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.

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...

Those 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

Don't 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.

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.

09.05.2023

Philosophy quote poem challenge @blu3alex

"Behavior is a mirror in which everyone shows his image." Johann Wolfgang von Goethe

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]

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.”