Blessed
are the wrongdoers, for they are our teachers -
the
proud, the triumphant, the forceful, the unrighteous,
the
cruel, the impure, the warmongers, the persecutors.
They
harm, they vilify, they hate, they oppress, they kill,
so
who would be like them in thought? Not us, the blessed.
Beware, lest your
praised deeds are turned to greater ill.
I
found myself in a bit of a pother,
mazed,
frazzled when thinking
about
existence, a lifetime bother
that
has brief moods sinking,
so
turned to others to help me out
of
the dither and panic and flap.
A number are guides, well out of doubt,
and
some provided a map.
One says she feels a single notion,
answer,
faith will lead
to
harming mankind’s forward motion:
freedom’s
a critical need.
Another
advises making a choice –
evolution
or faith or chance.
Will
the best option give me a voice
or
end in a merry dance?
A
further adds that building awareness,
it’s
fumbling, stumbling, tumbling,
is
part of striving, but seeming unfairness
sometimes
leaves me crumbling.
Yet
one more says existence rose
from
me, from you, the living
and
non-living. Her pointer shows
what
multitudes are giving.
There’s
much wisdom to mull over here
from
this worthy band.
It’s
to end, cease, finish, I fear,
tramping
around the theme, and
my
conclusion about existence?
I’ve
too much time on hand.
It’s better by far to go life’s distance
than
writing on the strand.
Who
wouldn’t want to wed a slip of Roquefort,
her
innards creamy, bitter, tangy, salty,
while
she’s decked out in white and blue, more
luscious
than the usual bride and sporty
as
she slides her plated length, no shortie
here
stretched out for every eye to view
her
bloom, behaviour open but unfaulty?
Her
promised lord’s not come, but will be true
despite
his pledge to all things here. His name’s not new;
it’s Him, devourer of all that lives and’s made
in
whatsoever image – stars that flare deep
in
the cosmos, daisies that huddle and likely fade
on
grass by night when none can see him sweep
through
meadow, sky or house where mourners weep
away
their loss. No pain’s about tonight;
she
longs to laud her lord, expects no sleep
now
her groom has come for one last rite.
Extol
her faithfulness on dying into light,
for
so Death wed her strength. She’s gone; he’s fled,
but
there’s no foul, no murderous act, praise be!
She
was taken ripe, ready: he’d spread
the
word to all before, a modeller, he,
with
gentled touch for all to come. So we
might
welcome him, not forego the pleasure
his
presence brings. Besides, we cannot flee.
Accept
him, then, as did his bride. His measure
is
his gift, the end of life his treasure.
The tap-dripped drop’s lost in a bowl
while inconspicuous ants are blown to dust.
Our quickened selves have ghosthood as our
goal.
The universe? It passes – as we must.
