Love and Fear (and the Confusion in Between)

Love and Fear (and the Confusion in Between)

Love and fear

And the confusion

In between the lines

Of unbelief and faith

Led down by a green mile

Of self-incarceration

With thickening walls

Trapped in the prison

Cells of our brains

Is the inability

Or unwillingness

To act prudently

Stumbling on shortsighted

Hope rotting and wilting

From social commentary

Swinging tongues of swords

In the mirk and mire

Of an endless grudge

Drawing lines

In the sandbox

Of prideful pillars

Or too quick to fall

Into passive holes

With frightened minds

Preying on fractured hearts

Led by false wisdom

Bowing to the gods

Of pseudo peace

And circular reasoning

Strangled by a noose

Of isolated imagination

In the wild dance across

The temples of blindness

Crying against the chaos

Lies an increasing

Chasm of fear

Blurred by fists filled

With a disturbing

Indifference for our neighbor

When all this time

On the opposing cliff

Above the confusion

"Perfect love drives out fear"

[Also published in this month's Synchronized Chaos.]

If only perfect love could spread as quickly as a pandemic. - David A. Douglas

Toy Maker (Extended Edition) - POEM of the MONTH!

Toy Maker

Toy Maker! Oh, Toy Maker!

Why did you create me,

Create me the way you did?

For I can reason with all I see! 

I understand I am flawed

Even to the point of this pen,

My own strength fails me

Unable to reach your perfection.

At first look, it’s obvious:

I am missing my strings,

And I cannot reach the sky;

But, my mind has wings!

I have a heart made of wood

And dreams which float

From here to there, and ev’ry

Which way I turn to gloat.

I can boast of all I do,

Because I am a taker!

I may walk wherever I want,

All, without the Toy Maker.

A seemingly innocent walk;

Yet, I am aware of the source

Of the wind shifting from here

To there, all with gentle force.

It’s apparent I have a back,

Many times it’s facing you;

And I have a dynamic voice,

As if this solely gives me value.

 

Toy Maker! Oh, my Toy Maker!

Why do I have this knowledge?

Because what puzzles me most

Is, I am carved in your image!

Be still, I hear your whisper,

Listen. Listen above the curse –

I am carved in your image

Because you loved me first.

The Original "Toy Maker" written in 2010.

Butterfly Legacy - POEM of the MONTH!

Butterfly Legacy

Consider Darwin died before adulthood

And “Origin of Species by Means of

Natural Selection, or the Preservation

Of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life”

Is never written … in a State of chaos

Hitler is drawn to a different ideology ...

~

Butterfly Effect: (with reference to chaos theory) the phenomenon whereby a minute localized change in a complex system can have large effects elsewhere.

The same localized change can have catastrophic effects worldwide. The full title of Charles Darwin's infamous book is, "Origin of Species by Means of Natural Selection, or the Preservation of Favoured Races in the Struggle for Life". Adolf Hitler embraced the ideology of Darwin's book and the contents therein, which resulted in selective breeding and the elimination of "inferior" races.

What legacy will you leave behind?

Streams - a short story

Streams

Ninety percent of all household dust consists of dead human skin cells. The perfect transportation device for a virus.

Suriv Anoroc stood on a flake of dust. Airborne. His view was dim and blurred. One day he floated into a stream of sunlight. When the edge of shadow met the light, he saw millions of others like him as they floated on their respective dust flakes. He was alone. The faces of the others were painted with fear. He imagined his face portrayed hope, but the light caused the same emotion as the others. He and his kind were afraid of the light. Afraid of the reflection mirrored in their faces. But, as quickly as he entered the stream, he left it. Safe from the light. From truth. But truth as he knew it was provided by the darkness. He who was. Destined by the current, he wondered if he would see the others like him again, despite the terrifying light, to know them beyond instinct. Soon shadow turned to utter darkness. 

For the first time he could remember, he landed. The surface seemed unstable and barren. The black void eliminated his ability to see, but he felt at home in the dark. What was this place? A tremor of instinct permeated his body. But it was more than a need to survive which engulfed his being. He stood on the edge of his dust flake and maneuvered down to the surface. The further he wandered, the more he wondered about his purpose.

Suddenly, he felt a tremor and he quickly scurried back to his dust flake which took flight on a new current. He started to feel weak, and slowly drifted off to sleep. Dormant. And he dreamed. Dreamed of a battle. A battle in which he fought and killed. He woke up and screamed. I am not a killer. He trembled at the thought as he floated in the shadows. 

