Some readers have difficulty with my saying I scribe yet writers have forever said they write in the flow or with their muses or simply nodding wisely and saying nothing. I say I know when the writing is mine and saying I scribed means I hear in silence and from where it comes is where I reach.
I have long thought that when asking a question the answer already is known by the time the question is asked. Somewhere lodged in our cranium is the answer to have puzzled the pieces of the question to be asked. That said, my mentor, the Nazarene, said to us all, hearing you will not hear and seeing you will not see. Meaning we see and hear only what we focus on.
But if you knock the door will open. The Comforter will tell you things you did not know and bring to mind what you have forgotten. (except in this day of loud noises, one must kick the door because a knock will not be heard)
Possibly it presents questions unthinkable in two parts. Do people ever think of themselves as the only intelligence in this universe considering its miseries and what of its future or if not the only intelligence and superior somebodies are at the ready to enter in surprise? Both immobilizing.
And if we are more than what we appear because of many lives and lifetimes and the answers are within us and beget wisdom, do we then entertain angels unaware for sure as my Mentor said? Or do we take on face value the childish utterances that bring on gasps and wonder from where do they come with such nonsense? Did we not learn in kindergarten to say please and thank you and be kind ?
I bend at the knees easily. I scribed the following . . .
How Much Better It Would Be. .
for this noble planet
if we cherished her like a lover?
Or loved her as a mother
who adored her child and
wiped the tears away with a soft linen?
Or as a father
whose arms surround the child
are as steel beams supporting
the frame of the tallest building?
Who would not want these for himself
if he could articulate what would heal
the dichotomy within?
Too few of us around
who love our home so fiercely,
we would protect her vital organs.
The sun sometimes is hidden from man
and the moon embarrassed to see
its light dimmed with shame.
When patches of earth split
from the shock of no rain and dust rises and rolls
across the open land, we wish then
not to shake dust from our boots but to greet
a sunrise in splendor.
Offer me this, the Earth Mother says,
that you will raise your arms only to surround
an Other in love. Promise me this, again she says,
that the swords will be laid
at the foot of the evergreens now and
a boot will never crush an Other’s right to live.
And I will forever cherish your children.
I scribed this poem August 6, 2013
art block quilted by veronica