You find your real friends
When you are going through hell
It’s easy to tell
They are just around the bend
And only love do they send
Fake friends can’t be found
In pain they are not around
And they make no sound
They leave you to stand alone
And with no love to be shone
In the elder days
They abandoned better ways
And entered hell’s maze
No one entered in
To ask forgiveness for sin
To again begin
All good forsaking
Memories were left standing
And children weeping
In our own blind way
Do we do better today?
And what do we say?
Note: This poem is comprised of four haikus running along one theme . . . Hope you enjoy. Blessings to one and all!
Is love not gracious and living self-giving?
Can love be love apart from self-emptying?
Ah! What is it, then, to think of self first
And foremost while letting others thirst
For genuine, selfless affection that bursts
From a passionately compassionate heart
That puts others first in every part of life?
Yes, this turns modern thought on its head
And puts so much pop psychology to bed!
But let it not be said love is self-centered
When surely we have best been mentored
By those who chose to invest in the other;
Besides which, one learns to love oneself
When he has begun to truly love outside
Of self in an outpouring of adoring love,
For do we ever really learn who we are
Outside of company as our guiding star?
So let us love greatly, both near and far!
Note: This poem is largely in response to not only self-centeredness but also the ideology of radical individualism. It is an aesthetic statement in favor of communialism and the idea that one “finds oneself” within the context of community and, more specifically, that one experiences authentic love in ongoing reciprocity, which begins with the giving of oneself to the other.
From morning to night our plight remains the same:
We hurry up to worry and scurry to fight and to bite
Over seemingly significant insignificants of this life
We have been given to live instead of giving our self
To selfless ways in the rather few days we do exist,
But we persist in insisting on small details in retail,
Social media, movies and video games; it’s the same
And what a shame in living such a sham life
When the world is rife with pain and no gain
For so many of our brothers and sisters upon earth,
Place of our common birth, and what is it all worth?
Endless snickering and bickering over no-nothings?
. . .
And the rain falls as painful tears of God are shed
As we remain so much the same until we are dead,
Always encouraging the better way of life instead
Setting your pace within your very own place
Known to you as home, where seeds are sown
In assurety of the security of your safe haven,
A place you do not have to hide in craven fear,
Where you can freely visit those near and dear,
Somewhere dry and warm where you fly high
And no longer have to try to smile a mile wide
Or hide how you feel, and kneel down in peace
With a new lease on life; after all you’re home
. . .
Setting your pace within your very own place
Somewhere dry and warm where you fly high
Home . . . a place to call my own
Where in secret dreams are sown
A bed where to lay my head
And find the best rest for my body weary
A table where to eat my daily bread
After thankful prayer is said
Home . . . where ideas are freely sought
Home . . . where there is liberty of thought
Safe and secure from all alarm
Walled in securely from all harm
Far above and beyond mere survival
Home . . . where there is daily revival
Home . . . where God is ever so near
And there is no need for fear
Home . . . where there is the heart
And of life every best part . . . home
How can we raise a paean to such a saurian
Without playing the part of the tragedienne?
He is an ugly reptile of grotesque formation,
Curse of creation and symbol of damnation!
But one might rightly suppose that everyone
Deserves an encomium no matter the odium;
‘Give the devil his due’ may be true
But you knew precious little praise
Would be raised up for his person
When you took the bait and sealed your fate
At an altar with many witnesses to tragedy!
Now an agony comes in living your phantasy
Without any approbation for the ruination
Of your life because those who do love you
Esteem you too much to offer such a crutch!
No, there is no commendation
For your double-headed snake,
Only resignation for your sake;
But most of us keep out of sight
To sidestep his poisonous bite,
And you might have done the same but . . .
You’re left alone to hear his seething tone!
So, how can we raise a paean to this saurian
Without playing the part of the tragedienne?
Our only urge is to intone your funeral dirge!
It’s easy to figure out what to say when the pay is right;
You just gotta be careful not to stray
From the lines of your set stage play;
So offer stubble and hay to satisfy the crowd that brays,
And be sure not to step on any feet as your sheep bleat
Because you know you can’t take the heat
From those who fill the seats
And cheat any real conviction,
So mind your restrictions without friction,
Causing no affliction to the conscience by your diction;
Stay within the lines and you’ll still get paid
For your rhetorical trade ‘n then laid to rest
In the best of suits that suits your kind best;
In the meantime, enjoy your little nest of self-security,
After all, you shouldn’t worry about offending anyone:
You say absolutely nothing to cause offense
And show not even pretense of real belief
To the relief of your self-satisfied audience;
So you heap words upon words in keep of boundaries
That were laid by those who paid you to come for hire,
So there’s no fire in your heart, no part of you aflame,
No finger pointing in blame for poverty and atrocities
Committed in the trenches of life, which is not a game!
So rave on, jack ass, rave on!
You are the Rhetorician!
Shattered dreams are left
Broken pieces on the floor
And an open door leading . . .
Where? Surely somewhere
Certainly more than nowhere
Homeless in the heart . . .
How can you help but be lachrymose at the kiosk of life?
You peer into the lacunae of the souls of those who buy
Without even knowing why and you try to explain in vain,
But every person bears some irremovable stain of heart
That you yourself cannot even begin to clean
Because to that one the spot remains unseen!
And who’s to blame for such shame when what you offer
You offer for free to any person who might see the value
Of your gift to lift them out of folly and absolute despair?
Yes, your gift would repair their sickly minds and souls;
Instead, you’re left weeping, keeping your gift in hand –
Lachrymose at the kiosk of life . . . you cry as you try . . .
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