"wariness" poems
poetry is motion graceful
as a fawn
gentle as a teardrop
strong like the eye
finding peace in a crowded room
we poets tend to think
our words are golden
though emotion speaks too
loudly to be defined
by silence
sometimes after midnight or just before
the dawn
we sit typewriter in hand
pulling loneliness around us
forgetting our lovers or children
who are sleeping
ignoring the weary wariness
of our own logic
to compose a poem
no one understands it
it never says "love me" for poets are
beyond love
it never says "accept me" for poems seek not
acceptance but controversy
it only says "i am" and therefore
i concede that you are too
a poem is pure energy
horizontally contained
between the mind
of the poet and the ear of the reader
if it does not sing discard the ear
for poetry is song
if it does not delight discard
the heart for poetry is joy
if it does not inform then close
off the brain for it is dead
if it cannot heed the insistent message
that life is precious
which is all we poets
wrapped in our loneliness
are trying to say
May 17, 2013
May 17, 2013 at 1:33 PM UTC
Walls of silence,
Of guarded wariness.
Walls of hesitation,
Of experienced caution.
Walls of distrust,
Of practiced isolation.
Walls I put up intentionally.
Walls you tore down unknowingly.
Walls I found crumbled,
The door of my heart opened.
Walls I found breached,
And you were just sitting there.
Walls I had never lived without,
Suddenly seemingly unneeded.
Walls I was glad to let down,
Until you shanked my heart.
Walls I should have fortified
With anger and hate and experience.
Walls of "I know better."
Of "There are NO exceptions to the pattern."
Walls of protection,
Of much needed security.
Walls of insulation,
Of broken-heart bandaging.
Walls I won't let down again.
Thanks to you, I've learned my lesson.
May 29, 2014
May 29, 2014 at 9:25 PM UTC
Every day I see this guy pass by my door,
he never steps off the path.
His hair speaks of his woe.
His steel eyes arrange the sky into a box,
the blue is not enough to keep him idle,
he requires the chains of logic.
It keeps him grounded when he could be flying.
“Why should I fly,” he says,
“It’s much too cold for me anyway.”
“Wear a jacket” I might declare.
He would reply, “I don’t wish to sweat through
my sensible clothes.”
(Only twenty dollars on sale.)
He is much too sensible to be any fun,
but fun is not all there is.
“There is science” he would suggest
If we ever were to talk,
I know he would be an excellent conversationalist
His dusty shoes tell of his wariness,
His jacket of his adventures.
(He keeps dust on his clothes to speak for his cleverness.)
“Conversation is for the simple-minded,” he would say.
“I prefer books,” would be my reply.
He would have nothing to say then,
(He doesn’t like conversation anyway.)
but he’d be too logical to let me know
Of his human blunder and illogical flash.
So he spoke to me of his action figure collection.
(“Most extensive, I’m sure”)
Aug 4, 2018
Aug 4, 2018 at 4:41 PM UTC
1. I created my own mask when I was 8 and crying in the back of a cab.
2. I had taken for granted the joy and happiness but my eyes were seeing through tears and for the very first time I could not breathe under the weight of the stone placed upon my heart and we were driving away and away
and away
3. When the plane took off I stopped crying
4. I do not remember the next 2 years
5. At age 13, I spent 3 years being bullied. During winter I would hold my forehead against the radiator until it burned and burned and I would tell my parents I wasn’t feeling well. They would let me stay home by myself and I would feel such relief at not having to see the people who hurt me. I would end my days in my room hugging my frame and reminding myself I am worth something.
6. At age 16 I took my bag full of my broken self-esteem and destroyed self-worth and left the continent to get a chance at mending myself.
7. It has been years but I still feel worthless sometimes.
8. When I come back to the place where it all took place I get mad. The adults who were supposed to protect me just looked at me down with pity and the family that should have been there for me did not understand that I was not being dramatic this time, Dad, and perhaps the saleswoman skills you praise me for were acquired while bargaining for my life you know nothing. I hid all the places where they broke me under a mask that fit so well over my face I do not know how to get it off. It fits so well you never realized it isn’t me, Dad, Mom, you know something is wrong. I see you staring with wariness when I get lost in thought, my hand creating waves in the wind from the open window of the backseat of your car, but you never say anything.
9. Even if you did speak to me, I wonder what I would be able to explain. I cannot even speak clearly to my psychiatrist.
10. I try. Isn’t it enough to try ?
11. The mask does not come off, not for you, not for him, not for anyone. Not even for myself. I wonder if I will ever see my real face again.
