If a peeling streak of lightning
came rippling towards the crown
of some great and ancient oak tree
rooted to a grassy mound
and if with sublime majesty
that tree came toppling down
would it even let a whisper out
if no one was around?
And would the after rumbles
echo through some sleepy town
where crying little children
huddled from the hellish pounds
of a Heaven flushed with anger
and a spite that knows no bounds
that a tree which lived 300 years
could fall without a sound.
“The more I read, the more I acquire, the more certain I am that I know nothing.” - Sor Juana Inés de la Cruz
In wisdom's realm, Sor Juana reigned,
A seeker of truths, her mind unchained.
With every word, with every tome,
She delved into knowledge, made it her own.
"The more I read," she mused aloud,
"The more I see, in knowledge's shroud,
That certainty escapes my grasp,
A humbling truth, a wisdom's clasp."
With quill in hand and pages turned,
Her thirst for learning, ever burned.
For in her quest, she came to find,
The boundless vastness of the mind.
Through realms of thought, her spirit soared,
Her curiosity never ignored.
A scholar, poet, a brilliant mind,
A legacy of wisdom, left behind.
In every word, in every line,
Sor Juana's truth continues to shine.
That in the endless sea of thought,
We find humility, as we're taught:
"The more I read, the more I gain,
The more I see the limits of my brain.
In the vast expanse of knowledge's sea,
I find, in knowing, my own mystery."
“The best part of beauty is that which no picture can express.” Francis Bacon
If I could see a picture painted
Written in a few sparse lines
I’d know an allure most profound
Sprouting from a well-versed mind.
I’d see the beauty therein unsheathed
That mere words create and evoke
I’d feel the power and the vision
That the prose alone would stoke.
The mind’s eye awakens a fierce beauty
In what the naked eye cannot behold
Its inherent worth is greater to our souls
Than the wealth we often seek in gold.
It's not about the way that certain someone makes you feel.
It's not about that bully from the past.
It's not about the eyes...
And it never was.
Why do you put in so much effort, child,
When you were always going to be here?
Always meant to exist?
Why do you torture yourself so much as if it is by your hand that humans are such convoluted complexities of kind and cruel, as if it's
By your hand that it's all burning down day by day?
Why the self-cruelty?
Dry your eyes.
There is no certainty to any of it for any of us.
Just a lot of dancing around, whether for fun or to pretend it is so and
I say we make it interesting when we can.
So let it go.
And fall away.
The world spins on whether we dance or not.
Don't make yourself a puppet for them.
Don't bind yourself to judgement and insults and shame and hatred.
Don't waste your days on the strings of faceless, heartless, soulless things who don't care for the you you know you are.
Give the dance a pause.
Drop the hammer, put down the briefcase
And pick up some scissors, stranger.
It's not over till it's over.
So while you're here,
Shred that twine entangling your bones to pieces bit by bit and
Spin about however you'd like.
Do a cartwheel.
Shift side to side.
Lay on the ground.
The world is yours.
It always was.
As long as you give up on proving yourself to them and
Do or do not, there is no try
I saw a strange little creature on screen.
It made an old spaceship fly.
The wrinkly old... thing, with skin of green, said,
Do or do not, there's no try.
The little man is right, you win or lose.
Some days, that's motivating.
You set your eyes on the prize, tie your shoes.
The day needs dominating.
"Try" leaves room for error, but "Do" does not.
Keep your head up, and aim true.
Do not merely think about what you ought,
For regret is hunting you.
Take the wrinkly green man's advice, you should.
The wrinkly green man is wise.
Say firmly "I can," instead of "I could."
You don't have infinite tries.
For a Mime
I'd write this poem
in video, without word
Show the way we learn
to control, from the gross
matter, to the subliminal,
I think I'd picture a Man
alone in a deserted world,
black and white, growing
into a suit with tie and shoes
growing older, and moving
through emotions, always
separate, in the space between
the pavement, cars, the buildings
touching the air, and nothing,
looking on with painted eyes,
wide and open but not seeing
the reflection in the window,
then maybe there'd be a puddle,
as tears stream down his cheeks
and he stoops in fatigue,
and happens to peer in,
pokes a finger, with disbelief
finds his face, washed clean, and
his entire form pulled through.
Philosophy quote poem challenge @blu3alex
"Behavior is a mirror in which everyone shows his image." Johann Wolfgang von Goethe
“What worries you, masters you.” - John Locke
From worries and from pain,
Pours down eternal rain.
Fertile soil turned sour,
Mourning for stifled sun,
Light defying existence,
As it flickers out, unseen.
With ocean tears come drowning cries,
Wails of whales in agony,
Sharks with stark wounds,
Fish with fresh panic,
Red is the colored sea.
Waves of worry,
Storms of thought,
The ship of dreams comes down.
Broken together, one gap to the next
Subtext clear cut, the rest? Roulettes
Pick an idea, no ruts allowed
What comes aloud is right on the bud
The cusp of a concept long espoused
worked through mud kin spud but now
High above, a cloud gone wrong
Laughter rung a new aspect and song
How could this be? From minds alone?
Don't know? Me either, and that's the goal
[“Imagination offers people consolation for what they cannot be, and humor for what they actually are” -Albert Camus]
Life: Haves and Have-Nots
Good times keep me going
Bad times keep me growing
Uncertainty keeps me entertained
Karma keeps me chained
Love walks me with God
Hate marks me a fraud
Euphoria tempts with false sights
Suffering makes my stand right
History makes me wonder who wrote it
Debate makes me challenge partisans who quote it
Geography makes me question the borders
And those, behind them, issuing orders
Language makes me human
Between the lines, read, acumen
Deceit is the currency of the world
Life a flag, at half-mast, unfurled
Had it been better had I not been born
And dodged the pain from my crown of thorns?
Is it better to go-and-grow from times good-and-bad
Than to wonder, not, from a life not had?
I am spewed into the world
Uninvited, unwelcomed, and hurled
Come what may, it's mine to be
Being alive makes up for what life does to me
Inspired by Salman Rushdie, The Satanic Verses:
“The fact of being alive compensated for what life did to one.”