THERE ARE THOSE WHO SAY
There are those who say life is little but an illusion,
A matrix of the mind,
A trick up the tuxedoed sleeve,
A dramatization of our own, or someone else’s, impressionistic imagination.
There are those who say life is little but an illusion,
That reality is a realm existing somewhere beyond it,
If, indeed, reality is real, or is a realm.
There are those who say life is little but an illusion,
But if we slice our finger, do we not drip blood?
If we are slapped, do we not howl in pain?
If our lover leaves us, do we not panic with despair?
And when we realize the end of days, do we not die?
There are those who say life is little but an illusion,
But if this is illusion,
I do not wish to know what lies beyond it.
DEAD OF NIGHT
I wake up in the dead of night.
I’m of that certain age where this is common circumstance.
Nothing to summon the doctor for.
The stars stare through my window as if daring me,
Challenging me to do something, anything.
Perhaps they are simply laughing at me.
Who knows?
But the dead of night is not for doing something, anything.
The dead of night is only there to be tolerated.
It’s a fierce and unforgiving blankness,
Something I must abide, endure…stomach until the morning arrives.
It is a standoff until I stumble back to sleep again
Or until the sun forces its way into the sky
And tells the dead of night to wait,
Wait until its time comes again.
—-
A BLIND MAN BOARDED THE BUS
A blind man boarded the bus
Pulling a wheelchair weighted down with all his worldly possessions.
He sat and began to pass out pamphlets
And spoke of God and Christ and heaven and hell. Continue reading →
