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Philip Salt Sep 28
I am capable of anger
I am capable of compassion
I am white hot rage

Tempered only by the skulls
Skulls beneath my feet
Unworthy feet to touch Golgotha
Unworthy feet to dangle on the tree before me

Cleanse my feet!

Grace of God,
Your example crucified
The indwelling of light on my soul.

I am not capable of forgiveness
My compassion does not endure
Humility and broken humanness collide

I am grounded to shadow
Holy Spirit be my strength
Without it I have no capacity to forgive.

Only to rage on
And it's so ******* hard
Because I am human
Philip Salt Sep 28
Don't be fooled by me.
Don't be fooled by the face I wear
for I wear a mask, a thousand masks,
masks that I'm afraid to take off,
and none of them is me.

Pretending is an art that's second nature with me,
but don't be fooled,
for God's sake don't be fooled.
I give you the impression that I'm secure,
that all is sunny and unruffled with me, within as well as without,
that confidence is my name and coolness my game,
that the water's calm and I'm in command
and that I need no one,
but don't believe me.
My surface may seem smooth but my surface is my mask,
ever-varying and ever-concealing.
Beneath lies no complacence.
Beneath lies confusion, and fear, and aloneness.
But I hide this. I don't want anybody to know it.
I panic at the thought of my weakness exposed.
That's why I frantically create a mask to hide behind,
a nonchalant sophisticated facade,
to help me pretend,
to shield me from the glance that knows.

But such a glance is precisely my salvation, my only hope,
and I know it.
That is, if it's followed by acceptance,
if it's followed by love.
It's the only thing that can liberate me from myself,
from my own self-built prison walls,
from the barriers I so painstakingly *****.
It's the only thing that will assure me
of what I can't assure myself,
that I'm really worth something.
But I don't tell you this. I don't dare to, I'm afraid to.
I'm afraid your glance will not be followed by acceptance,
will not be followed by love.
I'm afraid you'll think less of me,
that you'll laugh, and your laugh would **** me.
I'm afraid that deep-down I'm nothing
and that you will see this and reject me.

So I play my game, my desperate pretending game,
with a facade of assurance without
and a trembling child within.
So begins the glittering but empty parade of masks,
and my life becomes a front.
I idly chatter to you in the suave tones of surface talk.
I tell you everything that's really nothing,
and nothing of what's everything,
of what's crying within me.
So when I'm going through my routine
do not be fooled by what I'm saying.
Please listen carefully and try to hear what I'm not saying,
what I'd like to be able to say,
what for survival I need to say,
but what I can't say.

I don't like hiding.
I don't like playing superficial phony games.
I want to stop playing them.
I want to be genuine and spontaneous and me
but you've got to help me.
You've got to hold out your hand
even when that's the last thing I seem to want.
Only you can wipe away from my eyes
the blank stare of the breathing dead.
Only you can call me into aliveness.
Each time you're kind, and gentle, and encouraging,
each time you try to understand because you really care,
my heart begins to grow wings--
very small wings,
very feeble wings,
but wings!

With your power to touch me into feeling
you can breathe life into me.
I want you to know that.
I want you to know how important you are to me,
how you can be a creator--an honest-to-God creator--
of the person that is me
if you choose to.
You alone can break down the wall behind which I tremble,
you alone can remove my mask,
you alone can release me from my shadow-world of panic,
from my lonely prison,
if you choose to.
Please choose to.

Do not pass me by.
It will not be easy for you.
A long conviction of worthlessness builds strong walls.
The nearer you approach to me the blinder I may strike back.
It's irrational, but despite what the books say about man
often I am irrational.
I fight against the very thing I cry out for.
But I am told that love is stronger than strong walls
and in this lies my hope.
Please try to beat down those walls
with firm hands but with gentle hands
for a child is very sensitive.

Who am I, you may wonder?
I am someone you know very well.
For I am every man you meet
and I am every woman you meet.

Charles C. Finn
September 1966
Not sure about the copyrights here but I wanted to start to share Poems that amaze me written by the best
Philip Salt Sep 24
Puddles are
Flat, they shine, they reflect the sky.
Morning basins over nadirs of imperfection.
Orange and Blue mirrored coverings,
atop pavement depressions.