Jul 25, 2017
Jul 25, 2017 at 10:50 AM UTC
Sirens, ballads of anguish are singing, ears are ringing,
Our nightingale is shrieking, and children are clinging.
Our Kalyna is red, but wrapped in blood now, not love,
From the massacres aeroplanes bring from far above.
My uncle, enters the now upside-down house of his,
“Welcome”, with a phoney grin, and wariness he says.
The house holding memories is now clogged rubble,
In the land that shall never greet occupiers or trouble.
His daughter's dreams shattered, for the reverie of filth,
It matters not; the nation of his deserves blood spilth,
We deserve not peace, but the delusions of a hag pass,
May he rest in peace, along with the delusion he has.
My mother may never hear the raindrops fall again;
Missiles seal ears with noise, and the death of men.
The men, women and children, who will lead us all,
Through scorched fields with whispers old and small.
She is a hairdresser, she might braid hair for the fun,
But other mothers, braid the hairs of daughters gone,
They keep them safe under a pillow where they smell,
The warmth of days before the dictator's missiles fell.
Red and black are the only colours they pervaded here,
They wish for our colours to diminish and spring adhere,
But beauty routs the devil of ugliness and his conceit;
Our colours saturate our resistance, painting your defeat.
They shall not sprout in our fields, like poisonous herbs,
They "rescue" us, but the gunshots my brother disturbs,
We did one day exchange our dreams for a pistol facing -
Facing the bear who is destruction, within embracing.
Blood accumulated in heaps on the sleeves of killers,
Like a marvel detested in a chapter of stained thrillers.
But thriller this is not, it is lives of the innocent lost;
He plays chess in reality, after a coin he has tossed.
Mothers, daughters, sons and fathers are everyday slain,
but spring soars today, prevails tomorrow - in Ukraine.
Apr 23, 2022
Apr 23, 2022 at 10:06 AM UTC
Fear affords a shallow life
of hesitant connection
and wearying wariness
Delusions in all
of our great minds
blind us
to these quiet moments
of great beauty
reading poetry
Whilst whipping
across time on a galaxy's
flung out arm
Sep 5, 2019
Sep 5, 2019 at 10:48 AM UTC
Where is the line drawn?
Between hope and naivety?
Where the swelling of one's heart is nothing more than a fool's boon?
Instead of being a warming energy that radiates to the limbs?
Is it experience,
Hard won through heartbreak and loss?
Is it wisdom,
Some innate talent that some just have?
Forewarned is forearmed,
To keep the danger at bay,
But at what point does that wariness become a cage?
From what distance is everything far enough away,
To keep out the terrors of the world,
But close enough to live your life?
I'll tell you,
Bear witness to my words,
A question is your answer in this paradox,
How much are you willing to risk?
How much are you willing to lose,
How far of a fall are you willing to take,
For the sake of living your life,
For when you open yourself up to the wilds of the world,
Is when you truly start to live.
Jan 6, 2023
Jan 6, 2023 at 12:32 AM UTC
“but you are too old for apprehension.” her
voice had sounded so, and of this one’s voice,
‘you are never too old for wariness of
an unknown.’ responded astute, drunk
on logic. returned was breathless thought
to the void, filling emptiness with irony.
(oxymoron) and weened the way thru,
concision turned derision with repetitious
definitions that found no actual meaning.
all thought without justification and no
thought with classification. words,
actions, wailing:
empty, empty, empty
then existed less and less from want
of purpose. less and less from interest of
the known; this once forged fear of life. and
with impressive derangement, grabbing at the
only sober keychain. they, with twitching vesper eyes,
their hands jit’ for a false-meeting fix. to nix
the nihilism. and:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
words of this one’s voice. of her’s, “thank
god you’re alive.” from those days, when rains
ranted down, and the trains tripped us out.
those days of our wood’s reclaimed trailer. and
each syllable was never thought to be anything
until aged eyes ached for review those epochs
of breath. but:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
voiced in response to a romanticized thought. and
all epochs lingered upon are no more than a
journal of the winds that blew while we were present.
some diary of listless lust left undated. of the woods, of
a reiterate span in once anonymized transience. and falling
back, thumbing pages for proof of experiences passed into
skewered memory. left are three lines, ill-verbed, to represent
an entirety of past lives. of time once present in yellow-lit
motel room, of apocalyphic musings, and veering prophets
of doom. they, turned sincere apocalyphites. their prayers
writ boldfaced, platitudinous, in concern of endless words
restating – in constant rephrasing:
‘People can go **** themselves.’
but they just kept goin’ on without concern for the dawn.
