Worthy of Love [new poem]
WORTHY OF LOVE [new poem]
Some say those you love must be worthy
of that love, and if they’re not, then you
should never waste your love upon them,
shrewdly saving it for 1 who worthy of it is.
This poet used to firmly reason this way too,
until he realised that there can be not one
exception to love’s worth upon this earth.
Why should he care if they will never love
him back? What could it be to him if they
are void of love themselves, or wear a suit
of armour made from hardened steel or
are unable in themselves to feel or have
erected permanently-stationed shields?
(For he can see beyond those barbed-wire
warning signs of pseudo-private-property,
and thus loves what it is which hides itself
with awful fear behind an ersatz exosphere).
“You’ll only get yourself abused”, intones
the chorus-of-the-hurt to me when they
have heard or read just what I have to say
of chivalry as shown by God’s own knights
who fully freely love as they have been
by powers which no eye has ever seen.
This poet found that he could not turn off
the waterfall of love which flows incessantly
regardless of the bleakness or hostility
concerning the terrain on which it falls.
He found withal that he must turn the tap
to open even more, in hope that it, in time,
will not only obliterate the walls but that
some flowers there will grow, and one day
maybe even trees will sprout mysteriously,
and such will then become the status quo.
“That’s just a fantasy”, you’ll say. “Maybe”,
will he retort. But it is not for this poet yet
to know if seeds will have been gently sown
for future growth. Perhaps long after he
has left behind this earth, the fruit of love
will be revealed, whether or not there has
been ‘worth’ within the object of the poet’s
adoration (and let us not forget that all love
has clandestinely been routed from ‘above’,
& thus, in turn, we are obliged by honour to
reciprocate without attenuation or reserve).
However, this does not mean that one must
become a doormat for the inability of others
to receive the love gratuitously sprayed upon
their souls by those whose role was just to give
and maybe never to receive but simply there
to live and thus to faithfully believe that only
after this brief life will their reward be shown;
for in this way have many souls been grown.
This is an arduous hard lesson to be learned;
both a burden and a blessing (if your heart
can take it in) to thus be humbly borne alone.
Now if this triggers a response of indignation
in your mind, may I respectfully suggest that
you hold off on making judgements 4 a time;
at least until you find that you can freely give
without a care for if you will receive (as this
is what the heart of love does mean, no matter
how it may now seem), for then you truly will
receive. I am not speaking of a human source,
but of a secret fountainhead which is, of course,
(and, thus, instead) not of these broken shores.
© Alan Morrison, 2020
The Naked Troubadour 