Where You Kneel, When You Kneel

Where You Kneel, When You Kneel

I curse the ground where you kneel.

A petitioner and penitent,

You give too much power to the fear you feel.

The power of guilt brings fear.

You can't deny it or turn away; 

Your conscience and its false god are always near.

Break your idols and be free.

But walk away, your way and don't fly. 

Wings: they always melt, feeding you to the sea. 

But when your thoughts are so strong, 

That you don't need to exaggerate...

To rise well above the chaos and the throng.

In that place of mind, 

To kneel is to be kind... 

And to kneel when you are there,

Is an almost divine display of care.

Blind Spot

Blind Spot

There is a hole in my world.

It is not black; it is not dense.

It is not bright; it is not light.

It is not a portal, nor a fence.

It is not something missing.

What is unseen, what is unknown,

What is unnoticed, what is fogged...

What is covered over and not shown...

What is not seen, is still there.

It's just shadowed; it's just behind. 

It's just hidden; it's just obscured. 

It's just not in full view of the mind.

That place, 

where nothing shows itself,

Is worthy of fear. 

For anything can emerge 

Out of that grey, shimmering cloud

That is always near.

But what has yet to come out

Is the scariest of all.

It is the scariest because it is unknown:

The thing that brought this fearful place into existence.

The very thing that could bring a bigger fall. 

The Weight of Life

The Weight of Life

The weight...

Or the wait?

No, the weight. 

The heft that cannot be left. 

All that you think when you see something.

The internal context that commits theft.

All that comes with when you think something. 

Knowledge sets you free, 

only if you don't understand it. 

Understanding never lets you be,

If you are serious about it. 

Context acts like a cage,

Bars made out of connections.

Or like the set on a stage,

Limiting the plot and characters' directions.

But that is reality's twist,

As long as we want or insist

On giving life significance and meaning.

Isn't seeing it any other way just dreaming?

Let Us Talk of Normal Things

Oh please speak to me,

Of something else entirely.

Of something every day.
Of something normal in every way.

The boasting and babble,
Coming from the rabble...

The pompous prattle,
Trying to herd us like cattle...

The pandering and prescribing,
Of those that should be leading...

Of all that mob and media and political stuff,
I have heard quite enough.

Don't speak to me,
Of things proclaimed to be true, explicitly.

Let us talk of normal things
And all the confusion that brings.

Let us talk of the everyday,
Things 'normal' in every way.

But that differ in many ways,
Because of the differences of our gaze.

Don't speak to me.
Talk with me,
Though we may disagree.

Empty Chamber

There isn’t much of an echo,

In this empty room.

I don’t hear much distinctly,

In this empty room.

Are there other people,

In this dark and empty room?

Are there ears to hear me,

In this dark and empty room?

I cannot tell, so I cannot say,

If I am alone.

I would act the same anyway,

If I am alone.

There is a window, I can tell,

In this empty room.

A bit of light and noise comes

Into this empty room.

That is why it is hard to tell

If I am alone.

Faint light, shadows and voices come,

Though I may be alone.

I think a lot and listen some,

In this empty room.

I talk and try to work things out,

Though I may be alone.

I am mostly content to be here,

In this dark and empty room.

But is might be time to close the window,

Though I may be alone.

What makes a hero...

Heroes are not perfect, never.

Moreover, no one is perfect, ever.

We had the illusion

                        Of perfection

When there was privacy and respect.

I doubt anyone in the past

Ever thought their heroes were actually perfect.

They just knew the struggles they had,

(Everyday people could see their struggles

Even in the lives of their heroes.)

And knew their hero had it just as bad.

But the hero did a better job managing it all.

They brushed it off after every fall.

They brushed so well, no one would suspect

                                    That it happened at all.

Not only that, but they inspired respect:

A respect that kept the closest people believing

And so no gossiping and not bragging,

Kept them from making trivial shortcomings

Or even difficult, or failed, overcomings

Into tabloid or Twitter fodder.

A great person wasn’t perfect, even then

But they were great when,

With help and protection,

They kept people's affection

And did great things

Without a halo or wings.

Don’t worship your heroes, whether short or tall.

Help them, so they can help us all. 

To Make and Fake

Poetry without meter and rhyme,
is like music without key and signature of time.

It is easier to make
and easier to fake.

It might work out well,
and the audience may not tell...

That you really don't have a plan
or know a pot from a pan.

But a lack of craft
can sink quickly, like a raft...

A raft with a hole
and no soul.

There is a hole in my world.
It is not black; it is not dense.
It is not bright; it is not light.
It is not a portal, nor a fence.

It is not something missing.
What is unseen, what is unknown,
What is unnoticed, what is fogged...
What is covered over and not shown...

What is not seen, is still there.
It's just shadowed; it's just behind.
It's just hidden; it's just obscured.
It's just not in full view of the mind.

That Place

That place,
where nothing shows itself,
Is worthy of fear.
For anything can emerge
Out of that grey, shimmering cloud
That is always near.

But what has yet to come out
Is the scariest of all.
It is the scariest because it is unknown:
The thing that brought this fearful place into existence.
The very thing that could bring a final fall.

And So...

It is easy to be for equality,
When we don’t ask for the details.
When we don’t try to specify
If it is opportunity or outcome.

It is too easy to divide something up,
When you don’t understand it well.
When you don’t know, or care about,
Where it came from or how it was created.

It is easy to assume the ideal,
When then you can fight against things;
When then you don’t have to plan for
How to make that dream come to reality.

If things are not the way we want them to be,
It's because we have not worked hard
To make it so;
We have not sacrificed enough
To make it so,
Or have realized it is not possible
To make it so.

Breaking Ground

It is never easy

to break new ground,

to crack into

the previously unfound.

The unfound is not

the radically new,

the utterly strange,

the boldly untrue.

Shocking is one thing;           

breaking is different.

Burning wood

is different from carving it.

The new maybe familiar,

too much so.

Something you won’t question,

convinced you know.

What you never notice,

but rely on:

the stone of the stair

you daily walk on.

The house you live in,

the words that you use,

so ready at hand

you don’t even choose.

You take them without thought,

use without care.

The depth is lost;

the essence is not there.

Falling out of routine,

to think things through;

break the stones,

and uncover something new.

Stopping to notice,

just stopping to think,

can change the world

in a lingering blink.

Simply stopping

to think what is around,

opens up

the previously unfound.

Not Sick

I am waiting around,
Ready to crack.

Nervous and jumpy,
Watching my back.

Nothing is happenin',
And I'm missing it.

But if the world stopped turning,
It wouldn't matter one bit.

Not a thing would I notice.
Its all so out of focus.

I'm scattered, but quick. 

Not well, but not sick.