Long Ourselves Poems
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We're Sick and Tired
By Franklin Price
2/20/2016
We're sick and tired of being sick and tired
Of the establishment
Ignoring what this country needs
They are destruction bent
They never will cooperate
If it's not invented here
Won't cross the aisle with open hand
Even though what's right is clear
Being Conservative or Liberal
Is all that matters to these nuts
Vote to rid ourselves of them
Pull ourselves out of these ruts
Only we can do it
Must cast our votes to win
Return government to the people
In this year let us begin
Participate and take a stand
Intelligently pick and choose
We the people win, each and every time,
We cause the establishment to lose
Without a doubt it's scary
What will new people do?
Hopefully it's not “bend over”
As the establishment says to you
Times are not what they once were
Strong actions we must take
To make our country strong again
For us and our descendants' sake
- I take a step back to reflect. Fecal matter storms a reality check in to the mental hotel of chaos. In utter disorder; rationality eludes us. Cluelessly, we are insane—on a temporary leave of absence. Senselessly numb; simply, simple... Obsolete and discreet, keeping eyes down low. Hidden from the world; we stick out like sore thumbs. An overwhelming sense of paranoia takes wheel; who's driving? Slippery when wet; we slide. Uncontrollably... Unmistakeable, but make no mistake. Masks that we wear are transparent; fooling only some. High strung like the strings of an old banjo, our dirty laundry is airing out. The presence of stains shout out secrecy in whispers, silently broken. We enable auto pilot and go through the motions; subtly coded from paranoia. This ride becomes turbulent. Lightning strikes and in a flash, real gets real. Feelings of panic offset stabity. Balance forced to recollect. Frantically scrambling to find our lost librium. Playing cards that we repeatedly deal out ourselves, it's time to go manual. Reality delivers a stunning right hook; drawing first blood. Dazed and confused, fight or flight mode sets in. Voices of criticism echo in our heads. Self doubt secures confidence with an iron fist. Insanity begins it's never ending rant, as we argue amongst ourselves. Our worst nightmares become reality. At this moment it becomes impossible to deny. We are who they thought we were.
Let the green mist
pass over the land,
gliding through like a
deceptive serpent,
claiming in its path
our most vulnerable.
We lock our doors
and stay within,
no lamb’s blood
to mark our homes
as in Exodus 12:13,
but in isolation,
we dig deep
in search of HOPE
for a safe tomorrow.
Our cupboards are stocked
with irrational hoarding
to calm our nerves and
soothe our fears.
And we wait,
we isolate ourselves and wait
and we think “this too shall pass”.
We pray for solutions to end Covid-19
while praying to restore FAITH
to eradicate the fear of it.
When the turbulence passes,
the strong will survive
having immunity to move on.
History will mark itself,
and survivors will witness
the next order of things
in the new world’s plan.
They will recognize
the blueprint designed
with the 2020 plague in mind,
without any limits
to the greed of crows
who wait for the mist to settle.
February 2020
What is the difference between an atheist and a panentheist?
Atheists cannot discover any signs of divinity outside ourselves
While the panentheist uncovers what organizes interior landscapes
and exterior climates.
In Buddhism we have a principle of Emptiness
and a correlated principle of Interdependence.
Atheists stop rather abruptly with the Emptiness platform
while panentheists are bogged down by all us Interdependents,
sorting through co-dependent relationships
but without the therapy bills
Emptiness feels like an unfamiliar but theoretically endarkening relief,
like co-relational belonging
before association turns into sour longing loneliness.
So maybe a LeftBrain empty atheist
is also a RightBrain interdependent polytheist,
and the two together are a panentheistic Buddhist.
There is no inconsistency here.
just two faces of eternally timeless
human longing to divinely belong,
just as time is lost to sensory review
when it becomes most sacredly replete.
Other than that, one is harder to spell
and takes a whole lot longer to say.
Oh bold flowered beauty,
Persistent truth of unfilled dreams
The manufactured crop of one imagination,
Drink well cousin, then spray about
As though all water were your own.
Snicker and sneer knowing ruse
But still accuse each other of
Saving eye for eye as loss for all.
And when a day we borrow is born
Every word that has been spoken
Will be broken like bread between us.
Shall we abandon you,
Make a fuss about a ladle or wagon
An empty jug or flutter, while stone
Looks on stone and sees the butterfly return.
Color, light, night, then borrowed day.
So many shiny coins for dreams away,
“…sunshine, a warm beam balancing comes…”
Over and over until a robin’s ear
Will bleed; we forgive ourselves.
Who hear the deer and see the sky,
And while inside gaze among the same
Branches of a single tree we would cut
Our limbs to see, our gifts all given.
Not to be awakened but to hold until
We give them all away, All dreams away.
We live in a world of diverse voices
With each one open to make their choices,
We share one unique planet, blue and round,
Yet shines of lasting peace are seldom found.
From tiny sparks of some wild woeful words
Sprouts seeds of spiny vines and fighting herds
That fomented by some greedy wishes
Turn to wars that burn and sprinkle ashes.
