What is so wrong with folds and wrinkles, that we have to buff our bodies into this plastic sheen?
Why must I feel that I have to be flawless, just to be loved and seen?
It is our imperfections that make us perfect, after all, exciting twists come from asymmetry,
and it takes the brilliant mind that soars unbounded, to think what no one else will think.
Yet so many of our sons and daughters seek to conform and contort, to pull their skin and clip their noses, until they fit through narrow tube of the media machine. They do not know that this water pipe fills only a balloon-like confidence, so easily burst and demeaned.
We need to redefine beauty, a dirty word, rinsed clean, We need to see that worth comes from service and virtue, not this unrealistic fantasy fed through the lens of the television screen. To scrub our eyes until they're all-embracing, Until every son and daughter viewed as a king and queen.
Everyone is beautiful, when they smile and laugh and live in humility.
I want you to try something. you're reading this for free, so just humor me. Get up, dislodge yourself from the siren's allure of your computer screen, go downstairs or to your bedroom (depending upon, of course, whether you live on multiple planes, like me) and put on an ill-fitting penguin dress, or some equally uncomfortable clothing, turn on Mozart or Chopin or even, heaven permit, Queen, and while standing on one foot, like some venerated yogi, lift your left toe to your right ear Spin around fifteen times in perfect synchronicity, and then SCREAM.
This is what it is to write poetry.
Each poem is a miracle, and a debacle, just as equally.
So I guess what I really mean to say is, Thank you for reading.
I am sore, from all this violence of affection, my expectations, so tender, so oft refused and rejected, from the commitment insecure, the thoughts insufficient, the wanting more, and doing nothing about it.
So I swore, off that myth of selfish longing, to drink no more of that pure hollywood concoction, a poison sweet but toxic, to starve this hungry heart until its greed was defeated, beating rhythms metallic, wanting no more, and thinking nothing about it.
But I am betrayed, by my dreams and delusions, for each evening, they speak of nothing but love, love, love and doing something about it,
They tell of mystic meetings remembered, of long nights lounging in the eye of the sunflower, of the warmth of house and home, and the coldness without it.
And so today, that starving heart's hunger has been awakened, perhaps drunk and delusional, it wants more of it.
Today, my heart will give in to this song, like an addict.
Today, I will sing of love, love, love and wanting more of it.
Today, I will cast my heart out and wish for more, as I cannot live without it.
And I will hope that you will hear the melodic wanting this hungry heart transmits.
The light of your insight will soon languish, Like a fragile butterfly cruelly caught, When truth is claimed not calmly distinguished, When from notion it becomes hardened thought. For the web of this world is full stranded, Chains of existence linked on every side, To learn humility is demanded, In this search, self-insistence will misguide. So do not suppose to comprehend all, As the truth was never made to be owned, Theories are meant to rise and some to fall, Mighty kings inevitably dethroned.
To be un-fundamental in belief, Only then will we find our world's relief.
What effort has been given to the slavers of death and destruction, to the foul machines of war, such precious resources wasted, riven.
And through it all, the result of such heroics? the salt tears of children, starving, burning, the grave of the rose, the firefly's ashes.
But what effort could be given to the liberty of craft and construction, building armaments of different kind, fortresses of faith, weapons of mass living.
And through it all, the result of such loving? the sweet voices of children, singing, laughing, pure thought horizons beyond current knowing.
This is not naivety. This is hope realistic.
This is a dream of life so simple, profound, Though it may seem so beyond achieving.
If we choose hope, trust, understanding choose to greet the stranger and love our neighbor with a preference for altruism serving, sharing then maybe that real abiding peace will not be just eagerly sung, but truly, and absolutely Won.
There's a chance peace will come if we strive, all as one.
Here's another song of peace, by Melanie Safka (jump to the 1:09 mark if you don't want to see June and Johnny Cash):
Oh, what a wicked master is Time, just when you think that you have so much, he creeps like a foul thief upon you, stealing your every joy- like an antique rug pulled out swiftly underneath you, its precious fibers and fringes torn and wrinkled, leaving you unsure, with nothing but cold reality to place your bloody feet upon.
And oh, what a blissful savior is Time, for just when you're sure that you've had enough, he blows like a sweet breeze through you, wafting over your dolor- like a honeyed salve delicately coated over every sore, its soothing art and alchemy, a balm and healer, making you whole, awakened to true reality, the power to walk away and know.
Oh time, you both culled and crafted me. And all I can do is plead here: Please Sir, I want some more.
In this glass ball we call the Earth this sky, this sea, this sandy hole— where the briny clouds and heavens are everyday filled with melodious song, and birds, like blue-feathered lovers warble tales of days and darkness bygone, filling our hearts with the breaths of life, and proclaiming the truth of the arcane and the unknown— are we, these beings which have been given the grace to walk upon this passing world, to bend and shape and till and call it our very own.
And although In this sounding bell we call our shore this place, this paradise, this port of call— where the hidden gem mines and coves are everyday ringing with primal tones, and the words, like pure-winged angels, seek to infuse our minds with wisdom raising our spirits to heights noble, above the ancient and the old— are we, these beings who deny our power, to grasp onto the immortal robe, to clutch and guard and hold and call it our very own.
And so In this deteriorating cage we think our all, our trick, our trap, our transition— where everything is but mirror and reflection mirages of the pure water that is to come, and the shadows, like thin webs, mask the connections between souls purifying the liars from the loyal, beyond the spent and the spoil— must we, these beings with a sight much keener, mend this broken world, change and alter and transform and call it a new home.