Faith comes at the strangest times:
When I read a good book,
When I am touched by another’s actions,
And, yes, when I go to church.
I pull back, though, in mistrust,
As if to say to myself:
“Don’t start that again!”
For the many times I’ve been burned,
And the many doubts I’ve had,
About the bible, the church and God.
Rocking back and forth
In a spiritual quandary,
I struggle so much,
And I hesitate
Before jumping in.
Who or what can be trusted?
(Poetic Asides
Wednesday Poetry Prompts: 135)
Smooth, flying, dreams
Sweet, happy, memory.
Closed. Gone. Past.
The images go by,
Then fall over an edge
Never to return.
Living in illusion
Causes more pain
Then it escapes.
Lies, running, away.
What reality do I
Choose? What is
Real? What pain
Is true? Accept?
(Sunday Scribblings
#270, sweet)
“Whose responsibility is
It to change the world?
And what will be my
Contribution?”
First of all, I don’t think
Anyone is going to
Change the world,
Not really. Obviously,
The world has changed
In some ways, some
People say for the better.
I think we can do more.
I think we can live longer.
But are we more loving?
Do we forgive others more?
Do we have more faith, hope?
No, I don’t think so.
And I don’t think that any
Individual or group is going
To change that. Inside,
We have always been the same,
And we will always be the same.
And I certainly don’t think
Anything I do is going to change that.
And I think it is inside
That really matters.
I don’t think science
Is of everlasting importance.
I don’t think the study of history,
Or sociology, or psychology,
Or math, or English, or
Anything else, is going to
Change anything
About the world
That really matters,
At least to me.
Solid feelings about a
Contingent future
Adds up to what?
And what about a
Future in the extreme,
At the end, perhaps
After the end?
Doesn’t our life really
Show itself to be
Nothing beyond
One chance after
Another?
Does it matter how
We feel about it,
Or what we think
About it?
Does that change
Anything?
Can we predict
The unpredictable?
Sure, there are
Patterns.
There is science.
But science cannot
Predict human
Action or interaction.
Humans are unpredictable.
And the number of
Possibilities of human
Emotion, psyche, not
To mention crazy
Forces of nature—
No, don’t listen to
The damn weatherman!
There are too many
Unknowns.
And the possibility
Of spirituality,
The force of life
Itself, where it
Comes from and
Where it goes,
That, my friend,
Nobody knows.
Luminous eyes looked down on him.
He had felt them on his back,
Accompanied by the sound of
An erratic scratching back and forth.
He stepped away from the fire,
So he could see better in the dark.
“Whatever it was, it was big.
It looked like a wolf.”
“Maybe hungry. Not wise to
Feed wild animals, though.
Perhaps it’s time to call it a night,
Go to bed and hope it goes away.”
With shaking hands, he picked up
The fire bucket and dashed out the flames.
Quickly he made his way
Into the tent. “Bad omen.”
“Tomorrow morning,
I’m outta here.
No pleasure here knowing
Some big wolf is watching.”
“I’ll be sleeping lightly tonight.”
(3WW CCXLIII
Luminous, erratic, omen)
Life is full of change.
Some people are really good
At hiding changes in their life,
At least for a while,
Until life wears them down.
Some people you can tell
Right away that something
Has changed in their life,
But you still have to wait
To see how everything pans out.
Most of us don’t handle change
Very well. Even good change.
As they say all around,
“We are creatures of habit.”
But life has a way,
Even for those who are lucky,
Of bending your will.
Call it God, call it fate,
Or just luck. Sooner
Or later, there is going
To be a change.
When things are going well,
We fear it.
When life is hitting us hard,
We hope and pray for it.
And either way,
Most of us,
Do a funny thing—
We try to control it!
But those of us
Who have tried with
Everything we’ve got
And lost—
We know that life
Is like the weather.
There are seasons.
And within those
Seasons of life,
Anything can happen.
One thing is for sure,
And that’s nothing.
You just take
What life gives you,
And don’t worry
About the rest.
(Writer’s Island
I used to be a very ambitious person.
I used to dream of world peace.