Yet a ray of hope gleams, a fragile light,
To dispel darkish shadows of the night
As peace rests not outside, but within us
And just waits to be ignited with trust.
If with grace, we ignite this inner light,
Scan the depth of ourselves, with much delight,
A serene, shining stream will greet our eyes,
A stream that reflects divine peace from high.
Peace should not be the far dream of a few
But an ideal, a gem, ever true,
The passionate pursuit of every soul
A goal that ever needs to remain whole.
It is an end that is worth attaining
As its pursuit renders life worth living
In wild winters as in soft summer shine,
At present as across the sands of time.
A straight sense of sincere serenity
Leading to dwell and grow in harmony
And prosper in every respect he can
Is what pursuit of peace confers to man.
Peace is like a still silent sparkling lake
Where folks can in liberty carve their fate,
Where man, fauna and flora can flourish
Where the charm of sweet tunes one can cherish.
Let us all pursue peace with dignity
To build a future world of harmony,
That for humanity will ever gleam
And hope will prevail amidst vibrant dreams.
Days evade too fast from our years,
and take with them all memories;
if nobody has ever dreamt,
do it now and bear no regret!
Our youth came and faded,
wasn't it the pride of yesterday
seeing health and strength
prevail never in discord;
what conflicted with the time
was the rush of thoughts being spoken,
and the urge to see them realized
in the quickest possible way
when impatience shortened its length...
was there consent or a silence not broken?
Ah, furtive days allow this dream-chaser
to reach his destination and not put tomorrow on hold!
Ah, fate never bends some rules that shape and mold
the character of a pioneer whose discovery made him err
elsewhere postponing his dream on future explorations...
if his ambition would demand him to make more sacrifices!
I made my escape from desolation and halted
time moving swiftly and it made a concession...
if I didn't cross his path unexpectedly but proceeded
with caution when experiencing the worst allusion:
that trails and tribulations are the woes of mortality,
those sorrows that make one weep desperately!
Reminiscences of sad events
are vestiges that flicker and vanish':
similar to secrets being kept
in the depth of the truest heart
afraid to have them revealed in a rush...
they are more precious than friends!
Life won't be without sorrows,
and sharing them is partaking
of the anguish, we took upon ourselves
while being driven from Paradise
by two angels holding flaming swords;
we can obey or rebel, sin twice...
and lose it again to a deception unfolding!
These three seldom spoken words, "I was wrong,"
can numb the sting of emotional pain.
But our egos balk at playing along
and accepting blame; we are far too vain.
We've convinced ourselves that we're always right,
and it angers us: to suggest we're not.
Such arrogance often leads to a fight,
where stubborn hearts bear scars of battles fought.
We won't admit we've spoken out of place
for it's inconceivable we're at fault.
And we will defend our lies, in your face,
flanking the truth with a verbal assault.
"I was wrong" gets replaced with "I love you,"
blurring the distinction between the two.
And we have the prophetic word more fully confirmed, to which you will do well to pay attention as to a lamp shining in a dark place, until the day dawns and the morning star rises in your hearts. (2 Peter 1:19)
And where, my dearest, where might your star be?
We spend our days afloat and rudderless -
have no true sense of north, nor light to see.
The intellect engages to assess
prophetic writings there within God’s
word, which does not penetrate, we must confess.
More often though, we find ourselves at odds,
fully convinced the path we choose is right;
confirmed within our minds, we need no rods
to goad us from the darkness toward the light.
Which star up in the sky commands your eyes?
You must look up to keep it in your sight!
Will you place trust in that which rusts or dies?
Do you prefer the company of fools?
Well spent, would seem, a consult with the wise.
To live a life like this is but a trap;
pay not the pharisee for his advice.
Attention to the shoulds and oughts can sap
as much as draining blood from turnips twice.
To what or whom might our attention turn?
A star of greatest worth, of course - a
lamp thus filled and trimmed, prepared to burn,
shining a small reflection of its source.
In truth, all scripture points us to this star -
a light come to a world in greatest need.
Dark is man, and darker still, his heart:
place the Morning Star would have set free.
Until the light breaks forth, in trespass lost,
the true depth of his need not understood,
day after day, he fails to count the cost,
dawns not on his small thoughts, or even could.
And then, in but an instant, he is changed:
the monergistic workings of our God.
Morning brings mercies new, no more estranged;
star bright and lifted high, his visage awed,
rises bright, majestic in his power.
In a day stretched toward eternity,
your blood, once shed, illuminates our
hearts; El Elyon, the only star for me.
Lanterns on a black canvas.
Fireflies dance, prance like ponies on a carousel.
Ricocheting cricket-squeaks,
Bounce among the frog-croaked airwaves;
Bouncing from one wet tip to another.
Spectral trees in the distance
Dance their ancestral dance to this music;
The heartbeat of the waves, keeping time;
natures’ metronome.
One hones the spirit to perfection here;
In the bosom of Mother Natures’ womb.
Touching life’s essence.
Feeding the soul on the nourishment of Gods’ artwork.
We never really leave the womb, you see.
We only re-position ourselves and dream yet, another dream.
No, we never really leave the womb.