PostPoems Be Artistic. Be Creative. Be Inspired!

The world grinds half itself into dust.

What can I say about these dreams living

so well in other lives?

Should I hate the beauty that mocks pain

or love the pain that makes beauty shine?

How should I answer that trickle of morning

that calls to every heart with a different voice:

Calls to the Buddhist monk finding his

luminous space between thoughts,

his treasure a dream of oneness in 

a world of hate,

calls to the Syrian orphan who has never

craved orange-colored snack foods or heard

about kids killing kids for their tennis shoes,

calls to the Saudi woman in the Christian Dior

veil buying diamonds so she can live well when

her husband divorces her,

calls to the lady in the gingham smock setting

out pies on the lawn of the white-washed

Alabama church where people still wear hats and

eat almost anything fried,

to the crepe-paper skinned rickshaw puller

gasping on the dusty streets of Delhi,

to the smuggler who can buy everyone drinks and

lose in style in the casinos of Monaco,

to the man with the thatched beard who doesn't

see the festering sunrise as he fills his wobbly

shopping cart with empty soda cans, 

to the Laplander who has no idea how happy he 

is with his life of unprocessed air, angelic 

snow-castles and reindeer meat,

To the billions who should receive medals

just for being here

and answering that same call every day

when it snatches us from tiny deaths again

and again,

forcing us to be born to the rhythm of the sun

and says:

make your choice now, life or death,

but whatever you choose, do it hard

and do it well;

be the master

or be a soul without a world.

So I make my choice for another day

as the particles of morning spray into 

my eyes and press the issue with their 

painful amber joy,

and I reach into my chest,

pull out the awakening heart

and observe this star, this crystal, this

throbbing tantrum that screams one hope:

God watches. 

by Patricia Joan Jones