The Mind is Not Just Watercolors Washed by Misty Breezes in an Oriental Picture Frame

Modern poetry modern verse contemporary poetry contemporary verse modern poem contemporary poem 

Our consciousness, that thing we call our mind

When it is walking wide-eyed in the world

(And even so while sleeping) has been signed

By some intelligent designer furled

Around inside the hardened jelly gray

Of brain cells. Even with this entity

Enfolded (much to scientists’ dismay)

In skulls, the name of the identity

Of this Creator calls out for his code

To be deciphered so that all can read

The truth of him in scientific mode.

We want to learn from him his secret creed.

  The mind so far can help us learn to think

    As more than strokes of art in Indian ink.

~ Phillip Whidden