For most of us, our parents are the first source of truly unconditional love. And oftentimes, they are the greatest source of all. Our mother and father welcomed us into this life, nurtured us when we were helpless, comforted us when we were sad, healed us when we were hurt, and taught us everything we needed to know in order to be mature, intelligent, respectable, kind, virtuous, decent, loving people. Nevertheless, it doesn't matter how mature we are or how old we get. Whenever anyone's parents pass away, the sorrow associated with losing those two unconditionally loving souls can be far too deep to name, and the grief can last for years, even decades. The tears will always be true, the painful feeling of loneliness will always be honest, and profound grief will always be sincere. The more you have loved your parents, the deeper the sorrow you will feel when they pass away. I have had to learn that whenever I suffer these overwhelming moments of tearful sorrow, I simply need to let go and let them happen, for as long as they need to happen. This is how I grieve the loss of my mother, who passed away on May 27, 2014, and my father, who passed away on February 1, 2015. And because I loved both of them very, very deeply, I am truly uncertain as to whether or not I will ever be able to mourn their passing without any overwhelmingly tearful grief. Ultimately, I must allow all of these waves of grief to move freely within my heart, and I must accept everything I feel, so that I may truly be healed.
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Thursday, August 31, 2017
My Cross
To this day,
I still cannot make sense of it,
bear it in a mature, reasonable fashion. Nevertheless, this
I only know far too well:
the more profoundly you love someone,
the more deeply you will weep, and the longer you will grieve,
when death finally renders you bereaved. Since my mother's passing,
followed shortly by the loss of my father,
my soul has been crucified every day,
my tears flowing like heavy droplets of blood from my wounded heart,
an ongoing pain, monumental, like pierced wrists and feet,
my hopes eviscerated, like the spear thrust into the side,
my mind overwhelmed with sorrow, like a bloody crown of thorns.
Every day, I am wrapped in the gossamer linen of my deepest memories,
gently placed inside the cold, dark tomb of forgotten dreams,
and sealed in with the heavy stone of finality,
only to be raised up yet again, released from that lonely prison,
and given another chance to live, to change, to heal, to hope, to dream, to believe,
to love.
Every day,
I carry the heavy cross that brings me to tears. And to this day,
I still cannot make sense of it,
bear it in a mature,
reasonable fashion.
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I still cannot make sense of it,
bear it in a mature, reasonable fashion. Nevertheless, this
I only know far too well:
the more profoundly you love someone,
the more deeply you will weep, and the longer you will grieve,
when death finally renders you bereaved. Since my mother's passing,
followed shortly by the loss of my father,
my soul has been crucified every day,
my tears flowing like heavy droplets of blood from my wounded heart,
an ongoing pain, monumental, like pierced wrists and feet,
my hopes eviscerated, like the spear thrust into the side,
my mind overwhelmed with sorrow, like a bloody crown of thorns.
Every day, I am wrapped in the gossamer linen of my deepest memories,
gently placed inside the cold, dark tomb of forgotten dreams,
and sealed in with the heavy stone of finality,
only to be raised up yet again, released from that lonely prison,
and given another chance to live, to change, to heal, to hope, to dream, to believe,
to love.
Every day,
I carry the heavy cross that brings me to tears. And to this day,
I still cannot make sense of it,
bear it in a mature,
reasonable fashion.
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Founded upon Death
I watch as a myriad of people ponder the mundane,
while I instead survey the very foundation that supports us all.
Either they cannot see that where they stand is made of
quicksand,
or they simply refuse to open their eyes, and are morbidly afraid of
the truth,
that there is no such thing as safety
when everyone is mortal,
and there is no such thing as peace
when everyone can die,
and there is no such thing as righteousness
when every last human being can be reduced to nothingness
by the grave. And I am always aware of this
ever-present loneliness,
that even if I do manage to open the door of eternal life,
no one will pass through it with me,
simply because they fear the unfamiliar,
and they blindly trust in their world founded upon death,
a reality where everybody dies,
and no one lives forever.
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while I instead survey the very foundation that supports us all.
Either they cannot see that where they stand is made of
quicksand,
or they simply refuse to open their eyes, and are morbidly afraid of
the truth,
that there is no such thing as safety
when everyone is mortal,
and there is no such thing as peace
when everyone can die,
and there is no such thing as righteousness
when every last human being can be reduced to nothingness
by the grave. And I am always aware of this
ever-present loneliness,
that even if I do manage to open the door of eternal life,
no one will pass through it with me,
simply because they fear the unfamiliar,
and they blindly trust in their world founded upon death,
a reality where everybody dies,
and no one lives forever.
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
Compassion Capital
How can anyone find compassion
in a world where "love" is spelled "M" "O" "N" "E" "Y"?
Is there any hope in this miserably overcrowded place, any hope
for the lonely soul who has lost so many loved ones,
for the soul so alone in this world and
about to sorrowfully fall through the cracks?
Sometimes, you just don't know how you got here,
and you can't even tell where "here" is.
You could be poor, rich, or somewhere in between,
and the lonely solitude still hits you like a ton of bricks,
silently weighs down on your chest and
keeps you paralyzed for hours as you constantly ask yourself
where your life took that wrong turn.
And while you're still looking for at least one sincere friend,
everyone else is still looking for another paycheck,
another score in the hustle, another sucker to con,
as if dead presidents were the only people that really mattered.
They'll only have but so much compassion on any soul
if there are enough dead presidents in it for them.
And in the end, those very people will be so poor,
the only thing they'll ever have is a whole lot of money.
---
It's easy to find friends in a place
where people are loved and things are used.
