Thoughts

There are things I want to hear, And there are things that are true; The voices I want to hear Are the ones I’m list’ning to But a mind that’s been tuned To a far purer spell Distills out the false And brings light to what’s well   The voice that’s now heard May still not be that loud But the heart tuned to hear Will it find from the crowd.

This is kind of a silly story with a message. It's not really serious, but it does have a serious ending. Junkster was a man who thought he had it all. He owned sports cars, a mansion in the most exclusive part of the most exclusive city, held the highest position in his company, and had married his high school sweetheart. Junkster would get up in the morning, look in the mirror, and tell himself, “Yes, you are the man.” However, deep inside, Junkster was sad. He wondered why he felt this way since he had everything he’d ever wanted. Then, one day, he learned the source of his sadness. While Junkster was preparing to sail across the bay in his hundred-foot yacht, a fairy fluttered from the sky to deliver a message. “Junkster, you have had great success in this life, but you are missing one thing.” Eyes wide, Junkster’s attention was rapt as he gazed on this mythical creature who would tell him about the secret things in his soul. “Yes, your life has lacked just one th

He allowed little to pass through his mouth. This was not only because he lived alone. It was, he thought, better to remain quiet. Warnings had been issued from many sources showing that much talk leads to trouble. Indeed, privacy was his closest companion, and his gravest defender. Perhaps a better word now would be deceiver. He felt as much, anyway. Over the years, he had built his life on the premise that actions speak louder than words, and while he saw that this was true, he failed to recognize the danger of too much privacy: isolation. Everything he read and heard in the media told him to man up, to make something of himself through grit, and now that he had seemingly done this, he was alone with his accomplishments. Abstract trophies adorned the mantle of his mind, collecting the dust of stasis and time. In fact, he was afraid. He knew that none of the things he had achieved mattered now, and he felt the pride in them melt away and leave him exposed. “There is nothing left,” h

I lean in and whisper The words I want to hear Out of fear With angels hovering above My heart before would have told me Don’t say it But that was long ago In fact, I’ve said it a million times In a million different ways Each time a shade different To convince myself Of the newness of my need This is the Judas kiss But by this time, I know not what I do After all, the man hearing me Looks so different now I find too late, then, That the one I’ve betrayed Is me I regroup, Mustering that fearful man inside Writhing in all my strength To shake down the guilt Just to have it crawl up again I look for light, but find none Then, I lift my despondence high And see a light I follow until it brightens To the full light of day And though I look as ragged as I did before I am not the same For no longer, when I lean in and whisper, Are my words for me I hear reply A million times In a million different ways Each time a shade different To convince me Of the

This is inspired by William Blake's "Poison Tree," by Psalm 1, and by the story of Jonah and the branch God made as shade for him. Balsam was a source of balm, which was used to heal. The poem intended to show that our tears can bring life to ourselves and others, as when we sympathize with people who experience the same sadness we have felt. Though they ask you why you go Though you question, too, yourself, Though they wonder why your foe Rests content in your ill health You find peace, they know not why, While they rage against the breach And feel joy though you still cry As you pray with still soft speech For these tears in sadness wept Water ground that's dry with thirst In the soil this sadness kept Rouses life from what was cursed Then you rise to find full shade From a tree the tears did grow, Turn to offer what God made To the scorched who was your foe And in silence both you sit 'Neath a tree not of your make Mulling stories neith