a poem is a sermon
It feels like not that many years ago there was an interest, almost a “movement” if you will, to seek out and embrace our “authenticity”, to “get real” with ourselves and our world, and cut through all the game-playing to get back to the essentials of human living.
We like to think the truth is complicated,
that life is how it is because it’s hard
to figure it all out while it is happening
and comes at you, rapid fire, non-stop.
We like to think our big brains are so useful,
that the solutions we come up with are so wise.
After all, we spend so much time thinking.
There must be something worthwhile in it.
If we can see a thing, we call those blind
who claim that it is nothing, just a dream,
and ridicule each other’s faulty eyes,
imagining the great truths that we find
are the exclusive provenance of “mine”.
If we can see a thing, we call those blind
who claim that it is nothing, just a dream.
If you take an inch
when offered only a mile,
how far have you gone
beyond the wide map’s edges,
where no length is yet measured?
What good is a ruler
past the end of the known world,
where one nothing looks
so much like the next something
that both have no start or end?
What is the point? A blue flower opens.
Who sees a flower? The sky is cloudless.
Where are we going? A wave tickles the sand.
Who feels the current? The wind tastes salty.
Why do we not know? A butterfly passes.
Who sees tomorrow? The moment is endless.
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