On Diversity

Two poems in a day. It must be a record.

A difference in hues
Of eyes and of faces
Of homelands, of gods, and of races
Is this variation, this mixing of sorts
Inherent in conflicts, our disgraces?

The opposite case is hardly yet made
Homogeneity, no fill-in for peace
Why then is the difference, in any mild form
Labelled, often by many, with derision?

Perhaps it is fear
Perhaps it is not
Perhaps we’re too impatient to grasp
For diversity in thought, where we seek out the Truth
But instead build our walls with the same.

The Words That Stick

Inspired by the Daily Post prompt, By Heart:

What words come forth to fill my mind
A song that’s shelved far deep behind
The shelves and aisles of memory.
….
Long you live and high you fly
The smiles you’ll give and tears you’ll cry
All you touch and all you see
Is all your life will ever be.

Run, rabbit, run
Dig that hole. Forget the sun
When at last the work is done
Don’t sit down it’s time to dig another one.

Long you live and high you fly
But only if you ride the tide
Balanced on the biggest wave
Race towards an early grave

The Tower

From The Daily Post: You’re tasked with creating a brand new astrological sign for the people born around your birthday — based solely on yourself. What would your new sign be, and how would you describe those who share it?

——-

To be born of the Tower
Is not something of bliss
Its meaning is in struggle and in sweat
And laboring long for an ounce of meaning
May leave others to whine and to fret.

But not so for Towers
For their life is in building
A spire to match that of the stars
Pursuing this maxim, this shell of a dream
In itself leaves invisible scars.

For as with great towers
Of the world or the mind
They are beauty when standing alone
Such truth is abundant when speaking to one
For their hearts, like their crafts, can be stone.

Perhaps it’s a shame
To be born under Tower
Why not something that can sing or can fly?
Because the Tower is formed with its focus all shown
In its shape, the indomitable I.

Mute

An older poem on a fresh prompt.

The faces all blend into a mesh of silence
They might as well all lack a soul.
We all hurry about like mad ants, all afire
We might as well all lack a soul.

Such solitude truly, is a remarkable feat
Now achieved in the densest of lands.
Living shoulder to shoulder, ever growing older
All alone, a whole world in my hands.

Even with noise bursting always around
One can hear the dead silence within.
And as we sit all around our own rulers handheld
One can hear the dead silence within.

Every Hour is Sacred

While there are certainly special moments in one’s life that can give you nerves, I’ll address today’s prompt from a slightly different angle.

Life is full of grand milestones
The times when your being is known
But I have lived life in a fashion without fear
For some milestones don’t show when they’re known.

Calamity, crisis, or the pure stroke of luck
Can bring any large moment up front
So without being pushy or immediately rude
Allow me to be perfectly blunt:

Every day has the makings of the rest of your life
To live with bias towards days would be cruel
For every hour is sacred, every minute inspired
Every second is an end, not a tool.

Can you tell me which step matters most in a journey
The first step, the last, in between?
If you ponder each pace on the journey of life
Then your conscience will ever be clean.

So each step, well-considered, leads to well-thought out ends
As each step is a moment’s inception
So as you stride through the hours that make up your life
Keep it with you, this gift of reflection.