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Posts Tagged ‘freedom’

Rewind to find
a start to which we affix
this place – where we are who.
Hope it sticks.

The body is only part of us
if we love or hate it.
Otherwise no – it cannot be our who.
Hope we can sate it.

The me that is free
is too good to not be true.
But the plant that grows has roots.
Hope its you.

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I gave.
Every reception
taken.
Everything away.
And what I got
was good.
It was good, and not free.
The product of relenting
of giving of allowing.
How then do I go back
how then do I tell the others.
Tell my child.
How do I drag them kicking
and screaming
into the sun and the shackles
when all they want is to choose.
Today’s lesson will be on
Dostoevsky and reality television.

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This is a retelling more than a poem.
I, a historian, more than a poet.
For if this were a poem then the event
would be foreshadowing.

Gravity whipped by my face.
Weightless and falling I was exhilarated.
You taught me how to fly.
From a parking garage
in Worcester.

You did not
teach me to tuck and roll.
I forgive. We cannot
always be prepared
for when the ground hits us.

I dusted myself off and we limped
to the duck pond.
The smooth black surface
had a lone tree growing
from its banks and overhanging.
We discussed the sacraments
and blessed God for all he had
given us, and for the things
he had just recently taken
away.

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I stole something which I had plenty
and of much better quality.
Wickedness filled me.

I remember its feeling
being full
like a thanksgiving feast
of pear stuff birds
we made dance by
alternating their thigh bones
left and right.
I nevertheless felt forced to imagine
something physical occupying space

perhaps even growing
like aunt Sysaphus’ gut as she pushed
another meatball through infinite space
outside the world.

Perhaps today she will explode.
And the space remains evacuated
of anything physical.

The child of my self forms mashed
potato into his fancy in an enigma
as if in a mirror.

I thought of my sister’s dolls
the heads of which I removed
in an attempt to horrify.
It didn’t.
In surprising ways these thoughts
had a visceral effect

on me.

Now I am an adult
and my old loves, hold
me back. They tug my grament
of flesh.
I still want
people to know I steal things,
things I don’t need,
but I steal to be social,
to claim purpose,
to snub even my inner voice
and in so doing
claim the freedom I am owed.

Yet still the voice continues:
Let it be now,
let it be now.

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We stand, I sigh
we knowers on the edge
the pupil-less eyes
of the over class
peering through our share
of knowledge.

To remember our history
is to watch it happen again
powerless to the sky
brilliant blue abyss
and to tell it we don’t care
we kiss, I sigh.

I sigh, we stand
our digital palms
extend over the land,
the throng of fir trees
we pretend are people
wave like the creator’s seas.

We lay down, I reply
we kissers, our feet over the edge
not knowing why from why not
our parapet forms the wedge
between heaven and earth
shoe laces dancing with the wind.

To imagine the future is to bind our potential
so just let it happen.
Let us be powerless to landscape
the ground we once lived on.
But now look into our eyes
that is were we are found.

I fall, we fly
we flyers above sea, land, air
knowing passes under us
and to show it we don’t care
we kiss, we knowers
in the unknown world.

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My grandfather used to have a compass
which would point in any direction it desired
It could point to Italy or Mecca, but alas
Grandfather threw into the fire.
When asked by my father, he would later say
“A compass’ freedom to choose which way is north,
May be good for the compass, but will lead me astray”
And as the master of its destiny, grandfather decided its worth,
and cast its brazened body into the fire.
The freedom we are free to lose
is the freedom that leads us away
Because our slavery is our ability to choose
To ignore what we should obey.
There was a man without chains
who so loved his freedom that he danced all day
Enjoying the air and sun of morning.
He would keep dancing until it rained
and stripped off his clothes and threw away
Those reprehensible signs of mourning.
And when there was no life left to remain
In the bones that supported the gray
flesh of the son of the star of morning,
He would have nothing to say
On the boat, or to the shade, in the domain
of the ceaselessly mourning.
The freedom we are free to lose
is the freedom that leads us away
Because our slavery is our ability to choose
To ignore what we should obey.

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There is a road that cuts
Past lakes, over hills, and across plains
and the rain waters are cupped
In the boot marks that remain.

Salvation raining from the veins of men
Has long since soaked into the ground.
Where passerbyes can see lovers kissing and often
Catch more than just the sound

of wildlife. Before too long the town will pave the road
and the memories which marched there.
No one is left to receive what is owed,
and the responsibility is too much to bare.

The town, and its folk, are considered free
by all the men of the world – except for me.

At noon, the clock chimes for the dead
Signalling the lunch hour for the living.
They pass the church, in search for bread
There’s nothing left for the forgiving.

Families gather next to empty chairs
Belonging to people captured in pictures
That fill the space going up the stairs –
Perpetually imprisoned wall fixtures.

Brother spills tomato soup when it burns his tongue,
Sister is trying to get momma’s attention,
But she is yelling like a gatlin gun
about mistakes and intentions.

Yet, folk in the town are considered free
by all the men of the world, except for me.

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