Tuesday, September 25, 2012


Late at night the poet wields his pen
Revealing the strange things everybody knows
To eyes that see but do not look, and ears
That hear but do not listen. The sons of men
Cannot survive reality’s hammer blows
Without some armor, but armor only kills
And must be chinked and softened by many tears.
The question is answered, not by minds, but wills.

The Truth will kill you, if you let it reach
All in you that is not true. It does but slay
What is already dead. The image shields
From nail wounds, but one might as well say
That we are shielded from the dance by other dancers.
We will not learn so the poet cannot teach,
Cannot conquer because we will not yield.
So full of questions, but no longer believe in answers

 Perfect love casts out all fear, but there
Is precisely mankind’s dilemma. The apple grove
Is littered with rotten cores snatched down still green
From living trees. The unready, stolen gift
Turns our stomach sour and tears a rift
In the fabric of the cosmos. All this has been
Our curse, that now it is precisely perfect love
I vitally need and most supremely fear.
Oh Rivers clap your hands, ye mountains dance
And by your dance say things too full of truth
To be said with prose; by bright-eyed paradox
Shielding hearts from the Lover’s fiery shocks.
Burning into our hearts. The fire of youth
Hides in ancient patience. We look askance
At giddiness; not all is gold that gleams.
But wisdom hides in foolishness and so we dream.

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