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poetry
November 2009 
POEM T minus 366: The Poor Lost Skeptics
Posted on Nov 15th, 2007
by 
The Poetic Terrorist
The Poetic Terrorist
The poor, lost skeptics
The poor, lost skeptics,
will they ever wonder, wonder
if this moment and the next one
are somehow well connected
or whether there was only one
between the stories that we told.....
The poor, lost skeptics,
a rainbow is too slow to
be light through prismatic tears
shed from a sky of infinite blue...
The poor, lost skeptics,
holding on so tight to
a world as imaginary as the next
filling in the gaps with pavement
and crop circles like a thumb
sticking out to get back home....
The poor, lost skeptics,
Life is not fantastic
enough for them to conceed
that they know so little
that every whispered leaf
amongst a tree could carry
them home across a lawn
ever as it falls to heaven.
The poor, lost skeptics,
will they ever wonder, wonder
if this moment and the next one
are somehow well connected
or whether there was only one
between the stories that we told.....
The poor, lost skeptics,
a rainbow is too slow to
be light through prismatic tears
shed from a sky of infinite blue...
The poor, lost skeptics,
holding on so tight to
a world as imaginary as the next
filling in the gaps with pavement
and crop circles like a thumb
sticking out to get back home....
The poor, lost skeptics,
Life is not fantastic
enough for them to conceed
that they know so little
that every whispered leaf
amongst a tree could carry
them home across a lawn
ever as it falls to heaven.
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Why this poem (excellent, by the way) has me feeling such a visceral reaction is beyond me. Maybe it's the happenings here today.
Thanks for this, James.
Shawn
I had you in mind when I posted it. They are each (these 366 poems) a magic spell… a profound weaving of ancient western wisdom, of true occultism. There is a recognition in each, a nearly imperceptible nod of the head to the oneness of all creation… and then each plunges into the fragmented, schizophrenic nature we've had to deal with in our long suffered ancestry. Visceral will be the word that comes to mind a lot, I suspect.
Enjoy, comment.
Laugh all your laughter and cry all your tears as I have … because each of these poems comes from the depth of the manic-depressive sickness I've had to battle through. Each comes from a triumph over invited, welcome pain. I know of no place better than this poetry to guide another into my soul. And perhaps, into his, or hers, a little along the way.
Love and Light and Shadows, Shawn,
James
I'm reading these out of order, but wow this one is powerful! Your suffering shifted to great beauty. If I read them out of order am I going to f*&k up the magic? I will just have a funny spot in the weaving on the tapestry you are creating eh? I will endeavor to read them in order now! Take care friend. Glad you are in a better place now.
Mistress Heather
There is no order, you can read them however you like. The order I post them in is fashioned from my whim at that particular moment! Thanks for your kind words.