Tag Archives: truth

Uncovering the Truth

What defines a person? Is it the outer world and it’s mirrored reflections of who you are or the inner, the secret places that are rarely aired?

So much of your life is shaped by the expectations of others. It is the rare person who can withstand the vagaries and inconsistencies of life and still hold on to what is true and imperative in her inner core.

You go through your days with blinders on the truth. Life seems like it’s going as it should but still a small voice inside mutters in discontent.

It may be noise from outside, from people who care about you. Or it may be inner sourced. Often it’s both. Like the song “Bolero”, it starts softly, barely perceptible, and systematic ally ratchets up the volume and complexity until it becomes a roar not to be dismissed.

We spin through our days barely making room to breathe. Coming to our bottom line may be too risky. Often it comes with costs that may be hard to live with. And sometimes the truth is buried so deep it needs a seismic event to unlodge it.

Once freed though it defies suppression. No longer content to take a back seat it demands acceptance, come what may.

Truth will out. What will you do with it?

.

What is Sin?

My mind is aswirl

spinning out of control

what is Sin?

Yes, yes, of course,

murder, mayhem

lying, cheating,

everybody knows that –

but more insidious are

misdemeanors of the soul

Was Paul right

in his definitions?

Was he overstepping,

casting aspersions

on incalcitrant congregations?

What were Jesus’ words?

The God of Love and Forgiveness.

On adultery,  sexuality, prostitution,

go and sin no more

but more often critical of women

letting men off the hook

the female prostitute told

to go and sin no more

but what of the men

lined up at her door?

Sin weaves its way

into the fabric of one’s being

but if all Sin is created equal,

all needing absolution,

what is the bottom line?

We are told to forgive ourselves

and to treat others

as we would ourselves,

then why are people on Death Row?

Why is their Sin unforgivable

when Christ forgave them?

Why is homosexuality

considered a sin in the Church?

Two people loving each other,

treating each other with

kindness, acceptance,

purity of the spirit

holds true no matter

where love lies.

So what is Sin?

And if it is all Forgiven

if one just asks

who are we to condemn?

Casting About

Are you listening?

I haven’t heard

your still, soft voice

within for some time.

Aching for answers

I look for justice, peace, meaning,

casting about,  not knowing

where to turn

where do I go from here?

I know you are there.

I just can not hear you

or feel your presence

nestled in my heart.

Calling for you,

yet knowing it is me

who lacks the ability

to comprehend.

I refute the big decisions

they grate on my nerves,

I can not believe

you would support them.

When is it time to give up?

To accept the inevitable

and draw near to new beginnings,

to give up the fight?

Call to me again.

I will try harder to hear.

Your words are

my salvation.

 

 

 

 

A query to viewers

There is no science in determining what to write and how to write it.  There are some topics I’ve noticed people are drawn to more but I can’t write about them exclusively.  It is also true that I don’t want to write about the same topics over and again. Even if they draw viewers.  It wouldn’t be authentic or real.  I’d simply be pandering to the largest numbers.

On the other hand, I don’t want to waste viewers’ time by posting things that don’t appeal to them.  I just wish I knew what the magic formula is.

I have to admit, some of my greatest views have been poems written 20 or 40 years ago.  (Yes, I am an old relic.)  It is disheartening as I’d like to think I have grown as a writer in the years since.

But I can see my style has definitely changed over the years.  I don’t waste time on melodrama now.  Flowery prose doesn’t excite me.  I’m more to the point.  I cut to the chase with what I have to say.

Some of the pieces I’m proudest of don’t attract any views, like “The Ravages of a Man”, a short story I’ve written over a number of years.  Meanwhile, love poems seem to find an audience.  Trouble is, I’m not in love and haven’t been in many years.  And my rants, those I’d be better off not writing, no one wants to hear about them.

I would welcome feedback about what you like and what interests you.  Not just in my writing but on the world’s stage.  I need new ideas to percolate on.  I want to contribute meaningful work.  I know my book has meaning but I don’t print it here.  That you might enjoy.

So please, take a moment to let me know your thoughts. I need to stretch my wings a bit and the interchange between you and I would be welcome.

Women – what a wonderful mix

There are no limits on the number of fabulous women in the world.  In doing the research on my book, I am coming across so many women I wish I could focus more completely on but who don’t fit the parameters in my subject area . . . women who have gone through, traumatic, tragic experiences have become great and are doing great things as a result.

It has three parts. A tragic event occurs.  The person overcomes it or moves through it.  And because of the event (s), achieves greatness and helps others in the process. The thing I am experiencing is there are so many fabulous women in this world, doing remarkable things to help others.  Many are enabled by their status in the world to help whether they be celebrities who can attach their name to bring focus on a situation, or are from privileged or “normal” families and have not experienced the trauma of the magnitude I am looking for. To those, I have much admiration and gratitude for their services.

But I am finding these women who have been subjected to tragedies that would flatten most of us and went ahead to achieve brilliance.  Normal people faced with extraordinary experiences.  Women who have started out with hard lives faced more trauma, and gave their lives to making a better world for women or humankind.  I am humbled.

I look at these women and think of my own life, wishing I could have that extra something to do the things I always wanted to accomplish and never had the where with all or courage to reach out and work toward attainment.  But I am one of the millions who strive to do their best through their days, having ups and downs but walking onward.  Having little accomplishments that build upon each other.

