By Wil Boomhower
the roads i walk
take crooked steps
to get me where i’m going.
step by step, it’s understood
that journeys add the knowing;
each step asking…
do you care?….. and if you should?
dreams and nightmares
from of old, whisper ‘cross the ages……
words of wisdom echo now
from the mouths of dusty sages.
and politics incites the tribes;
it sets them off in rages.
each longs for power — yearns for more
of that which feeds the fire,
like dry kindling on the beach
when the tides are rising higher.
so here I stand,
owning the valley of death
it’s a grim stewardship,
enough to test the metal
of any man who claims to be its equal,
or covets the rush
as he hurls through the trough,
stirring bone-dust from the bottom
as power hurtles by, defining
failed apprenticeship, taking another breath!
vision forms the inner-world/reality accedes
as charlatans breathe vapid screed
that magnifies division
and dreamers fail to pull back the veil
and show us a beating heart
impaled, as it bleeds.
I shudder at the bold simplicity
of being. I walk in catholicity…
this mystery embracing.
© 2019, Anthony Stine. All rights reserved. You may reuse or copy this post by giving credit and providing a link.