Poem for the week: "The Circus Never Stops"

The Circus Never Stops

In the dusty, bloodied, and tear-soaked

arena of daily confrontations with life

and not the catacombs of the Bibles,

Korans, and Gospels of the world

will we find ourselves, —

Lost in a haze of wonder, not knowing

which path to take, life comes crashing down,

and a new way is found to the promised

land of undreamed horizons, and new

joys and miseries ensue, —

The circus never stops, day in and day out

the monkeys play, and Old Whore Life

laughs, and laughs, and laughs until

the hammer comes crashing

down again, —

And a new way is found!

Poem for the week: "Poets and Artists"

Poets and Artists

There are no shortcuts to salvation,

because there is nothing to be saved from;

we are born to become what we’re meant

to be, and we will all get there eventually.

It will take more than one lifetime, to be

sure; but what does it matter in the end

if time is never-ending? But we don’t know

that, do we? And we look for shortcuts to

salvation because we can’t wait to get

there. We practice the Five Tibetan Rites

for eternal youth, and meditate for cosmic

awareness, garden until our hearts overflow,

and run marathons until we’re a hundred;

but in the end we’re the same soul as when

we started, only a little wiser, and we wonder

what all the fuss was about. Everything

matters, and nothing matters; it all depends

upon where we stand. But all the same we

have to live, and making choices is our

nature; that’s the game we have to play,

because we don’t know any better. Some

play it fair, and some don’t; but fair or not

it’s still a game, and every winner becomes

a loser and every loser a winner, but we all

become a little wiser. And we play and play

and play, and when we’re wise enough

we come back as poets and artists.

Poem for the week: "The Messenger"

The Messenger

There’s a calm tenacity to his words,

A power beyond endurance, but

so light are his thoughts to him that

he doesn’t even notice.

When he speaks, he seems the same

as you and me; but at some point in

the conversation his demeanor changes,

and he’s off to higher places.

Words flow from his mouth like fresh

spring water, and what was light,

easy, and ordinary now becomes

mystical with sacred meaning.

“It’s like God sent you,” they all say,

when he finishes speaking; and he smiles

and says, “I know. But that’s what

you needed to hear, —”

And everything returns to normal.

Poem of the week: "Sensory Pleasure"

Sensory Pleasure

Is this how I want to spend

my day, scratching an itch

that won’t go away? —

I scratch and scratch my itch,

and it goes away, but it always

comes back again.

I could live my life

scratching—food, drink, sex,

whatever; but if I do, I’ll go

to my grave unsatisfied, —

for such is the nature of

sensory pleasure!