Tantric Surfers of the Skies [poem]
bro
ken
peo
ple
everywhere
(broken = dead)
I see their look
I fall apart
Don’t know which is more in pieces
broken people or my heart
shattered by
the desperation
of their souls
the resignation
in their eyes
the thousand hearting whys
they never say —
I see it all
and even if they hide it well
I see it still
then tremble weep
and call out to my angel friends
to lend these souls their clothes
until their hearts unfroze
but drudgery goes on
as
bro
ken
peo
ple
everywhere
behind their walls
and comfortable
chainmail palls
avoid repair
in any street
a grey sky hovers overhead
a hazy soup from hell
with concrete underfoot
where broken people trudge
a scarlined urban smudge
About their brokenness
they haven’t got a clue
if I could love them all to life
I would
I want to heal the world
my love for them the glue
to build them back to
how they’re meant to be
ennobled liberated beautified
and free
once
when I was on a bus
a boy of 20ish stood up
(he was my friend)
and yelled out
to the travellers there
“You’re all just dead!”
The driver stopped the bus
and then they called an ambulance
and claimed he wasn’t proper in his head
Four weeks he was in hospital
alive with flooding insights
(which they tried to stop with drugs)
for the thing he said upon that bus
was right
and even thugs are better treated
than that boy
who was a poet for that day
and boys like him will never go away
The world needs prophets
seers tellers of a thousand truths
to wake up and undo
the brokenness
unspoken hopelessness
and hidden iceberg
deeply downful
drowning cyphered
politesse which some call life
broken’s good
for those who seek
to find their core
(my friend was one and I)
we must be broken
even die
to every last illusion
fantasy and lie
to find the door
to freedom, life and more
Involuntary brokenness
however
is another world
a sledgehammer
a wrecking ball
the fruit of countless
traumas hurled into
an unsuspecting face
I want to sit them on my knee
until there’s not a trace of
broken bitter anywhere
no further need for dreams
for all is lived
and everything is what it seems
and everyone loves love and lovers
see each one as sisters brothers
drinking from the same
unblemished well
if I was on a plane
which through some force of circumstance
was plunging to the earth
I’d grab the nearest beauty
and suggest we spend
what time we have
remaining in our tiny lives
in making love
like tantric surfers of the skies
and so we would
For everyone when faced with
certain imminence of death
will change their tune
and let the pieces of themselves
be strewn across the sun
a brokenness
which cannot be undone
for everything one day is
broken on the anvilhead of time
so all repair is temporary
Broken’s only useful
fruitful
if it leads to wholeness
pieces recombined
though not in ways we may expect
but streamlined no more blind
.
.
© Alan Morrison, 2014
The Naked Troubadour 