POEM: The Gift of Mysteries

The Truthlands are chartless and vast.
I crave understanding.
I’ve tripped through time on jagged lines
in search of mind-expanding.

I’m like a dog in hot pursuit,
both seeking to sink teeth,
and terrified that I’ll be tossed
and die ground underneath.

I’m chasing down a map to Truth,
but it’s the search I seek.
I’m not discouraged that my chance
is little more than bleak.
[In truth, I’m proud to have had such
a winning losing streak.]

POEM: Truth & Beauty

Philosophers speak of truth and beauty in the same sentence.

The only connection I see is that neither can be seized tightly.

Beauty blanches or crumples under the force of a tight fist,

and any truth that flies from a tender grip isn’t so true as you’d like it to be.

Sometimes, the truth is ugly.

Sometimes, beauty is a lie.

Hell, sometimes the truth is a lie and a lie is true,

and often times a beauty is ugly & ugliness is beautiful.

POEM: Truth Buried

Truth is under a rubble pile
covered in junk and debris
marked with (-)’s and (+)’s
chunks of value judgment
that crumbled under the weight of its immensity
or, maybe, because it was made of bankrupt material

many start the dig,
but the love of those (+)’s and (-)’s proves too strong
so they stack and mortar them into solidity
then the truth is no longer buried, but imprisoned

POEM: Subdued

Sail words through the dead of night
When no one can see wrong from right
Cause all the world is shadow gray
Free from the harsh light of day

 

The light, a white-hot burning truth
Sears like a rotten, broken tooth
Stripping secrets to full nude
Until dusk writes them subdued

POEM: Fuel & Fools

Source: Wikipedia (Public Domain)

Source: Wikipedia (Public Domain)




It was a fire-breathing preacher,

a hard-core and ceaseless teacher,

of lessons they said they wanted none.

Yet, it belched them out by the ton.


Spitting fire and dreadful lies

from the freedom of the skies.

And all about, its fires burned.

And people wailed like lovers spurned.


And then one day there came sage.

He found some sad, some in a rage.

“What troubles you folk,” he inquires.


“From far above, it slings these fires!

Can you save us, you wise old man,

from life in this blasted frying pan?”


“Every fire requires a fuel,

And every lie, a willing fool.

Do you feed the beast, or in its fires bask?”


“Neither, of course, and how dare you ask!”


“I can douse the flames, but they’ll flare right back,

if you fuel them with your petty, piddling yak.”


“Just do it, old man, before we all burn!”


“OK, I’ll give you this one chance to learn.”

So, pulling a hose, off the sage marched.

“Mighty dragon, you must be terribly parched?”


“You know, breathing fire IS a thirsty job.”


At a nod, minions spun the spigot knob.

The water caught the grateful dragon in the throat.

Steam rose, ash spewed, and that’s all she wrote.

With no fire to breath, the dragon flew off,

sputtering out its last ashen cough.


The town was saved, or so it appeared.

But it was as the sage had feared.

Soon, some dabbled in volatile mixtures–

at weakest moments, becoming fixtures.

And the fools? Oh, they missed the glow

of the dragon’s garish and tawdry show.


And soon enough, conditions were right

for the dragon’s fire to again alight.