Poem: Content

9 bw.JPG

Content

You are a different kind of monk,
a reader of scriptures and poems,
of news and the strange stories each of us carries,
a keeper of other people’s secrets,
less prone to keep your own,
poor at protecting yourself,
but somehow a safe haven for the ones around you.
Content with silence.
Content with less than you have,
a prayer warrior with few other weapons left
than the remembrance
of your own survival.

You laugh too much for a priest.
You read too much, and not just holy books,
a madcap mixture of sacred and profane,
the stuff of life you call it,
fiction, each truth dripped out like liquid gold,
tortured Titians with all the color and glory
painted on humble boards.

You scratch words in the early morning,
confessions few understand, content
to let them create their own landscape
from your bloody battleground, content
to let them feel the sacred loves
that keep you
alive.

Content
to be,
at long last,
yourself,
standing
in a field of corpses.

About this poem

Don’t ask me. It just showed up. Muses are like that sometimes.

Tom

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s