a question you might ask

What is a human?

 

A creature of the night,

falling deeper and

deeper into a dark pit

 

with each pausing breath?

A figment of God’s

imagination,

a messy bunch of cardboard

at the dump?

 

It is a floating piece

of seaweed,

rising and falling with the tide?

Never reaching land or any space of free will?

 

Does it flash like a lightning bolt

in the hazy, blue sky;

touching the earth with power?

 

Or does it simply sit in a corner

and eat the gears and hands off of clocks?

 

Can it rise up and speak–

Is it confined to a cage like a bird?

Does it sing the song of

redeeming love or

fall through the sky like a

hole-filled parachute?

 

What ever it is,

I’d like to meet one.

 

A real one.

truth as a maybe

surrle2

Maybe we were all wrong,

believing the lies that spill from our mother's mouth,

believing the deceit that fogs our clouded memory,

maybe we were always wrong,

and no one told us that

the sun never sets and always sleeps

while 

the moon remains a projection of our crazed fantasies, 

forever lighting our sky with false hope



Maybe we never came to our own birth,

sitting in the corner of heaven

waiting for the day of deliverance,

but, 

maybe we never came to our own funeral,

death being an inanimate object,

resting on a shelf, collecting dust.



Maybe our daydreams are windows to reality,

that are simply locked in the levels of

inescapable dreams,

And maybe that's what life will always be–

A dream within a dream,

that is never fully realized 

as a figment of conceptual space.




What remains

remains

remains 

unseen in the eyes of the beholder,

Can truth be forced on a believer?

Or does it fall between the sidewalk cracks

because no one cares to pick it up.



Maybe we will always believe what we're told

even though truth is plastered on a billboard,

the creatures of the night splatter paint against the soft spoken words

to hide the way to freedom,

for some strange reason.

And for some strange reason, we don't scrape the lies from our eyes,

even though the truth is evident 

and sublime.


Maybe we will always be lost 

in translation,

swimming for hours to find a Savior of debris,

seeking for the depths of unity and despair

in a world that cares very little 

for common sense.

And maybe we never will.

 

The Flames

I wrote another conscious imitation for class today and I really enjoy how it came out. This time I imitated the wonderful Mary Oliver. She is a fascinating lady with the most curious poetry. She has the style and feel that I desire to have some day–I find inspiration by reading her work and also discover bits and pieces about myself along the way. Give her a read, I know you’ll love it. 

Here is the original and mine is right below.

“The Lamps” by Mary Oliver

Eight o’clock, no later,

You light the lamps,

 

The big one by the large window,

The small one on your desk.

 

They are not to see by–

It is still twilight out over the sand,

 

The scrub oaks and cranberries.

Even the small birds have not settled

 

For sleep yet, out of reach

Of prowling foxes. No,

 

You light the lamps because

You are alone in your small house

 

And the wicks sputtering gold

Are like two visitors with good stories

 

They will tell slowly, in soft voices,

While the air outside turns quietly

 

A grainy and luminous blue.

You wish it would never change–

 

But of course the darkness keeps

Its appointment. Each evening,

 

An inscrutable presence, it has the final word

Outside every door.

 

“The Flames” by Rebekah Shepherd

Seven o’clock, no later,

You light the fire,

 

The stone one in the dining room,

The brick one in your bedroom.

 

They cannot be seen

Past the surrounding wooded forest,

 

The great pines and huckleberries.

Even the fauns have not hidden

 

For sleep yet, out of sight

Of crawling cougars. No,

 

You light the fire because

You are lonely in your small cabin

 

And the flames crackle stories

Like a concourse of party voices

 

Their words hum against the wooded walls,

While the air outside slowly becomes

 

A hazy and translucent silver.

You wish the sun would never leave–

 

But of course the night must obey

Its natural clock. Each evening,

 

An impenetrable attendance, it whispers the last word

Outside every door.