Categories
Poems

Kindness and the Fool

The Fool is eternal,
Always there to greet you,
Under any circumstance,
With a cold grin,
That spreads from ear to ear.

The Fool comes to You,
Without a finger lifted,
The way you wish Kindness did,
But Kindness is no one’s weakness,
The exact opposite,
Of what the Fool consoles you:

“You’ve been hurt,”
The Fool cups your heart,
With a comforting hand,
Wicked with long sharp talons,
“Sharpen your words with my whetstone,
Brandish your daggers,
Red-hot your brand,
So as to leave them with a mark,
They shall soon not forget!
Ready your fiery whip,
If they show you kindness,
A sign of weakness,
An opportune instant,
To lash them across the cheek,
Leave them with a kiss,
A reminder of what is to come,
When they move against you.”

You look at Kindness,
Their back turned to you,
And so you lash your whip,
No obstacle to distract your aim,
A smile plays on your lips.

You’re winning,
Protected,
Dignity restored,
You were hurt,
Doesn’t Kindness understand?
That complete and utter fool.

You are legion,
Kindness has their back turned,
Not on You,
But on the Fool’s army.
What else would you call an army,
Of recruits who whip,
Lash and stab each other?
Unaware of any common cause,
Or of the mission?

Every now and then,
When there comes,
A synchronous lull,
Within their ranks,
Kindness sends some words,
For those who might know,
How to listen:

“I am Kindness,
I am a difficult choice,
As eternal as your Fool.

In my care,
A legion,
Moving in unison,
They do not gain dignity,
By taking it from another,
Their worth immeasurable.

Your whips, brands, daggers, and words,
Leave only marks quickly healed,
My followers are survivors,
Humanity’s caretakers and builders,
Veterans of Fools’ armies.

In spite of and despite,
They choose to be kind,
The deepest of gashes in their hearts,
Scarified,
But yours continue to bleed,
Comforting talons digging ever deeper,
Every time you look to the Fool.”

Categories
thoughts

Writing poetry

Creating art, for me, is almost always an act of catharsis. Poetry is an interesting form of expression: when I am writing it, I am usually in a heightened state of lucidity.

A first step feels like all of my mental faculties are working simultaneously on extracting a lived experience.

A second step is more challenging: translation. Taking the language of memories, emotions, thoughts, sensations, et cetera, and finding words and phrases that validate them.

In that way, art (in this case, poetry), is like a vessel that contains more than just its author’s creativity, time, and literacy. It is like a vessel that contains a microcosmic view of the author’s particular experience of their world.

Unfortunately, poetry is not as readily accessible to an audience as, for example, a song, especially in the way that the author intended it to be received.

Insomuch as that may be the case, is it not a beauty of poetry that it elicits different interpretations from different people? All of whom are reading the same work, but each of whom connects with the poem as per their own lived experiences?

Categories
Poems

The failed poet

Look at me,
My dear friend,
Before you ask,
Make careful your observation,
Of what presents itself so obviously;

And obliviously,
My unriddling has its limits.
What do you call,
Someone who is doomed from the start?

A poet whose pen beats?
With ink bright red?
Who can only share his lived esotericities,
In phrase-twists and wordly ideas?
Language already half-cloaked,
Experiences always slightly out of reach?

But most outrageously laughable,
He still wants to share his broken prose,
A worldly venture.

My dear friend,
I am the failed poet.

Categories
incomplete works thoughts

Art

Art can strive to remind us of the larger picture, to bring us out of the little boxes that we use to keep safe. Art should strive to remind us that we can choose to have beating hearts larger than life, that we are so much more and that we can do so much more. Each one of us carries a piece of humanity and of the Earth, each one of us has the potential to move humanity and the Earth. A work of art should aim to bring its audience back to these basics.

Categories
Poems

Borderline Worlds

In how many worlds does your heart reside?
I will tell you about mine.

In one world my heart is old,
Yearning for richness in life,
Where the language discovers emotions unknown,
Where north, south, east, and west precariously balance,
and each with their own story.

In another world my heart is a fool,
Where east and west will not meet,
and I mediate,
As from them I had emerged,
yet each wishing to be chosen,
and I am left depriving both.

In my world my heart must be proud,
Because pride is the strength that defends,
The scales that balance the uneasy stories,
with the mediating fool,
Each with the desperate need,
for a better world.

Originally written in 2013
Reworked in 2015

Categories
Poems

Working Peace

Breathe,
slow and deep,
It is this that soothes.
Compose,
your self,
It is this that readies.
Endure and accommodate,
You must,
It is this that allows its existence.
Focus,
a warning if you don’t;
if you dare an act of self-relevance
it may disturb your focus,
Focus
Indeed and well,
but you will be weary
if not wary,
It is this that takes away what can’t be returned.

Categories
Poems

Mine, all mine

Dear reader,
Preface to a preface,
I knit words together,
From my heart
About my heart,
Alone