Truth: Yours, Mine, Ours

Awake at 3 a.m.

Impossible questions surging thru dreams

The book too complicated to read; only a poem to write will suffice.

There is no future in “wherein” & “whereupon”

Sandpapering the mind, with thou shalt not

My eyes so tired

May I sleep soon?

—

No mother to answer nor question

The questions just hang, midair, pulsing

Even the pendulum is still in my fingers.

===

At times I am a broken chair

Lying beside the road

No Jesus-Carpenter to mend me

I’ve not passed my time of supporting

But hold less weight than I could before –

A castoff castaway

Melting into the moss.

Haunted with dreams

Of sitting beside windows

Watching fate unfold on a windmill.

===

Existential poems: metaphor & sigh

A breath never breathed back in

Rife with cancellations:

Never said that!

Never did that!

You’ve got it all wrong!

My memory is clear,

Either I made it up

Or I’ve already jumped the timeline.

= = =

Maybe there’s profit in spinning webs of hissing defeat

I mistook for grace in action at the time…

Your lacking memory does not erase flat fact.

Your drawing the blinds does not erase the view.

What profit being right? I am as unknowing as the next day

What life is.

It unfolds as I peek in.

= = =

“Wiseth up!”

Real denial takes two

The committer & the committee

That word: “never?” that word in a sentence

Dooms it immediately

Cancels any future

Negates presence

Never is a scare-word

Let’s not use it anymore.

= = =

I cheer my certainty: God Is!

I see everyone circling the belief

I sit in like a comfortable chair.

Others are wolves circling blood-scent

Unbelief writ large, propounded loud

To what profit?

It’s my choice to think “God wins!”

= = =

Of all places where God is,

Should be a church

And yet there is more politik

Less politic

What happens in the parsonage should stay there.

Denial & despair have no place here

On Sunday mornings

Why are they present on other days?

= = =

This defeating unforgiveness

Slacking the tow rope of heaven’s compassion

So we bump along

What should be smooth sailing

Cursing & carrying all that was to be left behind

When we got here.

= = =

You don’t share my God; you’ve cobbled together your own

That’s fine, it’s just not me.

The unbelieving clergy writes doubtful liturgy

Narcissists write their own Bibles

Create their own miraculous.

I am by no means humble

How could I be when God has chosen me

To work through?

I surrender, putting up my hands

You are most certainly entitled to your belief system!

Have at it! Enjoy the show.

I sit a tinier throne.

My God just is. Nothing more needed.

= = =

There’s a lesson here somewhere, damnit!

A more polished meme to be had

Generated by AI, bolstered by its words

Not mine.

I write what I want to say.

You get no portals to my world

If uncreated by invitation.

Bring it on!

Meet the adamantine heart I bear face-up, head-on.

We will talk togetherness from there.

= = =

Doubt on your horizon

Is surety on mine

Somehow, we exist in the same world

After the same goals:

Balance / harmony / joy

We just go about achieving them differently, yeh?

= = =

I tie my beliefs up in a hanky, four corners

Tied to a pole

Hoisted left-shouldered

To keep my right side free

For the walking stick of Journey.

To garner more to carry or give it all away.

I have no answers you don’t.

Ask no questions here.

Try not to trip on my beliefs

It’s a hard fall waiting there.

= = =

Returning to the wilderness

Does not mean befriending alligators

But questing dragons.

= = =

I refuse to be dizzied by your spiraling beliefs.

I stand on my own now as for my life

I hear & I obey

While keeping mine own counsel

While living apart in my mind

A violin in the distance

Haunting as a church bell

Tolling out prayers.

= = =

SUPERMOON

Presiding over presentiments

Taking no sides

Silent.

Void of answers to rising questions.

Footprinted with ideas, not industry

The scenic view of Earth its only occupation.

The silent moon which cannot be still

Which changes sizes with every quarter

Preoccupied as a blushing woman

An illusion of a tale untold

Of dust & ash & self-reflection.

CAROL BORSELLO