Feb 1, 2014
Feb 1, 2014 at 5:26 AM UTC
Born into this world as an angel;
experiences unheard of and in defeat-
the mouth of outrageous roars and gel
grown in a circle of many feats.
There came a face filled with scars
the mind of unsure, bold, and assertive delusion
promotes such gratitude and mingled spurs
to run from me, run from such obsession.
The hyenas are so fake in their attitude-
their faces are like an abandoned building
with graffiti to cover their indecisive gratitude,
and pretentious illusions that yield bring.
In the dark valleys with only moonlight,
such attitudes and gloom of darkness
sets in motion the evil wariness and fight-
the lion flights into the cave of the barking mess.
Hyenas crave the deception to feed on lies;
and the lion's assertiveness frees from itself
the circle of dark redemption that proves his rise,
hyenas hide behind the masks on the shelf.
Hyenas are busy trying something new
whereas the lion still never gives up his path.
Hyenas are free spirited in the blues
while the lion is free from the hyenas wrath.
(Possible Chorus):
In the wrath of darkness, one is never satisfied.
In the light of the world, one can be magnified.
No matter what there is a circle of life
that once will be the door to wasted strife.
The light of the world, defeats the darkness of soul.
The assertiveness and protection will be whole.
Feb 15, 2015
Feb 15, 2015 at 4:51 PM UTC
FIREWORKS
A summer night and fireworks
break dark’s quiet whisper,
drowning fragile moonlight.
First a flickering, then
a blossoming of color--
wild and illicit –and
the air’s askew with booms,
delirious with fiery chaos
as a million man-made stars
tumble across sky.
A veil of smoke creates
a glorious illusion --
the art of pyrotechnics.
A stolen moment’s exaltation
without the wariness of danger.
As fire jewels dwindle to obscurity,
there is a strong spell of reversal.
What seemed like revelation fades.
Universe returns to mystery
and mind to world’s reality.
May 20, 2023
May 20, 2023 at 5:09 AM UTC
A hot summer day, lush green grass turning into hay.
A sickly child of nine, in a park carpeted with pine.
A little after six, the other kids gone to eat meals their mother's fixed.
He had no worries though, his mother was always home late,
She was probably at a bar or on a date.
A slight breeze blew with warmth that soothed his skin.
While his mother remained half drunk on tonic and gin.
Realization struck, playing alone felt juvenile.
He started towards home, a perpetual mile.
As he treads down the curb, his wariness escalates unperturbed.
For at home, what he is made to witness, gets him feeling constricted.
He feels bound by a chain.
Formidable lovers or accountable customers.
It made no difference, for after they were laid, they treated his mother like a maid.
Which to him was the epitome of lame.
As he was walking down the street, he heard the soft thud of feet.
Curious, he turns around.
As he was gawking, he saw an old man walking.
Towards him, the man was bound.
Without a trace of infidelity or a hint at destructivity, the old approached the child.
In light of the age on his face, the old man's perspicacity seemed mild.
A long coat on his back and a cap of grey hair on his head, this is what the old man said.
" My dear son, lets have fun, lets go to my house and play.
It'll be really merry, we'll drink some hot sherry and I'll give you enough candy to last more than a day"
The boy measured this pretension, reasoned with apprehension the thoughts of his mother at bay.
He reasoned she won't care, or if she did she won't dare for her lovers don't give her much say.
So he followed the old man, content to have a friend to play with.
Honestly though, it was the candy that his motives stayed with.
They walked along till they were deep in an unfamiliar part of town.
They come upon a dingy little house, which he could have sworn was raided by a hound.
"Please leave your shoes out the door,
Or else you might soil the floor"
Said the old man without a hint of zeal.
The boy pulled of his shoes,
Then the socks came loose.
The candy holding its enchanting appeal.
As the boy walked in straight,
He saw the old man slide the lock into place and smile.
The boy shuddered, his feet cold on the linoleum tile.
The old man sighed, "Common my son, lets have some fun, I'm your neighbourhood friendly ********* "
Jul 5, 2014
Jul 5, 2014 at 4:42 PM UTC
Can you feel the winds blowing?
Can you feel the moon pull the tides?
No,
No I really can’t.
I walk down a dirt path through a certain wood, alone,
Wearing courage…and folly, for the Laestryogons
Are of another land, far from here, where Pythos slithers,
But that’s of another matter, another matter completely.
