We
were
strangers
for far to long,

We
had ears
for the same song,

We
weren't sure
what was right,
but we knew what was wrong,

Good to know a place
to belong.

There are certain things
to which I will always be
sat upon the fence

My favourite sunset
my favourite poem
springs to mind
as my de-fence

Sister
         There's
                     A
                      Twister
                                   Heading
                                                 Our
                                                       Way
                                               Avoid
                                               I
                                      Must
                               This
                        Gust
                    Of
            Dust
    Let's
Be
   On
       Our
             Way

The death of a loved one,
    effects the souls symmetry.
When the scale of life, tips
     from, knowing, to memory.

It's funny how the followers
Of one religion often find
The myths of their religion as real
And true and easy to get behind,

While the myths of other religions
To them are merely stories, fiction,
Implausible beliefs, and they
Express their feelings with great conviction.

Oftentimes the god or gods
Of someone else's religion become
Devils or evil forces to certain
Believers. A case of zero sum.

It's also odd how many believers
Profess that their beliefs are strong--
That followers of other religions
Are in the dark, deluded, wrong.

In other words, they insist
That their religious point of view
Tops all others, as though they're saying,
"What's good for ME is good for YOU."

I resent it when anyone
Tries to make it his or her goal
To tell me what I should believe
And then attempts to "save my soul."

I also resent it when legislators
Use the pulpit to make our laws
And very conveniently ignore
The fact that such a process has flaws.

"Be a light unto yourself."
Beware of any religion that smothers
The truth, deceitfully pressuring us
To blindly follow the path of others.

-by Bob B (2-20-24)

To be a poet
Is not to burn the paper with your words
but to be heard
when drifting smoke of love and life is gone
the poet in us carries on
when ink and page and pen are embers
it is the beauty one remembers

Arguing a belief till your face turns blue,
    Doesn't necessarily make it true.