We all have heard the moral
That one should always be honest
Because honesty is rewarded.
Yes. We all should be like
That honest woodcutter
In the story ‘The Woodcutter and the Axe’.
But is it only about rewards?
Is it only about getting a silver axe?
A golden axe?
Honesty is not about getting more
Or receiving the best.
It has more to do
With our character
Being our true selves and
That which helps us find
Peace within ourselves.
I’m just a lonesome narcissistic salesman
Wandering this country. hawking my wares
Selling my useless medicines. miracle cures
And the purple pills to get everything right
Wherever I travel I attract needy crowds
Loving good news no matter how absurd
But now I seem to be running out of road
Dear Daddy, please help your simple son
Such a close call, near the end of the line
My helpless weak and sinful sales son
Don’t dare try your own miracle cures
You’re worse off than the needy crowds
I’m all out of the untraceable solutions
I see that you have now run out of road
So long, sappy, this is the end of the line
Is the goal of war to mass produce punctured sacks of meat?
Is it to empty men and women of their humanity, drain them
of blood? Our homes and schools produce our soldiers, while
our factories make bullets for our enemy’s demise. And the
enemy does likewise.
Bullets do the job, but bombs and missiles deliver more bang for
the buck. As our factories roll out our best ordnance, we march
our sacks of meat to war, as the bands play on.
Our sacks of finest meat array on the battlefield against their sacks
of finest meat, and the puncturing begins. The blood pools and runs
in dark, scarlet rivers onto which infinite tears rain. This rain
cleanses
the battlefield of blood, so grass can grow again, ready for more
sacks of meat.
Clusters, houses, hovels
I pick time and memory
Plucking, rehearsing
Playing out Time
Houses, clusters blocks
The village looks dirtier
Except that a car races
Not to be outdone by any
Glitterati, houses race with time
Slowly, there is a stumbling
As they pale into the green
And sloping tracts
Houses, hovels
Time stops, as our car does
And, far in the distance
A glimmering light raises hope.
We survived by the sweat
of the brow,
and the milk of a cow.
We made it somehow!
In the skin of scripture,
does it matter if they share
a different pigment?
In the face of the One
True Command, does it matter
if they read another creed?
If we truly love, are called to love,
does it matter what their lifestyle
or persuasion may be?
More at http://jddehart.blogspot.com.
There’s never
Ever
Parade enough
Nor
Circus enough
To go around.
Some even go
Without a tune
To hum
Or dance to
In their
Heads.
Their days are
Spent
So
So they begin
To wonder
If
This is all
There will
Ever be.