Tense
What was or is or will be, no sense
in this craving certainty
facts on which to safely stand, defense
the default pose of wisdom
as if all imperfect past pretense
of knowing could guarantee
passage through high reeds or forest dense
tangle of conformity
assumed, silent threat of violence
individuality
an idea, in practice the province
of lone eccentricity
tolerated in rare great talents
muffled in society
where ritual mutes the mass conscience
to accept disparity
as the price of managed turbulence
balance of security
held in place by a gossamer fence
decorum of brevity.
The perfect, not without flaw, complete.
Some believers claim
just one
error free leader,
teacher, God’s Son
fret that he/she/it
with us is done
indulge the urge to compete
mark clear grace with penitence
as if the gift was some short-term loan
a debt re-paid in fragments
pain the test of unearned interest
currency of consequence.
Love, the real thing, is given, not lent
no tensile integrity
of high wire show, by no human rent
just response ability
the impulse to pray, a need intense
to veil the fragility
of subjunctive, iffy existence
in terms of nobility
power vested in high thrones
armaments, mobility
secrets glorified, the work of drones
scorched credibility
on the altar of the last unknowns
what shall not, cannot, should never be?
To lose the true
living sense
present tense, that
life is, is holy
each and every one intense
precious, not some beta test worthy
only if one can convince
some self-appointed authority
eager or reluctant prince
to hold Love bestowed as surety
against the void, the absence
of even one, small, humanity.
(Marthe G. Walsh)
"Love, the real thing is given, not lent..." True and lovely words. Thank you for the poem, Marthe. It is all good.
