Dear God Letter (#2)

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Dear God,

In this freedom of flow moment, right now -
I do not have to be anybody that is somebody
I can just be me…a leaf, not a tree.

One thing or another doesn’t have to be traded
with anyone for anything, all that I want I already
have – in fact I was born with all that I need.

I can’t get so far out, or deep into my thinking that
I forget, that though I have visited with the villains
of despair, I am not despair…

My great great gift is that I survived the onslaught of
so much, and I have come out of that un-fractured,
a bit worse for wear, but unbroken nonetheless.

I am a free man, so my prayer to you today is that you
help me remember that, because sometimes I forget,
yeah, I forget sometimes…but this is a little matter, indeed.

Love,

Poetman

Another Dear God Letter

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Dear God,

To make a poem of you, to limit you to a word or phrase, no matter how beautiful, would be to emphasize or dress you in rags.

Flower drum chant man eyeglasses tipped on a nose, eyeball darting over gray plastic frames singing the chant – Good God, Glory God, Hallelujah… I am amen and the silence that follows.

At a distance God might as well not exist!

Close-up – in the action of darning hope to Joseph’s Multicolored Dreamcoat; god is not so important as the connection of a smile, the outstretch of a hand, or the laughter of poor minstrels strumming blues chords.

This God knows, but cannot teach.

In the holy name vestibule where well-worn versus and vespers are practiced, children die of hunger… and intellectuals ask with scoffing mockery “God allows this” all of us missing the point entirely.

God is not in the word, no matter what the original parchment states. The word is a description of something manifest, and what was manifest was an action. Therefore by my decrepit logic, God is an action, not a scribble.

As far as I am able to understand God has no need or desire or even time to attend to forming for me, or of me, a plan. It is for me to form a plan to act towards or in accord with God.

It is for me to journey to the mountain… because that mountain cannot precisely be reached I am to journey forever, towards the eclipse of two conjoining ideas; that of reason and faith.

And I am to find a way to enjoy this… and I shall!

…it is not another grey morning, I promise you…


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To want to taste…is to reach for a sensation, to furtively search, late at night, or maybe in the morning….shadow bugs moving on walls as light comes in announcing all you’ll really be able to have is an expectation that things are changing…

The morning is grey not because of a depression or a lack of moral fiber, but as an admission that any mist must make to the rising of a spectacular sun, that it is and always will be submissive to heat, to evaporation, to particulation, to dispersal…

And though a dispersed mist may become rebellious enough to regather itself into a wind, and rain for forty days and forty nights – the sun knows, as does any idea whose time has come, that passion trumps subjugation, and makes any day new again….

(Another 10 Minute Poem)

a fence is no way to contain a soul

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They are getting better at building  fences…to box you in. Soon, you’ll have only one place to go…where they directed you. You won’t care though because of the candy they gave you…to eat while pacing their infirmaries.

What you want, is it what you want, or what it has been suggested to you to want? I used to like chocolate, but lately for some reason I’ve a hankering for vanilla, not sure how that happened, or if I ever really liked chocolate…

What the westward ho people liked so much about the west was that they got to build fences there…contain according to their own plans….what was wild and heathen. They thought this was what freemen did…while on vacation.

(A 10 Minute Poem)

the hand, that flys…goes where?

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The maiden firmly grasped the handle of the fly away umbrella forgetting that she had ever been afraid of heights…in this way she flew into the blizzard…to the somewhere else that there was to go…

Let the peasants be in charge of parade bunting…paupers the rain, and the char woman the ingredients for how to clean up the mess…left by our drunk for power but ultimately still at core, lazy fathers

I can imagine this poem with or without me in it. I am both here, by that I mean here in the poem, and over there with you in your room staring at your screen, wondering what I might write next…about what either of us might do.

Knock on a mediums table until uncle billy or aunt marge knocks back; “the treasure, the one I buried” – Yes, I am listening, but that connection like it always does in a dream before you reach the something you wanted…fades.

(A 10 Minute Poem)

(Image Came From Here: Natura Picta)

Life is Not a Coffee Table Book

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the talent to stand tall, look important, and in fact be important
is not for the stubby little baby briefcase boys without the talent
or the strength to bring buckets of emotional water to the fire of
their incapacities…no

a moment of lull is not when you sing of the one time or another
in the past that you saved a child from burning in the ancient tar
paper building, not then, in that interlude, you might better
consider resigning your position…yes

but you won’t, too fond you’ll say, of the past days of your wants
pasted in albums and casually, yes too casually, displayed on your
coffee table like a book of pretty and inviting garden pictures, but
everybody knows you did not grow those…no

(another 10 minute poem)

a prayer in three acts

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(after a period of fasting)

a desert hard ground cracked couldn’t
care less about rain anymore, and gave
the task of praying over to a spiny
tip cactus…who

instead tells a memory toad once
seen sitting by the mirage shore
to hop on over to the very edge of
worry and wake the giant…who

although he wished to stay sleeping
opened one eye and peered skyward
without a hint of meekness and said,
rain god rain, shower us with…pity

(another 10 minute poem)