Suriv could not remember the last time he ate. In fact, he could not remember his first meal. He wondered if he was born to starve. He hungered for the truth. His survival instincts became primal. Without warning, a large mass approached his position. It wasn’t long before he and his flake of dust were transported down a long tunnel. In some strange manner he passed through a nearby wall and was quickly swept away by a red stream. Immediately, he was certain of his purpose – search and destroy, and then feast. But he was reminded of his dream. The conflict boiled within him. He felt the stream begin to heat up. Without warning, he found himself surrounded by white objects much larger than he. They began to attack him. He defended himself but he was in foreign territory. As the battle ensued, his strength faltered. In a desperate move, he saw a tributary downstream and he steered himself to the right of the fork, away from danger.

He fought the urge to kill, but he felt the life drain from his senses. He looked upstream and saw others like him killing and feeding. The white army were in pursuit. He remembered the stream of light. But the red stream provided him with the necessary prey to survive. Instinct. Fear. Death. Make death or avoid it. He struggled with the morality of it all. They were at war. Again, he was faced with an approaching force as the white army closed in upon his position.

Self-preservation, or somehow cooperation. He attempted to rally the others like him – including their attackers – in order to persuade them to seek an alternative to this violence. He shouted out his resolution. Nonetheless, his comrades continued to fight. He defended himself, but to no avail. The battle lasted all night, and the white army was victorious. Just before he died, Suriv wondered if it was the white army who were the defenders, protecting their stream from his army of darkness.

His remains soon exited the red stream. Shortly thereafter he floated on a small yellow pond which soon began to swirl in a clockwise direction. And Suriv was swept away by yet another stream.


(Written March 2019)
#coronavirus

Without a Cure - POEM of the MONTH!

Without a Cure

(Love Song)

The sun fell on my heart

When you gazed in my direction

Causing immediate symptoms

Which radiated adoration

Soon it burned into devotion

Like initials on an oak tree

Or the gold smelted into rings

Worn in passionate symmetry

Without a cure

My love is without

Without a cure

Your love is without

Decades of yearning discovery

In the warm sun or cold satellite

Even with occasional absence

Our flame still shines bright

Enjoying the nights by candlelight

And feasting on noonday pure

Thrilled the sickness of our love

Came without a cure

Without a cure

My love is without

Without a cure

Your love is without

Without a cure

Our love is without

Without a cure

Our love is – without a cure

~

"How beautiful you are, my darling! Oh, how beautiful! Your eye are doves."

- Song of Songs 1:15

"Like a lily among thorns is my darling among the young women."

- Song of Songs 2:2

Second Chances - POEM of the MONTH!

Second Chances

I wish second chances were like dimes.
If only forgiveness and grace could be easily found

like the dimes on the sidewalk

where I inadvertently bumped into you the other day.

I was just carrying my groceries to my car.
But instead of picking up the clearly visible currency of love, 

you lashed out with colorful metaphors and questioned my parentage.

I wish second chances were like dimes.
If only I had picked up a few

from the cup holder in my car as I approached your 
front door only to discover you stood me up. 

I wish second chances were like dimes.
If only you had a pocket full of them when I yelled at you.

You only forgot to take the trash out ...

what was I thinking when a slurry of saliva spewed

from my mouth along with the superlatives which

sent you into a spiral of sadness.

Even though I eventually asked you for a dime,

we didn't speak the rest of the day.

I wish second chances were like dimes.
If only I had taken the time to grab a handful

when you borrowed my car without asking

and crashed it into my ego.

If only I picked up the dime I saw in the hallway

after you struck me down by the slander of misinformed gossip.

If only we could see through our drunken display of insults

at the last wedding we attended a decade ago,

as we both needed to exchange this valuable currency.

If only, ...

I wish second chances were like dimes.
If only we could go to the bank and withdraw them in rolls

so we'd have plenty for those close to us; and when out 
and about interacting with the other humans.

It's quite possible I offended you at some point.  

I'm sure I took your seat,

or that choice parking spot

or I flashed a condescending grin after hearing your poem.

Or to you, I'm sure there's something you're stewing over.

Perhaps a lack of greeting

even though I did spread salutations to the rest of your table,

or maybe I cut in front of you in line,

or maybe I have yet to pay you back.

Hey! I'm just like you.

Full of holes in my pockets and sometimes lacking a dime.

I'm just one of the many other human beings

on the streets and in the cafes of any given city ...

"Hey mister, can you spare a dime?"

~

Epilogue

For Heaven's sake, I know someone

with an endless pocket-full of dimes!

The One (a haiku) - POEM of the MONTH!

The One (a haiku)

A boy and his bike

Abandoned on the front porch

Till Love came to play

~

Then Jesus told them [a] parable: “Suppose one of you has a hundred sheep and loses one of them. Doesn’t he leave the ninety-nine in the open country and go after the lost sheep until he finds it? And when he finds it, he joyfully puts it on his shoulders and goes home. Then he calls his friends and neighbors together and says, ‘Rejoice with me; I have found my lost sheep.’ I tell you that in the same way there will be more rejoicing in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous persons who do not need to repent.”

-       Luke 15:3-7