Category Archives: Truth

Truth telling

Places and spaces
call forth
the art of truth telling,
once resisted
in favour of silence keeping,
in favour of
falling down
and curling up
under a hard shell
of resentment,
in favour of keeping
stum and keeping
and keeping a lid
firmly closed
on all that glitters.
No cracks to let the light in.

Places and spaces
offer up openings,
beckoning one at a time
with arms outstretched,
they make
no promises of survival,
say it, say it, say it
they chant
no care for outcomes,
only that you live
in truth with yourself,
only that you risk
that which is worth risking,
your heart, your soul, your words.

Places and spaces,
where words demand,
that you allow them
to rise up and
spill over
the edge,
into that
wide open abyss
where you can’t yet see
how they will be caught,
and you can’t yet hear
the soft thump
of their landing,
and you can’t yet know
the poems they will make
or the tears that will fall
or the love you will feel,
beyond the thunder
of your beating, bleeding heart,
as slowly, purposefully, painfully,
syllable by syllable
word by word,
you follow the geese,
the tortoise, the godwits
and all of those who have
gone before,
and begin the long,
and necessary,
towards home.

Post-modern nausea

Bamboozled by some claims
of post-modernism, where doubt
seeps in under every doorway.
We take nothing for granted,
no knowledge is truth,
simplicity is mired in complexity,
the complex oh so simple.

The residence of the I is many,
in here, out there, in between,
multiple selves, true self, false self,
one world, no self.
Illusions, fantasies, defenses.
Us and them, I and thou, me and you,
all one.

My seeing is partial
My knowing is momentary
My holding on is tenuous
as each truth gradually, slowly
succumbs to the next,
merging like earth and water
into mud.

Existentialism, spiritualism, economics.
Therapy, religion, materialism.
Poetry, literature, family.
Love, intellect, presence.
The way is rocky, hazardous,
the air is murky and grey,
it is difficult to see beyond
where I am, beyond this obsession
with I, with its incessant demands for
coherence, consistency, certainty,
and freedom.

My stomach is nauseous
from throwing up its contents
I cannot digest
this choosing, or not, of one.