The Hypocrisy of Faith

Steeped in idol trepidation,

an iconic stature,

a reasonably moral conclusion,

yet,

a stark reminder

is when we choose to know our side.

 

Which side, whose side,

why should we decide

what favor we rely upon to gather strength,

when choices made,

become the standard bearer,

the party favorite.

 

Words bandied about,

tribalism, loyalists, mongering,

fear.

A certain repudiation

turns into a bizarre creationist

fable toward standing on firm ground.

 

Yet the earth underneath my feet

feels unstable, feels temporary,

like a bandaid worn in critical battle,

we are the masses,

we do decide,

whether we choose to believe or we do not.

 

I am the one with faith,

the I have to readily acknowledge,

I haven’t a clue in what direction,

I choose,

will have any great matter,

when in faith I do choose to lose.

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While Digging

With a mental spade in hand,

I broke ground in a volatile land.

 

It is the sort of tale we often forget,

when suddenly life simply won’t relent.

 

I crossed over into a forgotten meadow,

only to find I’d still carried a shadow.

 

There is a reality in knowing the right word

to help move beyond what we might think absurd.

 

It is a choice,

to dig.

 

While the atmosphere around us seems trite,

there is a powerful settling in dirt contrite.

 

Seems the space may no longer feel quite clean,

once the reality of our lives become serene.

 

Oh stop again,

for the dig.

 

Seems the further inside the realm of disdain,

less easily is the worker’s ability to complain.

 

Seams in the environmental cause will display

while every last item of loss has fallen his way.

 

Though the earth has a forever sort of fallen ground

gives credence to the prison in which we are bound.

 

We cannot ever escape the tone of the suddenly frail,

its competency so built upon retelling a scorching tale.

 

Instead we dig, we do try to compel a story,

written by ourselves to discover just what glory

 

lies in the dig,

where uncovered,

 

we fall victim to knowing time is a circle, a place

whereby all of our insecurities likely keep pace,

 

while digging,

in search of a likely capsule.

 

The ground itself in however it may swell,

always uneven, one might never retell.

 

I Wonder About Love

Oh it is true the feeling you might have,

the moment the mention,

the imagined response to knowing,

wanting, having, believing, sharing,

all the keywords that could be eternal,

always an option,

for it was told,

we could often recall,

the word, the name, the title,

the option,

… and yet we always do somehow return.

 

I will always remember

when being told,

the actions will speak from afar,

only if I might allow hesitation

to surround my being,

to create an obstacle toward

seeing

there is a certain Truth

to believing.

 

Yet I always return,

whenever the feeling seems right,

there a door opens,

and I do choose to walk,

walk right in,

answer the call,

remind myself of the

the, of the,

of Thee

bigger picture

beyond the wall.

 

I wonder if it is all so simple,

I do often try to recall.

The Panic

That moment cannot define,

While leisure is blind,

Some heartache not known,

Deliberate havoc the mind.

~

When we bargain our soul

To help construct a goal

Some manner of conscience

We stammer feeling less whole

~

I stood in audience of value

A wonder of eyes chaos flew

My hope for redemption

Lost again in the sordid blue.

~

So seek an answer, a resolve

Shrill anxiety strength dissolve.

Haven’t Heard

I listened only long enough to fear,

the easiest emotion,

that moment when suddenly confusion, our lives,

becomes less about

being in control,

far more about wanting to

run away.

I want that,

more than anything else in the world,

I don’t want to be there when it happens.

I don’t desire definition.

Whether we begin to accept anything at all,

seems relevant only to those who might no longer need hope,

those who are the souls walking the earth tonight.

They are the ghosts in and around our mechanical antics,

fleshing out the reality of our lives,

while we with little regard for our own sanity,

struggle to understand just why hate needs to be a precedent

in our daily lives.

I cannot imagine the horror beyond my own intellectual

reaction

to all of the cruelty that exist outside my door,

outside yours, theirs, and wherever I walk tomorrow,

well that could be the right place again …

the wrong time doesn’t really have definition anymore.

~

Perhaps there is something to the purpose of faith

beyond expectation, beyond us, beyond me.

Letting Go of Control

We do so often choose to realize

far too late,

the consequence of our dreams

~

While stroll sweet surreal in disguise

we often relate

yet fully unaware of our screams

~

Much later of course when commitment

has taken hold

we’re left to only wonder alone

~

Were it simpler to define our resentment

might then getting old

be less severe without needs atone.

~

The other day blocks of wood fell to earth

when some drove by

a few decidedly helped out the aged

~

We are never told to act as if simple girth

become the reason why

ignorance bemoans the world’s ragged

~

upon our soul as we strive to move forward

we wish for time to release attitude toward.

Sadness Play Reality

The ache is real,

unspeakable at times,

only once do I recall,

I felt ok and able to deal

with mild scrutiny.

.

I wonder who the speaker is

today, when in a fast few,

the imagination is able

to slowly sway

toward oblivion.

.

I began to know

one afternoon,

when suddenly my emotions

poured freely without instance,

into this pool of words.

.

Again, in this hour I have fear,

undefined with little access

to optimism or honorable

merit.

Only the reality of time.

.

Suppose we all experience

some loss when

in a slow vacuum

our lives become exposed

to sombre inefficient news.

.

I wish the roller-coaster,

ever so present in my mind,

the conveyer draws me forward

without any allowance.

I wonder if it would be true.

.

Is this situational, or ever present,

how many years later,

do I recall the same anxiety,

menacing and ever present,

always a … reminder.

.

When in the forefront of memory,

remains those mindful idyllic dreams.