There is such a thing known as too much or too little;
to an over focus on word-play and belief and an under focus
on concept and intuitive emotions,
do they really think we would be accustomed to following rituals blindly?
Empty jars line the counter awaiting this year’s yield
of berries, honey infused, homemade preserves— I am learning
how each bite, that instills gratitude, tells a story.
As the curtains open, the deep gold of the room becomes blue violet,
almost as though the clouds conspiring to tear us away
from the hypocritical claims of this world—a person’s mind,
it’s said has the ability to unleash either panacea or a pandora’s box;
threads of charcoal sketches and petals,
tell me about the space it inhabits, the place your memory
goes to when you are with it alone with your eyes closed.
Religion is the sum total of deeds, a series of events where people
before you exchange smiles in return;
it’s more than prayer, more than the divide currently prevalent.
For only when use of language is directed toward healing
of the wounded, depicting unfiltered truths, can we hope
to become sophisticated cultures—outside the hills of the valley rose
with the jubilant sound of spring filled stream.
How many forests reside in your soul, sweet child?
How many whispers go unheard?
If the emotions of one in need are equivalent to a hurricane,
then religion needs to be such so as to create a space
to slow it down—
anyone who states otherwise is either an extremist or is selling something.
This callous, apocalyptic wraith like doleful screams in the ether,
inside a journal and hushed insanity; it’s tragedy after tragedy
Come sit with me under the trees, that’s how they think they can accomplish
their agenda, with a smokescreen;
I am sorry, do they really think we wouldn’t use our minds accordingly?
There is a political undercurrent as well,
though this is less explicit—but gives us neither hands nor feet.
We do not make this light, but drink in the relief that true faith gives us,
vague some days
and upon them the art of steer and nudge;
ode to Poets, to the words begging to be said— I am convinced
that it’s forsythia flares from the corner of my eye;
it’s time we pose a question—sour mashed notes and cosmos
soaked poems that make more sense when the night and those during it
are quiet, why?
Photo credits: “Green Room,” painting by Jim Holland, Pinterest
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Posted for Open Link LIVE #290 @ dVerse Poets Pub