Poem: The Angry Season


The Angry Season

I tire
of the lies, both the ones I know
and the ones hidden and twisted with a dash of truth.

I tire of the anger,
the fervent belief that we know all
before we know anything,
before we listen,
except, of course, we don’t listen.

We live like vultures,
circling for the dead,
sure that if they are not deceased already,
a little nip and nibble
will speed the corpse along.

We have no time for truth.
No patience.
No desire. We are too busy to be wise,
even if we wanted to.

We have things to say.
Things to do.
Things to believe,
big things,
bigger than the bodies we leave behind,
headline news rife with ratings and pundits
and those who know nothing
except how to grab the spotlight,
a magician’s trick, distraction and deception,
a certainty born of belief that belief makes it so.

And what is left are old men like me,
who has learned every first fact I believed, was wrong
and discernment takes time.
Truth comes most often in whispers than shouts
worth the wait,
for souls always are.

So come sit with me.
I need a dose of truth.
Of love. Of compassion.
I need to know I matter and you matter
as something besides fodder and roadkill.
I need your heartbeat and the warmth of your flesh
in this angry season of Autumn.

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