THE POWER OF THE MIND

To
be a
winner you
must first
believe that
you're a
winner. It's
the power
of the
mind that
controls
and make
whatever the
brain
thinks
happened. Life
begins from
within the
mind.
For
there's
nothang one
can do
without
the consents  
of the
mind. The
Power Of
the mind
could
control the
roll of a
dice.
The Power
of a
positive
mind changes misfortune.
Determination
and enthusiasm
are the
openings to
the
entrance of
greatness through
optimism.
Confidence
makes the
stairs smooth. Self-reliant
with focus,
Leads to the
quickest pathway
to massive accomplishment.
#c9_fm

If I  die give 'em all a sight
show 'em all the stories that I never got to write
put me on the stage and for the first in a very long time
let them hear me sing, let them see me shine

sight-reading
that's all we can do
never hearing the melody
but still singing it through

focus on the details
focus on the song
and piece by piece like a puzzle
someday you'll belong

JBP Maps of Meaning, behind the morning, Audible
lifting mental me to a youth long gone. When
my own maternal granddaddy made
pancakes for me, and I listened.
He sang… usually,
"When the role is called up yonder…'' that line
only over and over, as he stirred batter,
long time ago.

My grandsons 8 and 11, inform me
they have finished the series of
Harry Potter, confessing to
using Audible for the last
two. Seven books…

something mythic lurks under knowing some
things are unknowable,
in the reality we share
beyond the palisade, over the wall,
in yonder
systems of motive and act
One based on story the other on out-action,

done deeds, set and sprung… snares and traps

engines to rule the random, change now,
to the now of the next, once the trap
trips and you,
dove
to
the bottom and drownd, as it were, if so
you did die, before, aforethought, after all
previous
dying and carrying on, past Nietzsche and Jung,
slam
bang Jesus- heroic savior is there nothing
we can imagine doing ,
to free me,
not us,
me… listen… If I listen too long, eventually,
I die, disintegrate, lose my self
composure,
my integrity with the otherwise is cut.
-- all this at speed of thought. No time passes.

Ah, pain, the
cutting deeds, do these only if
you know what is done as
the trigger looses the wedge
binding the spring,

all the apriori things in the realm of thought at

the speed of thought, live and learn,
learn and live.
Live in words longer than mortal minds imagine,
break each word down to meaning,
meaning complete knowing of all
that is

at the moment. Nothing missing, nothing broken,

next appears as now, unmasked.
Shabat shalom,
as we make it in my realm.

Life in action in the forum of story, Oh MY
Goodness, if this were not simply true,
it could be shaped into a box.
Subliminally.
We could all agree, the three of us, and place each
a gift with a good state, a meaning and affect
for good when good could be better.

Taking each gift, with no special interest in knowing,
what
if there is a state of lack,
when each thought thing is noticed
used up, taken, gone, done?

How were we to know we may destroy our selves,
the very idea of me, held by me,
dies with me,
the first time?

Then back to the kitchen in Pine Valley,
on a cool, foggy morning late in
harvest season, today or tomorrow, we finish,
just before the latter rain in 2020.

Bisquick pancakes with Skippy and Nutella,
as Gabriel, the younger of the afore mentioned two,
listens as I ask him, what makes the bad guys bad?

He gives me the ****** signal, "does not compute."
What power makes bad guys?
In Pokemon'?, he asks.
Yeah, I reply,
applying pressure on a point I know,
itch can be
set to ask for a scratch
at just the right word,
in the future…

Now, Grandpa, touches the spot.
Bad and good is in the use of the time, we think
we know
but all we know is made up of things
we think
we
know, even we, there needs be a me and a you,
and some

thing-sense between us, some thing
we are we in, within.
Aye, and something we are without,
when we be truly
evil, beyond bad, useless but to **** and steal and destroy.

Like Marshadow, says Gabe.

As an idea,
Mohammad Saif agreees, Grandpa sees.

Magic slate in hand, the Mage's fingers dance a pattern.
FTA - find the answer, what are
"The Ten Most Evil Pokémon"-- {no s, just Pokémon, eh?}
Marshadow is number one.
Marshadow dwells in the shadows
of other Pokémon
and humans - {Jungian, nicht vvahr? ;-}
Strange fruit from my 2020 vision tree of knowns

… the shadow knows… since Radio…

Marshadow dwells in the shadows
of other Pokémon
and humans
while trying to mimic
their behavior and abilities.
Not only is this creepy,
it shows that Marshadow is a sociopathic ghost
that can follow you
without ever being noticed.
As this Pokémon
improves its ability to imitate its prey,
it becomes stronger until it can overpower them.
Marshadow is based on the ancient Hawaiian night marcher,
a ghost of a fallen warrior who was killed in battle."

From <https://reelrundown.com/animation/Top-10-Most-Evil-Pokemon-till-Date>

Dare me did you, liar? Is there a story being told that disregards
my participation in the grace that granted everything
purpose in working together, for good.

For ever, after all, up to now,
has worked and works
at this moment.

Breathe, two steps, one action leads to life,
non action marks this the end.

Whew. Grandpa-mode is the highest mortal level.

“You need to relax your mind”

That’s what my mentor said- leave the past behind
Focus on my mental health, & continue this grind
She could tell that I’m special, staring right in my eyes
She said I’m accomplishing more than others, 25, I’m right at my prime
Her words were encouraging, keeping my worth alive
Mentor is right,
I need to treat myself; maybe travel the states
Love on my girl & generate some more wealth

if you focus on the best of life it will be created to you
and if you focus on the worst that will be created to you too

I am trying to listen to the birdsong
But all I am hearing are cars
And screaming and arguments and doubts
And I am trying to hear the birdsong
And I, in focusing on the things that are not birdsong
And being annoyed,
I cannot hear the bubbling brook
And the wolves howl
And the cicadas
And I do not notice
Because I am trying to listen to the birdsong.

There must be a message
in the occurrence that whenever
in a closed-up space of time
I can never sit down
to any mind-occupying activity
yet resort no matter what
to observance,
passing as unrequited passion
of someone else’s (vocation),
shape-o-thoughts and sensing,
being the music the radio is listening to, and tender stupefying approaching
to hurt questions and structures
who hold onto philosophy
and one stance.
My depth darts me over
to finally look straight
into my own eyes
instead of straying,
diverting from the claim of my proper door.
I cannot die and will not,
will not leave my higher stake
for the trash bins’,
among which we live in,
sake.