Why is everyone so fucking blessed?-“I’m blessed, you’re blessed, we’re blessed”
Gods have better things to do then help your dreams to crest.
If you’ve reached a dream or goal you did that all upon your own.
Or you were lucky or just hardworking but by Gods your “blessings” weren’t sewn.
Take credit for what you accomplish…don’t give it away to invisibility.
Gods didn’t give you the things you strive for; you did that with your ability.
Gods may answer Life or Death but not for prayers of “I need” or “I am”
When it comes to the material I just don’t think Gods give a good goddamn.
Many Gods for many places
Many Gods with different faces
Many Gods each with their tasks
Many customs, books & masks
Many philosophies on how to live
Many instructions to love & give
Many instructions to hate & smite
Many holidays-festivals of light
Many days dour remembering death
Many orders to keep prayer on your breath
Many gods for many places
Many gods with many faces
I’m my own god with my own faces & places.
I once fell in love with the sweetest fruit
Who rotted & withered as she crossed the sea
None of us remain the people we were
But all still recognizable to me
But through better & worse we’ve evolved
But never once did I ever expect
The kindest of hearts to devolve
I love other fruits who’ve ripened with age
And though their rind is rough & sage
They’ve aged like the finest wine
They remain sweet & kind
And not like their soul burnt in life’s oven.
She no longer has love for me. She joined a rebel fruit coven.
Monsters aren’t often made of tentacles & darkness.
Sometimes they sidle on up, wave a hand & smile at us
Monsters aren’t often found in bleak, foreboding places.
Sometimes they hide in plain sight with bright & shining faces.
Monsters aren’t always out for blood, feeding on fear or killing.
Some shake our hands & kiss our babies & seem ready able & willing.
Monsters aren’t often built out of talons, claws & giant maws.
Sometimes they work behind the scenes to hurt us with abominable laws.
Monsters aren’t always from nightmares or afraid of the day.
Often they do their worst by daylight, on TV & by offering to “show us the way”.
Monsters of the dark aren’t half as bad as the monsters up on the hill.
Daily they damage the fabric of reality by lying to get their fill.
Monsters are everywhere today just about everywhere you turn.
But we people are the ones to vanquish these creatures who our fires so easily burn.
What is poetry if not an X-ray of the soul.
It’s a scan of what we hide inside in darkness black as coal.
A poet scans the soul of things…themselves & those without.
They see into the hidden places & turn them inside out.
They roll it over in their hands & rinse off all the rot.
Then it’s polished & bright & ready then to be poetry’s plot.
Black blood ink soaks into the bright white page from the nib of fountain pens.
The pens designed from broken bones found behind the X-ray lens.
And whadduyaknow! The things we hide turned out to be rare diamonds.
Poets have done this from the dawn of language & will until la fin du monde.
I’ve become a thing of twilight, constantly in between.
Smashed between the light & dark where things can & cannot be seen.
The danger of the night looms low; the safety of day in the sky.
The writhing nighttime forest floor is is still very much alive.
The light of dawn dusts the crests of the landscape confusing the human pupil.
Live things skitter & screech about me at hauntingly varying decibels.
If it flies or crawls into a corona of dusky light…then I see & know it.
If it creeps or slithers around my bare feet; I adjust my eyes & intuit.
This is where I know I belong in the rivers of in betweenness.
I’m comfortable in this misty foggy state. It’s mystery a power to harness.
No one comes to look for me here & if they do they can’t find me.
For in twilight the light will camouflage all things into a dusky sea.
So twice a day I find myself in my melting or icing element.
For I have become a thing of twilight…acceptance my only sentiment.
Raise you children…
raise your children to revolt.
A new beginning…
not the same old status quo.
teach them to be free…so that they will know joy
teach them to stand…so they won’t fall for any decoy
teach them to walk…so they can find their way
teach them to run…as their moral compasses say.
Be or help them find a North Star
Show them how to create dreams
Convince them that our promise runs far
Fill them with excitement for a world of possibilities bursting at the seams.
What is worth…The length and breadth of a woman or man?
What can we do to prove our worths within this flitting lifespan?
Worth is defined all around us…usually attached to retail.
But is worth money or something inside? I think buying your worth is a fail.
We’re all of us in some way addicted to Money…our current god of worth.
But more of us are seeing another validity…one from inside us brought forth.
It’s born of experience & has no connection to Money. It’s built through your life on a loom.
It’s how you reacted to illness & poverty & your fate. How far do you sink in the gloom?
Do you bob back up & ride life’s waves or sink into inky darkness?
Do you fill accounts with binary money, hiding it with finesse?
Are you poor & angry or poor and smiling… kind or spoiling for a fight?
When going through hell do you weep & wail or move onward though your soul’s night.
If you rise up from being knocked down & pennilessly reach the crest…
Does living a good life without skill or wealth make you worth less?
I crashed a ball where the dead were dancing Dressed to the nines & looking fancy.
I recognized some faces here & there.
Though, most were of much stranger fare.
Masquerade was the theme of the fete.
Monsters in masks…I felt like bait.
But no one heeded me hugging the wall.
For finally the Debutant entered the ball.
The guest was shining calcareous white.
Shrouded in shimmering celestial midnight.
I let go of the wall & dropped jaw at the sight.
Headed for the door for I’d seen Man’s Plight.
Safe outside I craned to see a party’s crescendo, ignorant of me.
I guess you’re nothing to Debutant Death until Debutant Death comes for thee.
Social, Living Democracy is the only answer for Us & Our Living Earth.
As more & more wake up to themselves as a member du monde entier,
World leaders will follow the evolutional suit. Though they are known to be late risers.
Their scheming dreams constantly heated to to pitched & fevered fires.
The paper by which our contract is made is living & amended within an inch of its life.
Should we abort it & start anew. Or, keep amending away til it’s right?
Either would work for me as long as Life, Speech & Love are free.
You can take your beared arms & shove ’em up your ass…for me.
The living Earth feels quite the same… amended within an inch of its life.
It’s time to get out of these quagmires of Color & end all this racial strife.
For, we are all People with Cultures to share… every Soul just making its way evolving.
So, if we could all foster forward change… Mother Earth just might keep revolving.