Puddles are
Built, ponds become reservoirs,
Reservoirs become lakes.
Their faults are fast filling in a downpour.
They are whats left.
The parts that well up inside.
Pools that fail to drain

Puddles are
Wide, water features.
Pushing their natural boundaries.
Drawing attention to the flaws in the bedrock.
Like blisters over asphalt wounds

Puddles are
Deep, crevasses that force channels to erode.
A trickle unchecked will eventually overfill them.
Floods exceed their capacity to keep pace.
Water flows from them

Puddles are
Empty, outflows carving muddy arroyos.
They become eager chaotic rapids.
Worthwhile destructive attempts to drain away water.
To shrink the footprint of their expanse.
To draw attention away from the defects below.

Puddles are
Remnants, each existing atop its own blemish
The Sun rises and greets them
Gradually offering more and more of it's warmth and care
Heat comes to water and water joins the air
Slowly they fade away

Puddles are
Dry, spots in an alleyway.
They disappear and remain safely hidden.
Until the next rainfall tries to convince them that they are just water coloured damaged road
But the sun continues to shine down on them
Renewal begins
I have not stuck the ending on this one yet
Philip Salt Sep 23
A cross of tin
A cross of gold
Both round my neck
Two chains
Around and around
Double forged
Tin and gold
Which to adore?

Crossing loops
At my throat
Known symbols
Through and through
Giving sacrifice
Renewal born
Tin and gold
Which to adore?
.
Two pairs encircled
Manubrium to nape
Black leather strap
Lusterous metal chain
Redundant or inspired
Imagined or required
Tin and gold
Which to adore?

Remove both
Then what remains
Skin and bare chest
Beating breast
Tired body
In need of rest
Tin and gold
Which to adore?

Ringlets removed
Torrid collars
Off my neck
Into bed
Resting head
Tin and gold
Which to adore?
Why did circles
Inspire me so
To write this poem
Before I go
To sleep
Tin and gold
Which to adore?
Philip Salt Sep 23
Love,
There's an Ace up my sleeve,
But I must leave,
Before even playing that trick.
One more hand will end me,
No stand will mend me,
Time to lay my head down in this crib

Love,
My passionate fire,
You won't understand my desire,
To retire from this crooked game.
'Cause you are the cause,
It was your claws,
That kept me all in each round.

Love,
You threw me in,
Like your ***** little sin,
To be devoured by hungry sharks.
Turn me down,
Slice off my crown,
With your diamond blades so sharp.

Love,
The sharks across from me now,
They don't understand how,
A lady made me so green apple coloured.
I've lost my nerve,
Too scared to reserve,
Even one more cut of the deck.

Love,
I have to heal,
'Cause I can't deal,
I've been dealt one card too many.
Drawn out and flushed,
Straight on a purgatory rush,
'Cause I was paired with you.

Love,
My lady luck,
I'm busted and stuck,
Broken down to my last penny.
Help me to close out the night,
To not put up a fight,
So I can play this final river and run.

Love,
Cash out my heart,
You owe me a repair of that part,
That's been beaten dark by your clubs.
I'm all dressed in suede
Expecting to be buried by your *****,
When I exit this game and leave you.

Fin
Philip Salt Sep 21
Eyes
Closed

Maybe
Eyes
Are
Met
To
Be
Closed

Inside,

Capturing
Eyelid
Canvases
Of
What
Was

Silho­uettes
Shapes
Impressions
Of
Light
Glow
And
Dark

Outside,

Gifts­
Of
Soft
Lashes
Cheeks
Brows

The
Beautiful
Visage
Of
A
Smiling
F­ace

Eyes
Open

Maybe
Eyes
Are
Met
To
Be
Open

Inside,

Windows
To
Fill
With
Bright
Rays
Beams
­Streaks

Lenses
On
Landscapes
Vistas
And
Vanishing
Points

Outsid­e,

Ambassadors
Who
Share
Safire
Blue
Cobalt
Green
And
Chocolate
Brown

Friends
To
Those
Who
Truely
See
Us

Eyes
Closed

Eyes
Ope­n
Philip Salt Sep 20
We demand terminality. Shrouded and surrounded by unending formality

We embrace practicality. Expounded and hounded by constant criticality

We crank up tonality. Dumbfounded and pounded by loud vocality

We obsess over finality. Compounded and confounded by life's constant banality

So

Why choose endings rather than bendings as we eclipse the path before us?

Why select stopping instead of hopping over the obstacles ahead?

Why so rigid and brittle, in the place of agile and nimble, when navigating the way before us?

Why is noise more important than poise when we find a still and silent moment?

Why waste energy, and remain out of synergy with nature's sweet symphony?
This is still a better poem in my head but now it is slightly improved. The juxtaposition was not working
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