Dreaming Awake

The past is a dream, man has only heard of it,
Man dreams of the future, that cocooned hope,
Which reveals itself further each moment.
Thus speaks man: all is but a dream.
We walk conscious after somnium,
Carrying the symbols and stories of old.
We look to the gifted prophets of oraculum,
Oracles, rightly called, giving future guidance.
We cross to to fro by present means of nature’s tradition:
What infinite patience regulates each stride we take,
Each going no faster than the previous!
Who can hasten his stride or quicken his step?
We march to the wild rhythms and harmonies of nature.
But dreams sometimes break the present cadence,
Chiseling away at faith in the visible world.
Evil and virtue wear different masks in the sleepy night,
Clarity is sifted by confusion, distortion is brought to light.
These apparitions can overpower the woken world
And color each moment, authoring new states of mind.
In sleep, I leave that unyielding stride and forsake all men behind.
Yet, if all men only dwelt in my night visions, And I
Were alone in the wakeful world of a lonely sky,
Earth, and sense; waking hours would be dreams,
Dreams without friends; passings of the desolate.
He who hasn’t doubted the world, hasn’t doubted his faith.
Yet, in doubt, we resort to things uncreate,
Things eternal, divine whisperings,  immortal Ideas
Which history and shifting fashion cannot exterminate.
Standing before them, all nature seems but a shadow,
An imitation, and a dream. These resortings
Are foolishness to the faithful– shallowed faithful,
Jailers who doggedly confine their sight to their eyes,
Forbidding their inner light to burst forth and see. 
Yet upon ascension to eternal regions, free men meet
Judgement, Truth, and Justice, and Love.
All good men, in their presence, find they are evil;
Repentant men meet and are redeemed by good.
Humbly, then, we judge the visible by the invisible,
And receive a repaired faith, grounding the world.
But the judgment of the prideful: the good who remain good;
Upon greeting the Idealic Heights, see only a mirror,
And having pondered their reflection, have no idea
What manner of men they are.

 

The Questionable Plan

God bent down with pensive face to light the world on fire,

His hands had weaved steadily the temporal fabric,

That was to become every essence,

Giving life to his paradoxical and intricate plot.

 

And as he stooped low a certain wise spirit revealed an apprehensive countenance,

For he had examined the story that was doomed to unfold,

And felt distraught and troubled over one crimson detail,

A detail immersed in sorrow amongst millions of joys.

 

“What does this mean here?” the princely spirit ventured, “And by what…

He persisted, “what majestic reasoning does this torment need to occur?

Are you not responsible? Have you not become the most abhorrent of all beings?

For in all eternity there has not been such misery, affliction, neither injurious action as this!

Give account now, Oh most Powerful, for this is above comprehension!”

 

This dissident spirit was referring to a small part of the story,

Yet the most significant– Its words were the blackest;

Its pain was the greatest; Its actions were the vilest;

Yet its innocence was the purest; and great was the tragedy thereof.

 

The world was to know joy and bliss,

Endless it seems was to be the dancing and gaiety,

With no absence of bread nor luxury,

Except for one blight– a girl, five years old.

 

She was to be the unhappy daughter of a most insidious couple,

Who took great delight in beatings; conscience hindering them not.

Sent to work in the fields was she in heat and in wet;

Night after night she found no favor yet hoped for a kind touch.

 

The bed was not restful either for she was plagued with dreams,

Of strange men in black coats– hot breath betraying sinister intentions.

At times she woke in the light of dawn fearing the dark fantasy,

And reeling from the medicine she was made to drink the night before.

 

The light of day was no better for there was no one

In whom she could confide but when help was requested,

She was beat all the more receiving severe lacerations,

And sent to reside in a box with the lid shut,

While her parents would leave and return to the house,

Some time later smelling quite strong and acting so violently,

That she desired to stay in the box which became a means of safety.

 

In the end, she awoke one morning to find,

She had not reached the outhouse in time the night before,

And her mother, her own mother took her with rage

Into the outhouse stuffing her mouth with feces,

Leaving her to wallow in the putrid smell of the latrine.

 

All day she stayed without sustenance except the taste of fecal matter,

Giving an involuntary spasmodic whimper which entered the ears of her parents;

Yet feeling they could do no more they left her,

And hesitated not to sleep in quiet restful slumber,

While the quiet of the night was penetrated only by the whimpers,

Easily ignored by the evil heedless ears of her own mother.

 

Sometime during the night sweet merciful Death took her.

It was then she received the only rest ever allowed her,

And the bliss only known through escaping the world.

 

All this to give the world the gift of freewill,

This was what she was worth.

 

The now rebellious spirit looked with disdain at the plot,

And once more he addressed the Maker of All,

“Wouldst thou allow me to bend with merciful finger,

And remove this blight– this eyesore from the fabric of time?

Let not the whole of existence bear this burden,

For who shall atone for this transgression?”

 

Admittedly he could not see all of the story,

But this did not matter to him in the slightest,

For his heart had felt the poor girl’s plight,

And could not leave doing nothing.

 

The All-Knowing One gave a permissive nod,

And the restless spirit grabbed the plot,

Gave a twist and pulled the girl out of the story.

 

As he held her life in his hands he heard a curious sound;

The cry of mad legions of violent men bent on corruption,

Death, disease and destruction infected everything,

And the basest of human desires tended their evil business,

For freewill had taken a turn toward the perverse,

The evil heart grew till it was drunk with delirium.

 

The disturbed spirit quickly but reluctantly put the girl back,

And everything returned to its previous blissful state,

“Why even make this world at all,” complained the spirit,

“Is this what you will– have you no other choice?”

 

The Cause of All– the Knower of All with a look in his eye

That revealed a spark of joy and yet a deep hurt,

Stooped down once more to light the world aflame,

And the bitter spirit saw that God himself had become the Great Fire.

 

He looked in the midst of that terrible light,

And gazed at the wonder within.

Joy and Sorrow were dancing hand in hand,

Never breaking their touch,

Filling the whole of creation with the fullness of life,

And moving in all things with such grace and beauty that the sight of it,

Made the rebellious spirit himself shed a tear.

Ode to Being Normal

Ode to being Normal

Ah, thy perfectly adequate face,
Thy conventional clothing,
In the daylight, they strike one in an unexceptional way.
Thy verbification and vernacular,
The way thy lips maneuver as thou dost impart,
In a crowd, they seem commonplace in this faddish day.
The displacement of thy hips as you traverse,
Thine average gait,
All alone, they resemble everyone else.