Regardless, recant and reiterate [here you must leave all wariness
Behind, all trace of cowardice must be extinguished.]
Well I relinquish my stronghold over to the others.
It may be insidious to some but I must ask,
Why the stripes, why the stripes?
They did not unify all different types.
The apple is useless after it ripes.
I think I’ll sit and drink tea till the sun sets, and repeat.
And when I’m stretched out, stretched out thin
I will sit and gaze and grin,
At a passing cloud, a squirrel, a tree,
At the warbling from the aviary.
Mar 8, 2012
Mar 8, 2012 at 11:17 PM UTC
If at first I had seen you as a still-life
Of passing interest, in one of those restaurants
With heightened pretensions of the eclectic: culture in a can
You would have remained void of deepness, to me:
A face half-hidden behind a menu, buzzing neon lights behind your head
Faintly visible enigmatic eyes, above the hors-d'oeuvres list
Some inaudible small talk with another person,
A casual tabloid easily forgotten.
If I had noticed you while you were working
You would have seemed another skilled contractor or employee;
The answer key to the solution I was seeking, though I might have paused
Long enough to suppose you wise, well educated: noble
In the struggle, perhaps wondered if you were always this serious
Even if not on someone's time-clock or your own pay roll
Maybe I would have thought you had a quizzical expression, or questioned
If I had imagined that wariness which seemed to hide behind an easy smile.
Instead, you've drawn me closer in, only toward you-
Pulled me in with no touch, not a glance, nor hushed voice
With only your words, your wit and keen intuition, against which
I've no sort of defense, no sophisticated angle of attack
And words can promise all, or nothing; or simply imply a supposed future
Towards which we might have been running backwards
All this time, while caught up in thinking that eventually
We would be arriving at some place completely different.
Mar 24, 2010
Mar 24, 2010 at 8:02 PM UTC
No blinding light only the wariness
of the daily fracture
Croydon how I wish it was goodbye
you lost your voice a long time ago.
I remember how our played out rendezvous
stripped away the pretense
I have often thought of candle light as a masquerade
flickering like a contestant
and the only cure is the drifting Coombe Woods
where I can hide under those autumnal leaves,
finally letting it go.
.
May 31, 2014
May 31, 2014 at 11:29 AM UTC
owl call gliding over all
coyotes feeding yips and howls
all this expressed now I can sleep
but for jangling metal flagpole
careless winds that raise
my wariness of flags
Jan 9, 2017
Jan 9, 2017 at 11:22 PM UTC
"You're so cute", she giggles.
"Yes I am", I stand up and flex my muscles.
"Liking my boyfriend and **** she blushes and looks to the clouds.
"I mean if he makes you happy then bruh heck yea", I flex my muscles again.
"I'm afraid he does...", she let's the words linger and sighs.
I Furrow my eyebrows and look at her, "You're afraid?"
"Ee mma (yes ma'am ) ", she looks at me then returns her sight to the clouds.
I look to the clouds as well, hoping to see or read further into what she's saying.
I see the grey clouds, bland looking, filled with so much mystery, so many questions, will it rain, will it not rain.
I look back at her, "That he makes you happy?, kana I might be reading a tad too much into this"
She laughs,"I am, what are you picking up?"
I chuckle nervously,"That maybe you actually mean that this vast amount of happiness is scary and you don't know what to do with it".
Her ****** expression changes and her eyes glow with wariness, "Yes, exactly".
"I think you should enjoy it or something? I mean remember how we had a conversation and we don't truly believe in it. I think like just embrace it, I don't know how though", I scratch my head shrugging.
She looks at me and gives me a sad smile, "I'm enjoying it.. but kana 'monate o hela ka bosula' (Good things always end badly)", she sighs.
"That is so true. I mean I don't think we can ever be ready for that so I can't tell you to prepare yourself or always expect the unexpected because regardless of how it is it will always be unexpected. But according to Buddhist or monks they believe that if you imagine the bad to happen then it'll hurt less, I mean sure it may hurt like a ***** but it won't hurt like a mother ****** as it was", I look at her and smile
She looks to be in deep though, "Hmn. Monks or Buddhist are smart", she smiles back at me.
