Chaos Theory

If we can accept ourselves

in life, and that in this life

we’re living, the right way

and the wrong way, mostly

aren’t ever in alignment

with our true nature of self,

rather it’s often

sideways we must go, sideways

like the pebble in the stream

knows only one direction,

and that chaos when reversed

reveals itself as precisely

the way it ought to be.

Isolation

It is as cold

as a steel locket,

isolation

loosely hangs

two chains from a collar,

white as bone, worn

from the hours, of nuance

carefully placed by the bedside,

waiting to be opened

polished and willing

as obligatory as peace

before, the inevitable dawn

which beckons us to

repeat, our autumnal fall

from the burdens we carry.

Miraculous People

What I saw that day, my mind insisted were people,

running back and forth—silhouettes—they were equal.

What I saw that day, I just couldn’t conceal

their shape was mine, it almost didn’t seem real.

See original thought comes before the prequel,

because the love we’re born with exists before evil.

What I saw that day, sure I know they were people,

while my beginner’s mind worked, I couldn’t help but feel

—their heart’s skip beats—my heart was healed,

by what I saw that day on a beach filled to equal:

coexistence at birth, we’re miraculous people.

You can try but you just can’t fool kids.

You see,
the kid doesn’t forget.

Forgive, yes
but forget, never.

Kids don’t make the rules,
but they’re a product of them.

And no matter what you say
after the fact,

the fact,
is still a fact.

No matter how old you get,
respect isn’t due

remember,
it’s earned.

You see,
enforced respect holds no weight.

Power, yes
but honor, none.

Kids don’t make the rules,
but they abide.

They see,
and survive

no matter the so called times
that they’re raised in.

You can try, but
you just can’t fool kids.

No matter how old you get,
right is right

and wrong is wrong,
things never change.

Except for the kid,
you see.

 

When Powerful Voices Become Saints.

Powerful voices
don’t scream
they
listen,

they
aren’t forceful
they
think,

they
don’t condemn
they
heal,

they
know it’s not their duty,
they
do not seek control,

they
are powerful
in their
absence of hate,

they
are powerful
in their
acceptance of love,

they
are not
black or white
but every color in between,

they
never seem to get the press
the screamers get –
not until they’re dead do they become saints.