Category Archives: poetry

by

truth, honesty, fear 

I fear the brutality of truth,
  its uncompromising honesty
  and undeniable existence

Selected for slaughter
  I am summonsed by its prophecy

Then it gashes into me with razor like fangs

Sometimes I think I have become its parody

Laid on a butcher block,
  my private thoughts
  are hacked by the invincibility of truth’s shock
The fresh blood of my ignorant existence 
  squirting denial onto the mirror
  that reflects the lie I lived since my birth

Impaled by the truth

The living flesh of my deceived soul
  stabbed with an edged knife
  splits open into wound like a cleft
Exposed now, the raw, oozing me reads: 
  “there, the truth, you see.”

Truth is like fresh blood:
  hot and sticky in its honesty, 
  and unforgettably red.

I fear it,
  yet I want to know it like I know about death
An intimate hatred to past events
  burns in my breath
Inescapably true and insensitive that truth may be,
  tortured, agonizing and upset, I still wish to see

Truth knows not diplomacy nor does it care
  Its words are whiplashes castigating any pretense

Sentenced to truth, even death would be less intense
  Even armed with a dictionary of swords
  no mortal will ever ably defend

Truth doesn’t blurb or make a scene
  it confronts me naked, ugly, sore and mean
It's the sadistic crusader
  silently wielding its honesty
  boiling my being to scream

Behind every frontage the truth can be seen,
  hidden only from the mind in delusional dream

I fear the honesty of truth
  Bitter, vile, — sweet and beautiful

The truth cuts me in two:
  One piece, the truth, is my book
  The other, the lie, is the way that I look
by

Candle and flame

 

DSC_0186

Mostly, 
 when the flame goes out 
 the candle is left.

Maybe, once upon, it flickered
 and burned bright.
 Its reflection casting life
  onto the screen as I write.
 Like the sun it shone wherever I was.

Perhaps it had its own soul?
 Not a soul we humans understand.
 Of a beauty that mesmerized,
 it was so grand.
 Not a composition of science, 
  oxygen and chemistry.
 A soul of burning mystery.

And then I left it alone, 
 ignored and forgot it.
 Or,
 I extinguished it 
  with a thoughtless breath.
 Cruel, you could say.
 It was so motile and alive.
 Blue, transparent, deep orange,
  dark and light.
 Shaped like a hand,
  as if reaching out to somewhere —
  to a place we can’t see.
 An x-dinguished gesture axed the flame.
 The candle's journey abruptly finished.

Were there conversations with the candle?
 Flaming or not?
 Dialog or monolog?

 Probably, but rarely.

 I told it my story
  and asked it to publish my wishes.
 I did, — but only in recent oratory.

I put my hopes into the flame.
 Then I watched it write,
  with the tip of its light,
  onto the backdrop of the eternal night.
 I blew it out,
  letting the white smoke add its credentials
  and reshape the message to the essentials.
 Quickly I lit it again,
  so the flame could rise from the dead
  and proceed
  with the next message instead.

My message was sent.
 Should I remain?
 Am I waiting in vain?
 Some of my candle is left,
  but what happened to its flame?