Dilemma

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.