The Naked Troubadour

BETWEEN TWO SWORDS AT SEA (or How to Be Reconciled on this Desecrated Earth) [new poem]

Posted on Jul 27, 2019

Most worldlings here would rather love a tawdry shiny thing
which glintly smiles at them but offers only dreams and lies
than a jaded weary truthful soul who cuts through dirt
& always asks the vital though neglected question: “Why?”

How come I’m standing open-mouthed and gobsmacked
in a world where unrepentant propaganda masquerades
as common sense and gaslight governments indulge in
manifesto false pretence while theatre entertainment
says “And Now the News” and all you ever hear are empty
tattered points of view and ignorance becomes the norm
& everything is turned upon its head as evil is called “good”,
darkness is disguised as “light”, bitterness is styled as “sweet”,
very few will serve the ones around them as they should;
& many folks whose love’s grown cold won’t offer invalids a seat,
& all that’s wrong is normalised as being trendy, cool & “right”,
while women now imagine in their vanity they can be men,
and even “men” are little more than gelded wimps who prance
around like fops, unable anymore to blaze the trail and take
the lead and point the way and no more fit to pioneers be?
And people cry, “My body, therefore it’s my choice”; but our
forms are no more ours than is the moon! For they belong
to One who secretly made them in the womb; and should we
not give voice to those who would be butchered by our lust?

Increasingly, I find myself deserted (in a human sense) and
standing on a rock far out at sea, in shock. I’m sandwiched
twixt two broad and well-proportioned word-engraven swords.
On one (whose blunted blade astonishes my naïve thumb)
there is a sign which boldly states a weakness in my heart:
“PLEASE STOP THE WORLD — I WANT TO DISEMBARK!”
Emblazoned on the other sword (whose sharpness drew a gush
of blood from One whose sandals I’m not worthy to unlatch),
a clear Divine response retorts (reducing me to tears of joy):
“You are not here to please yourself, or seek your comforts
(though I’ll comfort you from time to time) for you are Mine
to serve Me in this broken once-was-paradise but now ill-fated,
trampled, doomed, progressively-suicidal cosmic drama-fest
wherein experiences will test your faith to see if you are made
of better mettle than your sword — of this you can be sure”.

I marvelled at the play on words and gladly then accepted such
a mission which, in any human sense would be impossible, but
since it signed itself in blood divinely shed, I knew I would be led
to where my body/soul should be and never more would feel
the need to flee this mortal place, for all becomes a sacred space
when one can serve the Source. [I know, of course, that all this
3-D dark will be transformed and only those who wish to follow
Truth will be absorbed into the new creation’s flush of youth].

At this, I raised my eyes and saw there were a myriad others
standing on their rocks, like me — themselves hemmed in
by those two swords. I noticed too their faces were awash
with tears of joy like mine. I realised I was no more alone
but if I reached out hard enough their outstretched hands
would gently contact outstretched mine, and then I saw
the linked-up hands had made a web of light to shine across
this desecrated earth, which either wholly blinded or beguiled;
the latter being the only way to be reformed and reconciled.

 
© Alan Morrison, 2019