But how can you find any friends in a place
where things are loved
and people are
used?
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
in a world where "love" is spelled "M" "O" "N" "E" "Y"?
Is there any hope in this miserably overcrowded place, any hope
for the lonely soul who has lost so many loved ones,
for the soul so alone in this world and
about to sorrowfully fall through the cracks?
Sometimes, you just don't know how you got here,
and you can't even tell where "here" is.
You could be poor, rich, or somewhere in between,
and the lonely solitude still hits you like a ton of bricks,
silently weighs down on your chest and
keeps you paralyzed for hours as you constantly ask yourself
where your life took that wrong turn.
And while you're still looking for at least one sincere friend,
everyone else is still looking for another paycheck,
another score in the hustle, another sucker to con,
as if dead presidents were the only people that really mattered.
They'll only have but so much compassion on any soul
if there are enough dead presidents in it for them.
And in the end, those very people will be so poor,
the only thing they'll ever have is a whole lot of money.
---
It's easy to find friends in a place
where people are loved and things are used.
But how can you find any friends in a place
where things are loved
and people are
used?
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
Tombstones of Sorrow
We weep for the brokenhearted
who no longer have the tears to weep for themselves.
We weep for the dearly departed like
heavy raindrops blanketing fields of tombstones.
We grope to and fro in the darkness of our own
willful ignorance, morbidly afraid to feel the pain of losing and
never being able to hold again. Every so often,
we build campfires for one another,
solitary beacons of light in the pitch-black darkness,
and we huddle around the flame for warmth,
holding each other like dearest long-lost friends,
embracing each other for peace, brotherhood, sisterhood, love,
some ever-waning sense of familiarity,
until the heavy rains return, extinguish the flame of mercy,
and leave us to once again grope in the boundless darkness,
amidst the tombstones of sorrow.
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
who no longer have the tears to weep for themselves.
We weep for the dearly departed like
heavy raindrops blanketing fields of tombstones.
We grope to and fro in the darkness of our own
willful ignorance, morbidly afraid to feel the pain of losing and
never being able to hold again. Every so often,
we build campfires for one another,
solitary beacons of light in the pitch-black darkness,
and we huddle around the flame for warmth,
holding each other like dearest long-lost friends,
embracing each other for peace, brotherhood, sisterhood, love,
some ever-waning sense of familiarity,
until the heavy rains return, extinguish the flame of mercy,
and leave us to once again grope in the boundless darkness,
amidst the tombstones of sorrow.
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
Just Like All the Others
You arrive at the beach, pulling a large wagon
filled with bricks made of dirt. You're determined to build your castle.
And those dirt bricks are feeble, each one no bigger than your hand.
And the only foundation you have is the loose earth
next to the sand, a soil too soft to use for replacement bricks.
All of your hopes and dreams are in the completion of this castle.
But while you're building it, several nearby children run towards it and
forcefully knock it down with absolute arrogance and disrespect.
And every time you try to rebuild your castle,
the same rude, laughing children run by and knock it down,
no matter how many times you angrily scold them.
At one point, when you start building your castle for the umpteenth time,
and you see those same disrespectful little brats poised to attack,
you plead with their parents to restrain them,
and you do your best to reason with those parents as mature adults,
only to be met with scornful, mocking laughter from those same parents
as they join hands with their children and knock down your incomplete castle
with enough force to shatter some of those irreplaceable dirt bricks.
You have no choice but to take your wagon, load the remaining bricks,
and journey to another part of the beach, another foundation of loose earth,
as far away from those disrespectful children and their wretched parents
as possible. But no matter how many times you move, or where,
there's always another set of spoiled brats knocking down every castle you build,
always another group of equally disrespectful parents helping them knock it down,
and always the loss of that many more precious dirt bricks,
until the moment arrives, when you realize that your wagon is completely empty,
and you are forced to leave the beach, never to return again.
"That fool was just like all the others," shout the parents and their children,
with howling laughter.
---
There is always that noblest ancient dream
of building an eternal castle,
established upon a sure foundation of solid rock,
and made with bricks consisting of the finest gold.
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
filled with bricks made of dirt. You're determined to build your castle.
And those dirt bricks are feeble, each one no bigger than your hand.
And the only foundation you have is the loose earth
next to the sand, a soil too soft to use for replacement bricks.
All of your hopes and dreams are in the completion of this castle.
But while you're building it, several nearby children run towards it and
forcefully knock it down with absolute arrogance and disrespect.
And every time you try to rebuild your castle,
the same rude, laughing children run by and knock it down,
no matter how many times you angrily scold them.
At one point, when you start building your castle for the umpteenth time,
and you see those same disrespectful little brats poised to attack,
you plead with their parents to restrain them,
and you do your best to reason with those parents as mature adults,
only to be met with scornful, mocking laughter from those same parents
as they join hands with their children and knock down your incomplete castle
with enough force to shatter some of those irreplaceable dirt bricks.
You have no choice but to take your wagon, load the remaining bricks,
and journey to another part of the beach, another foundation of loose earth,
as far away from those disrespectful children and their wretched parents
as possible. But no matter how many times you move, or where,
there's always another set of spoiled brats knocking down every castle you build,
always another group of equally disrespectful parents helping them knock it down,
and always the loss of that many more precious dirt bricks,
until the moment arrives, when you realize that your wagon is completely empty,
and you are forced to leave the beach, never to return again.
"That fool was just like all the others," shout the parents and their children,
with howling laughter.
---
There is always that noblest ancient dream
of building an eternal castle,
established upon a sure foundation of solid rock,
and made with bricks consisting of the finest gold.
Copyright © 2017, All Rights Reserved
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