Poetry by Erwin L. Rimban: Even a Stunted Tree May Seek the Sunlight, Sanctuary, and To Heal the Strands of Insanity 

Even a Stunted Tree May Seek the Sunlight

Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

The grace of a thousand years may ease the pain

Of one who has suffered for eons, mark the time

In parchments of lucidity and chaos, both.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

Mortal forms may attract youthful bravado, they say

And a hundred symphonies may hope to sing

In verses of fragmented desire, amid the ruins of time.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

Why revel in purity, honesty and chastity

When so much of life is chaos and denial?

Born of the fear of primordial elements, in combat.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

Chalices are born and die within seconds

The credulities of the past may beckon

To the uncharted waters of romantic wanderers.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

Chasing virulently eras of lost time

Amidst the neglect of depraved nativities

Whose bosoms may erupt in fragile ecstasies!


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

Bellowing, bellowing words of belligerence

Into a sea of voices whose provenance

Must and, always, shall be, housed in mortality.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

The cast of sorrowful crones’ crowd

Domiciles of quiescence and transform them

Into habitats of noise, chatter and loneliness.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

We are all victims of our sordid fates

Housing our failed desires into common goals

Whose attainment we may never obtain.


Even a stunted tree may seek the sunlight

Into the maw of Chaos, some form

Of Order may prevail, perchance; and Intelligence

May yet prove the Victor of the day!



To flee from a Sanctuary

Mystic sight piercing the edges of twilight

The price of freedom immaculate

Is priceless beyond compare.


But who shall cradle the Sun?

If the Moon may be missing for a time

Who shall fathom the emblems of pilgrimage?

Etched in the shifting stones of springtime.


The cadence of the caravan beckons

Should we delay too long the plunge?

And who may perch from the window then?

To erase the stigma of the silhouette of Night?

A memory may still live, one of death

Born of the conqueror’s tide, steeped in passion

But to enter the fires of the Sun

One must admire the challenge of flight.


And in the vocation of the monks,

Shall solitude indeed be found, perhaps?

Or is withdrawal a kind of selfishness

An abnegation of service, a failure of Love?


Tell me then not of singularity spike

Shall the soul be raised within the folds of night

For if the altruism be missing from thee

Who cares to plumb the secrets of Eternal Delight?

And, we, who journey in communion

Shall rage against the silence of fools

Those who think the occult can save them

When the Great Cycle ends in the bosom of the One!


To Heal the Strands of Insanity 

She danced, she danced

Within the mortal coils of death. Her aspirations

Bordering on the phantasmagorical. Who can fathom

The vicissitudes of her mind? Ruptured with cadences

Of impure thought, emanating from incipient caverns

Of revenge.

(And the night has become the Night of Consciousness

When mortal bodies collapse in the heat of

Reversed verdant dreams. When youth claimed all

Possible worlds are indeed possible,

Ignoring time, and temper, and temerity.)

We tried, we tried

To reverse the strands of fate

With ample doses of psychotherapeutic dreams

Mixed with sauces of loving care

Wrapped in the tendrils of intimacy,

And passion. Was it enough?

For you, who has gone inwards into your cavern?

Where mental health dare not pronounce

Its naïve sermons on top of irrelevant prognosis

And prognostications. We may procrastinate

And say that healing is a day away.

(A day away from succumbing

To the deadly paths of chaos, your mind

Still clinging to assumptions and verities

Of the past, which may or may not

Have been true.)

And so we toil endlessly

In the fortresses of mental health

To uncover vistas of reparation,

To unveil portals of recuperation

Within avenues of seclusion

For that is the way our fragile minds

Conceive. Our mortal strands perceive

To heal the strands of insanity.


Sensei Erwin Rimban has been a spiritual, metaphysics, and meditation teacher for over a decade. His works are featured in the Journal of Metaphysics and Connected Consciousness, The Mindful Word, Panegyria Journal, The Minds Journal, and others. In his free time he plays chess, listens to classical music, and has been known to try jogging once in a while.


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