σύζυγος
We are so afraid of holes because
Holes are signs of imperfections
Holes are where decay set in.
People look into holes
And only see gaps
So we cover
Our holes.
But
What if
Holiness
Is when the holes
Are allowed to work?
Letting light through the breaks?
Since fists too tight to open
Can never hold another hand
Or release the regrets of the past.
I’m packing my sarcophagus
To take into the afterlife.
My house and car and property,
My pets and children, plus my wife.
My education and degrees,
Awards and many accolades,
The land investments, stocks and bonds,
And all the money I have made.
And now to place my body down
To all my things, myself I give.
But if in death they have no worth
Did they have value while I lived?
The bank gave me a dollar bill
To give the bill to my good friend
To build my shop atop the hill
And see construction to the end.
I thought that I had taken care
To guess the cost to build my store.
But he replied, “I’ll help you there.
It only costs a dollar more.”
He had my dollar, I had none,
The bank had zero dollars too.
They gave me credit, minus one,
So I must pay them back with two.
He started planning up designs
And buying up the wood and bricks.
But not long after gave a sigh
And said the piping needs a fix.
I sought the bank for one more loan
Which filled them with anxiety
My debt was large and now had grown
So I must pay them back with three.
One day I asked when it’d be done
He said that it was hard to know
Since nothing’s free under the sun.
But where did all my money go?
He laughed and said to think it through,
“The money goes around and ’round,
And it will all come back to you,
The store will rake in pound for pound.”
I paid my friend, who bought the wood
From others in the lumber yard,
Who paid the grocer for the goods,
Ensuring wife and child don’t starve.
Then they would use that money too
Investing in their businesses
And hire one more lumber crew
To reach much further distances.
But then I had an awful thought
What if the money never came?
Just stopped up at the very top
By wealthy hoarders playing games?
If funding does not circulate
Then how will I repay the bank?
For payments which are paid too late
Will make my credit rating tank.
And interest fees will pile up high
Undoing everything I made
Until my value’s sucked up dry
While hoarders end up getting paid.
“You borrowed from the future you
And risked it on this present bet.
The banks did only what they knew
To roll the dice that you had set.
You’re too far in to try and stop.
You’ve got to trust the system works.
So open up your hillside shop
And gamble with those banker jerks.”
Of course, he egged me on to try
The risk was mine and mine alone.
The system rigged to watch me die
And suck the marrow from my bones.
I cannot trust that they would play
By rules so everyone would win
Because if I were them I’d say
“Well, don’t you know what game we’re in?”
In the furnace of steel and the surface of sand
Are the burnishing yieldings of personal plans.
And my friction with you gives conviction to prove
That the mixture of two is a picture of truth.
This is the imminent mark of the emigrant
Wherein the icicles laugh at the littlest
Sending the officers out like the nihilists
Time will soon equalize loss to the legalist.
When we witness the violence that people commit
We declare that these monsters we cannot permit.
Yet it’s strange that we humans will never admit
That they also are humans, not demons from myth.
It is humans who rip away mother from child
And the same who would trample a fellow when riled.
And the instant we glance at the skulls we have piled
We will know in our hearts that our race is defiled.
But acknowledging this is a beautiful thought,
Because monsters are creatures who cannot be fought.
And accepting the truth can more often than not
Redirect our attention to things we forgot.
That despite the injustice mankind can display
We can harness a goodness in much the same way
By perceiving each other as people who stray
And then showing true mercy as well as good grace.
My most favorite person is misunderstood
Because none of the sheep could have known what they heard.
He just rolled up his sleeves and embraced who he could.
There were many who did not accept his new word
But to him it was good because one day they would
And until that day comes he’ll keep feeding the herd.
The tribe had torn itself apart;
A tragic end that none foresaw.
They used to eat what they had found
But then they learned to till the ground.
Their backs were bent to reach the soil
Their minds grew numb from endless toil
Although their crops could feed much more
Their lives were nasty, brutish, short.
And when a cry was raised to stop
And feed themselves no more with crops
The tribe once numbered ninety-nine
But now two hundred stood in line.
So half must leave to lands unknown
But who could judge the ones to go?
And so instead consumed with fear
They carved their plowshares into spears.
The freedom that the victors craved
Was stripped from those that they enslaved
And thus society was formed
To work the fields forevermore.
Goodness
Our whole
Day is
Doomed by
Acts of
Mother
Nature
“Come on,” the mother tugged at loose, plaid sleeves,
The other daughter watched across the street.
My brakes in anticipation squeaking,
Glances from all three plus me at the wheel.
A quiet intersection of our lives.
She then waved, urging me to drive around,
At this moment, more in command of me
Than the daughter too scared to cross the street.
And two parallel lines met just then,
Touching briefly before we all moved on.
Suzugos