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.

 

When Wandering Headlights Weep

In picture windows across the world,

they watch, they stare, they sometimes

cry,

they’re the souls left alone to wonder,

watching the headlights streamline by,

like a slow motion ray of long wound

catapults of energy,

sweeping past the imagination

without waiting wanderers,

perhaps ne’er a question of why.

 

We all might wish to have that moment,

a second of their time,

screeching tires and suddenly

out the door, a person,

a human being assuredly defines the rapid

departure of any possibility

defining the time

we just watched sweep past our reality.

 

Yet for that next few hours,

she will, he might, and they’ll return,

to their security,

the picture window,

observing the reality with swift purpose,

motion by,

as if to recognize

there is no one waiting nearby,

only everyone lays ahead,

in the distance,

there’s the real reason why.

We Might Yearn a Child’s Eye

While we ran the backyards,

the slow walk through the dandelions

pollened by summer’s bees,

we did think alone,

the same way we,

the same notions, we may

have today, the same wonderment

of the psychological nature,

compels our being,

causes our heart to swoon,

allows for the time to stand still,

we can all be in love

when we know the answer is

truth in the manner of an eternal Grace.

I do know love, I like to say,

much better than yesterday,

though a child,

I knew love unconditionally

until one day …

 

We wander beyond our lost innocence

a compelling stir

of reality and fantasy,

suddenly knowing why our tears

could last forever,

or at least until

we are told that is

good enough,

life goes on,

time to move forward,

hold onto memory,

but never ever recall the same.

 

As a little boy,

I used to watch cars slip up the hill,

a winter’s night, the street light,

snow filled the neighborhood,

and my ten year old self

safely tucked inside a picture window,

could watch the world survive a winter’s storm.

I would often wonder about the people inside,

if they knew I was watching,

if they could tell even in that stormy moment,

they would never be alone,

lost and frozen in the cold,

the ice of the street

would prevent them from

being in their own home,

the comfort of home,

putting aside all of the day’s

concerns,

having a martini,

perhaps a cigar,

and maybe a little bit of fantasy,

thinking about that woman at the bar,

and wondering again,

did she really smile,

or was that simply nerves.

 

I once left a hillside campground,

the whole walk worrying about fire,

and later ran back up the trail,

crossed the mountain creek

we liked to call it,

a little stream of shale and rocks,

gurgling along Woods’s Hill,

a memory,

when I returned to camp,

the fires had begun to ignite,

I felt like a boy scout

stamping out our ignorance.

 

I remember the day he died,

my world ended just a little bit,

enough for me to know,

reality was a far greater burden,

than the easy bliss of childhood fantasy.

I remember thinking then,

I would never worry about dwelling

on the past,

because nowadays,

there is too much excitement ahead.

 

I never forgot you man,

always on my mind,

I’ve often wondered if your childhood,

was ever so easily defined.

 

While Sitting Alone

The picture window,

my guide to the world around me,

could be a rainy day,

I watch the slick survival of a city,

might now sunshine cast shadows,

while domesticated bird houses

offer a gallery,

for my child-like eyes,

to always wonder why.

 

Soft fabric of the green sitting chair,

matched the other nearby,

always vacant to my stare,

yet, I could rely upon its permanence,

never to leave me,

always after eyes searching the world,

step back in to my shelter,

and there the matching green …

There’s always something

reassuring

about the static in life.

 

I once was a young,

who only felt tears when

necessary rites of passage,

would slow my way.

Eventually I’d find windows

to imagine, take me away

to different places,

my mind a brilliant coaster,

never letting me stay in one place

forever too long.

 

Sitting differently today,

the furniture rearranged,

wishing all those moments

I wanted to get away,

would somehow return,

I could then seen them both,

sitting with smiles,

the usual way,

because back then,

I never felt that breeze.

 

The picture window,

still remains,

a different set of eyes,

glancing through their destiny,

wondering about the other side,

where the glass is pummeled

by the occasional stray bird

trying to find their way,

child reaches,

and wings drift away.

 

I remember one afternoon,

listening to the rain,

wanting everything

to always stay the same.

Is That Love?

rain

When in that first cry

your eyes look at me

soft your gentle gasps

you are welcomed with open arms

When as I walk past you

your expression in light

search sweet his response

your fingertips curl hair with distance

When while rains fall

your hands gentle

seek shelter in his grasp

your arms intertwined stroll wet

When while she waits

you might imagine love

share spectacular smile

your willing delight as you hold her close

When by his side

your tear soaked soul

show reason to believe

you will miss him despite failings

When while lives wander

we belong together today

swoon our heart’s when we search

we have our true love known we live forever