"Yea", I grin and look back at the clouds
Sep 21, 2015
Sep 21, 2015 at 3:08 AM UTC
All poetry, all the time
A 24/7 poetical heaven
Talking about simple things
Wrapped in complexity
And efficiently stripping the complex
Until even the simpletons understand
All sorts of shows
For all sorts of people
Celebrating all sorts of poems
Retrograding avant-garde
Mellow love and romance
Humour, wit and wariness
Rhyme and jive
And beatnik flick
Imagine radio poetry
All poetry, all the time
From the poet to the people
Linguistic loving listeners
Who attentively admire
The soft-spoken words of poets
Cordially confused
Trying to understand
Where all of a sudden
Those most welcome
Listeners came from
Apr 15, 2016
Apr 15, 2016 at 6:19 AM UTC
How I get tangled in myself
Like fear mirroring love
Reaching and making contact
Only to get cut
A disillusioned illusion
What marks two eyes
That are murky sea glass stains
Bags that don't leave with sleep
Kisses from life
Sharp nose
Centered forehead crease
A wariness not one does
Dare to speak
How I get tangled in myself
Like fear mirroring love
Reaching and making contact
Only to get cut
Apr 10, 2017
Apr 10, 2017 at 7:45 PM UTC
So we met with Fate
And looked him in the eye.
So we killed the sleeping dogs
And left them there to Lie,
Whiteness burying the black,
Remeberance forgetting:
Truth is in a salad bowl
held in heart-shaped setting
So we watched the days go by
And eventually lost track.
So we through the wolves ourselves
And then lay there in a stack,
Bound head and hand,
Our sanity exceeding
The wariness of will,
And souls bare bleeding.
Feb 2, 2011
Feb 2, 2011 at 2:46 PM UTC
The world doesn’t make
Sense. It’s not supposed to make
Sense. Things change. Time moves. It’s
Just the way it is. I guess I like to tell myself that
I’m fine with that, but I know I’m not. People drift
Off into different directions. They vanish into a world;
A twisting world of anonymity, where faces and names
Blend together. What scares me about this is that I don’t
Want to fall into this pit. Even in a place where the most
Exuberant become dull and listless with the weariness of
Reality, I would never blend into the wallpaper. I would
Always stick out. I am not just some face. I am not just
A figure of clay who can be crushed into rebirth. I am
Stoic and solid. I am the rock of my soul; the passion of
My spirit. I despise red ink, and I live in a world of naivety
And wariness. Sometimes I wonder if I’m even awake. Lost
Inside a dream. Barefoot, enamored, and hungry for words of
Life. Often, I find myself amidst a place too far from my home.
I’m small and young, but I crave freedom. I don’t know
Where I am, I don’t know where I’ve been, but I know
Where I want to be….who I want to be. I want to leave
My mark somewhere. I want the world to know that
I was here. And so, I spend my time devoting myself to
My words. I will utilize my hands, my tools,
what I can to make my words alive and
Fighting on the page. An artist
Is more than just a title;
We are the
Things that
Make life an
Interesting and
Mixed up place.
Artists are the stuff
Of dreams and poems,
Of mysteries and curiosities.
I am an artist. I always will be. I find
That in order to be, I must write and make
My art. And so, because I must, I shall. I will never stop
Or cease to create the things I love. I am here, and through my
Poems and my art, I always will be. My words are more than just words.
Mar 29, 2013
Mar 29, 2013 at 12:12 AM UTC
you dreamt of him last night.
you can't remember what he said
but his mouth whispered poetry
and his hands made a screenplay.
he wrote a note on a napkin
with a blue ballpoint pen,
you can't recall what it read
but such a phrase could start a novel.
you crumpled the paper towel in your hand with rage,
he ran back into your mind and lit a fire in your heart
causing your pulse to waltz and hum
to the song that played.
you dreamt of him once more
for words he said the last time you met his eyes.
you were drunk, of course
and a sentence can become a masterpiece in the blink of an eye.
draining half a bottle of cheap *****
merged with sour lemonade and stale diet coke
won't stop you from making similes between running your fingers through his hair
and the bubbling sensation of a fizzy drink.
i know you tried coffee and it made your hands tremble
with a wariness that obliged them to write,
and you compared caffeine to his touch
and the colour of coffee to the specks in his eyes.
i also know cigarettes didn't work,
their bitter taste reminds you of the arrogance in his expression
when he utters your name,
the despise contained in those two words until articulated by his face.
you don't need another drug that inspires metaphors longing to be made.
his scent can't be replaced by twelve glasses of perfumed champagne
and even if caffeine makes your heart beat faster than he ever did
all you see in coffee grounds are his big brown eyes and his chocolate mane.
reeking of cigarettes won't do more than cloud your windpipe and put in mind the burn of your hands intertwined.
no substance will ever overshadow the drug a human being can come to be and no abstinence syndrome will be as dreadful as waking up from a dream.
