escape from each other…

we are
from
the beginning
confined
to
within the lines
from
kindergarten
until
we are
unceremoniously
covered
with dirt
and
placed
into neat rows
with
the occasional
rebel
stuffed
into
a ceramic jar
a jar
to
be placed upon the shelf
along with
the
other
knickknacks
collections
of
framed
photos
or
mementos
from
cruise ships
none the less
we are
still confined
to
stay within
the
predefined borders
of
existence
attempts
to
escape
through meditation
or
encampment
at
some
wall to wall
walden pond
merely
represents
movement
to
another part
of
life’s venn diagram
it seems different
but
one’s thoughts
are
still within the cramped space
of
musings of others
unable
to
truly
be
independent

 

dooming moral choice…

simple to ignore
the faces and lives destroyed
when your eyes are closed
if you ask for forgiveness
you’ll find that our ears are closed

 

poison the well…

words carefully dropped
into a child’s mind to hate
contaminates life

 

missionary work…

 

after returning home
to
africa
a friend
wrote
don’t mean
any
offense
but
after
studying history
and
seeing
what’s
recently transpired
your nation
has
never been
as
advertised
united

 

gnarled old trees…

been
rooted
in the broken promises
of
freedom
for
over two hundred years
so
it should be of no surprise
that
we have grown
roughened
in
our views
of
the future
and
misshapen
in
our attitudes
for
hope
and
justice
in
this nation
oh
when we were young
we could
easily bend
and
not break
when
the winds
of
ignorance and hate
forced
us toward the ground
then
we would rebound
and
once again
grasp at the sky
but
now days
we refuse to bend
nor
do we have to
we have
an outside
that has grown hardened
and
an inside
having knotty memories
of
the pain
of
our lifetimes
we have
grown
and
survived
like
african mahogany

 

formlessness…

like staring
at
stars
we seek
to
find
familiar patterns
of
understanding
for
the amorphous hate
residing
in the heart
of
this nation
we
conjure up
through
our incantations
of
the sacred words
we the people
the
mythical spirits
of
freedom
and
morality
only to hear
the despairing echo
of
our own voices
voices
resonating
in the emptiness
of
each day
yet we
continue
our
self-hypnotic chants
as if
the very words
can charge
the chaotic
into
a form
we can understand
and
thus change
but
like
the centuries
of
incurable believers
before
us
our invocations
are
all for naught

 

mistaken idenity…

every since
high school
you’ve
counted
too much
on
angels
when things
were
bad
you’d quietly pray
that
your angel
would
take the pain
away
it never did
but
you continued
to pray
and when
as
one might expect
the
pain
gave way
to
joy
you credited
your
angel
ignoring
what you
and
your friends
had done
to clear away
the
darkness
perhaps
the light of joy
blinds us
to
the real angels
in our lives
the ones
without wings
that by no standard
could be confused
with some
angelic form
but
that are
none the less
performing miracles
that change
the path
of
our future