You say you love me
Just not my choice
What I hear is
                     your ignorance
What I hear is
                     I love you,
                                 all of you
                     Except the parts
                                 I do not want to love
                     Except the parts
I refuse to acknowledge because
they do not fit my frame
of reality
        
Do you not see the importance
of this part of me?
I would not choose
         a life of supposed immorality
         contrary to a lifetime
                                             of beliefs
         causing turmoil and
         inflicting pain on
the ones I love
I would not choose
         this confliction of
         body and mind
         residing in a life
         of constant discomfort
And yet
         here I am

I endure the pain
         of you rejecting
                     who I really am
         of judgment cast
                     by churched minds
         of sympathetic looks
                     saying Oh you poor,
                                                         lost soul

You poor, ignorant soul
You are blinded
         by your unblinding truth
Refusing to accept
things that may fall
                                 outside your preconceived box
                                 structured by misinterpreted men
                                 two thousand years ago

You can only see
through the cracks
         of the wooden slats
A view not wide enough                                                                              
to see the disentanglement
sgdexenre
s  d  xer
                     g   en e
of ***
and gender                                                                                   
A view not wide enough
to see that a person
is not determined solely
         by their given body
because bodies are temples
and temples need to be built
Temples need to be whole
         inside and out
Temples need to be refined
         after they are first built
                  Cut out rotting timber
                  Fortify with stronger rock
         and carve on the outside
         a reflection of the beauty
         lying within

I am getting ready for the calm.
           relief from the rampant and unwavering thoughts that **** my mind.
           self doubt clinging to my awakening like an incurable disease.

I am getting ready for the artificial happiness to relent
           surrcome to unforced laughter and genuine smiles.

I am getting ready for desire
      locked in the cellar of my shame
      along with so many other things

I am getting ready for hope
       the warmth of it washing over me
       engulfing, cleansing
       bringing with it the unblinding sunlight

I am getting ready for you
       my Beloved

Let Us Move On
Turn off the sun
As blinding rays penetrates our gaze
In its wake we are fire, let us move on
It's a high sum but we won't be fazed
Stepping stones filled with fires
In the midst of the heat we are awesome
Fired we are wired to push past earthly desires
Flames burning our souls we ransom

Let us move on, never taking shade we are lost in a phantom maze
The past leads to hades
Secret tunnels envelops us our heads remain raised
As the sunlight fades
Into darkness the midnight wind grips
It suffocates our senses as morale drops deep
Darkness whips our heart it rips
Open wounds the road is narrow the fall is steep

Let us move on, into the city unrelenting in the midst of the storm
Locked out in the face of the shadows there we go
unblinding gaze we shout out for the son
Let us march on and bring down the gates like the walls of Jericho
For the swift is not fit for the race
Current under our wings this is our testimony
Flourishing as palm trees by the river side tis our grace
We have made our way and it is filled with milk and honey

Of Baseball, Poetry and the Human Condition




~~

From  “The Art of Fielding.”* by Chad Harbach

"You loved it,” he writes of the game (baseball), “because you considered it an art: an apparently pointless affair, undertaken by people with a special aptitude, which sidestepped attempts to paraphrase its value yet somehow seemed to communicate something true or even crucial about the Human Condition.

The Human Condition being, basically, that we’re alive and have access to beauty, can even erratically create it, but will someday be dead and will not."*

~~
  thus, the circle grows ever small,
binding the obvious and unblinding the oblivious

more than the mere, poetry in baseball, for both forms of art,
knowledge intuited from watching the catcher's body weave
this way and that, a dancer en pointe, arms raised in worship,
addressing the heavens with a body's broad brush strokes,
all to catch with concentrated skill, a lazy, towering popup,
climaxing oft with an exclamation point
a perilous desperation leap
into the dugout encampment of the inimical opposition

yeah, you knew that,
tho verbalizing same,
before the age of thirty,
presumed maturity,
was not an act of the sane of heart,
or the sound of mind and body melded

what you dared not admit was that the conditional principle,
was primal and not tangential, though perhaps,
some itinerant fathers foolishly mumbled incoherently
of a life linkage parallel motifs
of
that desperate beauty, the ferric magnetic irony,
that our full access pass to envisioning the finery,
imaging the stuff of our own daily creation genesis,
whether concocting undisciplined disassembled parts, words,
into a line, a stanza that froze your lungs from
the boredom of the regularity of heaving and breathing,
was in no way different
than the curvature of the boy's arm
in desperation outstretched, seeking spectacular safety for
a well hit ball of cork into a worn leather mitten and thus
confirming his humanity to the watching tribal membership

and these momentary moments of momentousness,
will live forever until we die, judged of equal stature,
a soldiers stripes, ribbons of his theaters of service,
medals of the honor and the errors of his own
human condition