New Poem: Standing Still

Standing Still

There was a tree somewhere

The foliage of which made warriors out of the weak.

We had a lifelong quarrel with the owner of the land there

That we thought at last naught settled but by fire.

He would destroy us if we did not attack.

Some say it can only rouse he to whom it’s given

We can’t understand what we’re told nor will we believe what we’re told.

And when the idiotic prophets told us we’d be thick headed

We laughed at the unborn revelation.

Who could think anything special of the fraudulent thief- the murderous tyrant?

An old man confirmed the truth in half of our hearts

And we brought him along to witness our conquest.

We all want to run them away, but he only wants a piece of the fruit.

He runs ahead, and we warn him of which side to take before shutting the doors.

I see him running as the cavalry arrives,

Yet he stops to stand on a hill.

The foul reaper is amiss,

And one can only wonder what cunning was at play.

The land plundered and the house destroyed,

The heroes are basking in the sun,

And yet, even in bliss, a lingering intuition will always rest there.

The fruit of the tree drips down our chins as the lone wolf begins his charge.

We felt so strong and so free

We can’t understand what we see, nor will we believe.

This so often is the trap of the people.

And there we are, and so it goes

And here is now.

At best, it will all be over soon.

And who could have painted this picture,

That even now in this moment of its fruition, we only half-see?

I wonder at times about the end of it all,

And pray for my happy conclusion.

In this incessant pattern of attack, defend, and confuse,

You rip me into infinite fractions

Until our world here isn’t big enough.

You - the lust for what is great,

But  you- the danger in what is unseen.

Scour the whole planet and you won’t find a soul like me.

I could have said it before.

But everything changed when I began to reach

For what I thought was more.

The tree can make you mighty,

But it can’t make you a man.

Nor can the books and the instilled etiquette.

I think of this as I weather blows that would rend a mountain.

My family suffered from that farmer,

And I suffered from my family,

Often running to cry under this same tree.

I wonder where my words fell.

It’s a mixed rage I feel that’s stranger than a thousand years,

And strong in me,

As the people with me fall,

As if revealing our differences.

What is it all about?

Is it not war and the sword?

The sword and the seed.

Are we not free to run, and yet we choose to engage?

I would hope that the coming generations bend and move for peace,

To look so beautiful like those reeds in the night.

We meet and we marry.

Often we’re afraid to marry when we fall in love.

All around me are lives of contention,

And we think ourselves gentlemen for winning battles-

For standing still.