Reading and writing about these women energizes me, fuels me.  Each time I find a new one I am like a parched and weary traveler who has found an oasis.  I drink of their accomplishments, of the terrors they have faced, of their energy and ability to sustain where others can only marvel.

Not to take away from men, but women desperately need leaders of their own sex to spur them onward, give them hope.  There are still too few true female leaders out there for us to latch on. They have to be world-renowned.  They can be becoming.  They can be carving out that nitch that needs exposing.  We can have History books devoted to what Women have achieved – about how History has been changed or impacted by the actions of Women.  Or, dare I say it, History books that equally represent the actions of women and men.

Take, for instance, Shirley Johnson in Tallahassee, Florida.  She began being raped when she was eight years old. At ten she became pregnant. At seventeen, she was the mother of six, married in name only.  By the time she was 27, she had 9 children with two husbands.  The first husband was the church deacon who was one of those raping her, whom she was forced to marry at age eleven.  She had to drop out of school when baby number six came along.  She was shamed and ridiculed within her church, the pastor of which was one of her rapists.  Her mother publicly accused her of lying about her attackers.

At age 56, she has found her voice.  She is fighting hard to make Florida become the first state in the Union to pass a law outlawing marriage, for any reason, before the age of eighteen. She is a caregiver, something she knows well how to do.  Nothing of privilege, she is only now receiving support in her endeavors from organizations for bringing the bill forward through the legislature.  To me, she is great.

It doesn’t take much to make a stand in this world.  You need only have a voice and be willing to use it.  You can be a ripple in the pond, sending other ripples outward.  Or be the butterfly’s wings in the Sahara that creates a hurricane in the Americas.  You can be like Mairead Maguire, who stepped out of her house to join a protest passing by and became a Nobel Peace Prize recipient for her work bringing peace first to Ireland and then to other countries.

It only takes a step . . . .

Purging the Soul

Only now can she say
her soul has been purged
scraped raw, exorcizing
that which is best left behind

She has slumbered long
passing through months
followed by years
with the faintest of life-giving energy

Perhaps the past held its  merits
but those were not honored
and in the deepest, darkest night
merged with dreams as fools fodder

Awakening comes with acknowledgment
those omissions raucously colliding
with acts of substance

How does she feel anything less
than complete and utter shame?
her days are more numbered
than most and having less

She sees her squandered actions
Her thefts of objects, honor and time
so trivial, yet from desecration
comes her only hope of renewal

Let it come . . .

Your Rage

You – so full of youthful righteousness
from resolve etched in fear
slipping down the planes and lines
of your furrowed brow
glowering your rage and frustration
despair flung out, rolling in waves
warding off the heavens
with its glad tidings
and earnest appeal
granting no access within
wanting only to ward off all
who might crack through
that thin veneer and reach
the fragile underpinnings
of your heart
Try to remember dear one
all words are not weapons
some hold elements of honesty
to the eyes and mind of another

You are safe
though you choose to fear it
your childlike emotions
do not threaten me
Safe may not look like you
envisioned it
but safe nonetheless
You are loved little one
You are loved

Sibilant Murmurs

In the still, soft calm of silence,
the soul speaks its sibilant murmur
so hard to hear in the clangor
and clash of daily life –
in the quiet of night,
when the only sound
is the fountain of water
my fish play in –
I listen . . . for in those brief
moments, so precious and rare,
does the ring of truth sound
clearest – finding its way
past jangled nerves
and knotted, choked synapses
bringing the wisdom I seek,
the strength which I draw
from a wellspring of heart,
coming through to renew
my sense of vision
and lend credence to my reflections,
softly, gently guiding down
my troubled path of life

The Moment in Change

Pen poised in mid-air,
with mind musing upon
the course of destiny,
vaguely wandering in
floating traipses
shooting off into future dreams
forgetting the moment
given in tender love
for cautious care.

So quickly do I flee
from the pressures of time
into a world of imaginary dreams,
mystical illusions and cryptic
messages – forgetting that
only through a full living
does the journey seem brighter
and the path clearer . . .

When caught between
past and future
I stand in terror,
eyes fearfully turning first
one way then another
but never straight ahead –
fogs swirl in clouded images
through the mind
leaving behind a tension
of confusion.

Today is only like any other . . .
the past is all that is seen,
the future lies in a heavy
cloak, blocking out fresh air.

But the moment – if relished
for itself – treasured among all
others for it’s radiance, its life –
is a gift of the gods
given to the weary
to instill hope and faith
that other moments such as these
are there for the taking
and just as freely given

 

Who are you?

Who are you –
the child I have
never known?
I hear your laughter
sparkling and fanciful tones
rich and vibrant
or your anger
tempetuous, lightening
flashes of a summer storm.

I gaze with rapt amazement
at your studied countenance
taking every detail
into account as you
memorize each facet
of your existence.
A pack-rat, stuffing
incidentals into corners
for future use.

I listen to your
flamboyant giety
both mocking and
relishing the life
you call your own.
Sizzling in the excitement
of the moment.

You are . . .
a treasured gift
never allowed to bloom
until playing dress-up
was no longer a game
. . . you are
part of me.
Rarely acknowledged,
always sought.