(Today I came across a poem I wrote 15 years ago. I have no idea what prompted it, what event caused it to come into being. But I thought I'd share it since it moves me.)
What was it Pilate said to Jesus?
"What is Real?" No, no not that.
"What is Truth?" more like it, as I recall.
But not nearly so interesting a question.
Truth, it seems to me, having learned it recently,
sounds forth like a gong in a gigantic marble room,'
echoing an re-echoing with (what shall we say?)
integrity, constancy, eternity even,
that puts 'honesty' to shame as the self-serving
little slave of convention that it is, truly.
Truth is self-defining, it gives life and hope and
possibility mother-wet wingsmost would deny.
Pilate shold have had eyes to see and ears to hear.
Truth stood before him, stripped and raw,
Truth whispered in his ear and he heard not.
"What is REAL?" Now there's a query worth some salt.
There's a wrestling match worthy of an angel foe.
There's something to wake up just before dawn and parry with--
sword against sword, making sparks, drawing blood.
There's a nightmare full of incomprehensible images
requiring ause during a sudden afternoon rainstorm
with lightening, thunder and a touch of hail.
When someone drag's 'reality' into the field of play,
Being realistic, someone told me recently--with words
that echoed like Truth off marble walls--kills the Spirit.
Poor dead Spirit, slain by Reality's arrows!
(Here's the secret Truth that Reality can never quench:
ice water poured over you in sufficient amounts produces gratitude.
Gratitude is an alias of Truth. Truth is the twin of Love.
And there's this--the Spirit never dies.)
Finally, there's simply no where in the cosmos to cash a Reality Check.
There's no currency available. The banks are closed for holiday.
- ► 2020 (335)
- Alas and alack...
- OK, here's the Truth
- A poem I've never shared
- A poem not many read from 2015
- Cheshire is loud
- memories are made of this
- didn't write it down
- holy saturday
- Good Friday
- Maundy Thursday
- April 17, 1947
- I went for the first time in years
- I forgot
- Palm Sunday sermon
- coins in the mail
- Another poem
- The Future
- Reality Check
- something from before not many read
- R.I.P. The Rev. Dr. Bill Pregnell
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