Jul 18, 2015
Jul 18, 2015 at 2:05 PM UTC
i hate it when i'm with a group and a person's laugh appears and sounds to be so real
but then the smile is quickly wiped off their face as they stare at nothing in particular
when the joke's finally said
and everybody else is finally done laughing
when they aren't aware of my awareness of their wariness
Jul 9, 2015
Jul 9, 2015 at 5:20 AM UTC
Hearing a psyche shatter used to fill me with rapturous delight
Leaving nothing but a cheerful laugh, as I sink further into the smoke
But living as a silhouette has lost it's ephemeral comfort
No longer does this shroud provide security
Keeps getting thicker and thicker, but the sense of safety doesn't seem to come back
I can feel it seeping into my mind and forcing it's own reality
What am I
Am I cunning or am I timid
Am I controlling these people or am I a slave to my flaws
Is this an exit or another artifice
Should I wait for someone to save my humanity
No
You may be able to part this forsaken haze with your sweet breath
But I am the only one who can expel this poison from my lungs
I will not fear my shadow any longer
It shall be behind me, where it belongs
Wariness is what I deserve from you, but that too shall blow away in the breeze
And when the smoke is finally cleared, I hope you will look to see what remains
I pray that you will like whatever I am
Feb 3, 2012
Feb 3, 2012 at 12:46 AM UTC
the paper in front of me remains unsoiled,
no traces of muddled thoughts,
blunt conviction,
or even a speck of wariness.
the solace that i had found
in creating my own gospels
was nowhere to be found.
words no longer gushed
from the corners of my mouth,
nor did it try to burrow into nothingness.
no matter how many times
i twist and untwist these jumbled letters together,
i am woefully greeted with none other than
static and white noise.
Jul 11, 2022
Jul 11, 2022 at 12:52 AM UTC
You and I are opposed.
We are like disparate species,
Serving an inverse purpose.
Our strange essence seems
To set us on polar paths:
You are the flight-stream of "SHE".
I am the fight-stance of "HE".
You wing in the breeze,
Brilliant and inspiring,
As a Bird of Paradise!
Your feminine charisma
And intuitive self-expression
Looks to all the world
As an affirmation of freedom --
Freedom of voice, freedom of velocity,
Freedom of line and trajectory.
At once so sharp and aerodynamic
And again jubilantly hued!
A flash of sun-lit feathers,
Racing on the wind!
Your air-borne voice is a
Canto of melodious joy!
And your brilliant laugh…Ah!
In truth, I swoon to the
Hollo of your untethered
Celebration, connected, as you are,
To your clan of heart-wise purists!
Your levity (you levitate!),
Your choreographed costumes,
Your graceful pace,
Your soul-evanescence,
Your radiant face!
Yet...I stand opposed, it seems,
In my direction.
I am the Sentinel and I am at war.
I stand watch: raised up --
But by a wall atop, not by wings.
I see a world of trouble,
A world fearful in its enmity.
I look only to the perimeter,
Scanning for our enemy.
I cannot relent from the struggle.
I must stand vigilant as I have sworn
To protect you and all my tribe.
I fight to return to you –
To my friends,
To my family,
To my lovers,
To my neighbors –
A world inspired by hope;
One committed to the healing
Of our many wounds.
A world grounded in the
Recognition of our core
Dignity and our highest lights!
This charge keeps me on task,
Through the dark and cold
Silence, before the clash.
We see the world from opposing perspectives…but we are tethered
To each other by the chains of shared
Endeavor:
You, with your joy and brilliance,
Bringing happiness and creating
Family bonds -- bonds of friendship,
A shared sense of play and
The wonder of human beauty –
Me, in sober wariness,
Standing watch, atop the wall.
I look to the horizon to discover
A vision of lasting safety,
Justice and peace in our time.
It is my duty to serve our people,
To serve you, my love and
My friend.
I serve the hope of a
Purposed unity and work to
Build a shared prosperity,
For our tribe.
We are opposed but we also support
Each other, as we look above,
To and from
Our highest (deepest) selves.
We scan the heavens for the path
To an existence rich
In love, wisdom and harmony!
We stand together in search
Of a place
Where human joy
Is lived and expressed,
For all the world to see!
Nov 4, 2017
Nov 4, 2017 at 2:09 PM UTC