
And doesn't even sing
He only has one wing,
And he doesn't know a thing

Sean Hunt
  2015 Feb 12th Windermere

How well do we know the “I”
That we see
With our eyes?

The “I”
That we see
With our eyes?
Is illusory
For you,
And for me

It cannot be found
Even if you search
All around

What about the
Very subtle “Me”,
The “I” that
I cannot see?
The “I” that is really
'Me'

My very subtle mind
Is the 'I'
That I really need to
Find


Sean Hunt
Windermere, October 23 20125