I used to think I would have a great job,
Like a world leader, and then, maybe
A college professor in Humanities.
I used to be the kind of person
That might have believed in the saying,
“So little done. So much to do.”
Well, I never was good in groups,
So I wouldn’t do well in the United Nations.
I can’t read very fast, so
Graduate school was not for me.
Even after my mental illness hit me,
My ego fought long and hard for something
BIG, something to wrap my dreams around.
Finally I settled.
I got a real job, working to pay the bills.
That’s when everyday life hit me square in the face.
That’s when I learned that there are two kinds of people:
Those who make decisions, and those who carry them out.
And I found myself to be the latter.
No glory in being a producer,
No recognition in making a buck.
At least for most of us.
I guess that’s part of growing up.
You realize you’re not as strong
As you thought you were.
You realize that there is always
Someone else who knows more than you.
And, the hardest, you come to see
That there is never enough money.
And dreamers don’t get paid for dreaming.
(Carry on Tuesday #107, prompt:
The last words spoken by Cecil Rhodes
before his death in 1902)
I used to be concerned with
How much I did,
Or how much I didn’t do,
Evaluating whether or not
I was up to snuff
With my own priorities,
And of course,
Whether or not
I kept my wife happy.
Lately, things have
Taken a different turn.
Since my body
Has seen fit
To rebel against me,
And my doctor
Doesn’t seem able
To reign things in,
My priorities have
Changed quite a bit.
In fact, the term
“priorities” doesn’t
Seem to fit anymore,
Not for how most
People think about it.
My biggest priority
Is my medicine.
That’s not a new one,
At least on the surface,
Since I’ve had bipolar
For over 15 years,
And been taking meds
For just as long.
But now it makes
An immediate,
Drastic difference.
And the long-term risk
Without it,
Is terrifying.
It’s like food
And water.
And the third need,
Common to all of us,
But more drastic for me,
Is sleep. More specifically,
I have to keep my sleep
In order. I have to take
A strong round of meds
Throughout the day,
And then really
Pulverize my mind
With meds
At the end of the day,
Just so I can sleep.
And I have to start
A methodic relaxation,
Early, despite being
A night person.
Otherwise,
I will not be getting up
For work in the a.m.
Obviously,
Things have changed
A little bit.
(Poetic Asides
“Priorities”)
I wonder, as I sit here,
Humoring this fool,
Who keeps himself entertained,
With his scientific pursuits,
Should I be participating?
That musician is just as
Guilty as I am,
Strumming away as if
Nothing wrong is happening.
It’s obvious!
This fair maid is being kept
Hostage for his amusement!
We are being paid,
But she has no choice
In the matter.
And look at her!
She’s terrified!
He serves her with meat
As if a guest,
While she counts the
Seconds until he gets
Tired of his stupidity,
Sends us home,
And escorts her to
His chambers,
Where, just as she fears,
He will ravish her
With all his brutish strength.
We should stop it!
We should call the
City guards to lock him up,
And keep this sweet,
Innocent virgin
From such a sinister,
Grisly attack.
There are some things
That just should not
Be done in this world,
And having money,
Should not make it right!
(Magpie Tales: Mag 67 (visual)
Nicolas-Tournier—Banquet-Scene-with-a-Lute-Player)
Dungeons keep
The unwanted.
Towers keep
The necessary
But still unwanted.
In the village
Lives the free man,
Who pays taxes
To the king,
So the villager
Is wanted
For his work,
And for his money.
But what of the great
Flock of angels
Waiting in the heavens?
Busy as ever,
But unknown,
Unappreciated,
Unwanted.
Being an angel
Is a thankless job.
Everyone pays homage
But nobody bears duty.
Being an angel
Is hard work.
You have to save
Stupid people.
You have to keep
Watch over evil men
Who plague the innocent
With their corruption.
And all kinds of things.
But what reward do
Angels get?
They get to be in
God’s presence.
Given, it is a privilege.
But how far does it go?
Eventually,
Even that gets old.
In the end,
Nobody wants to be
An angel.
(Sunday Scribblings
#269 – flock)
Stumbling along the sidewalk 