We are such easy pickins’ – humans.
We wear our desires on our faces.
We project our imagined weakness
from a bullhorn.
We tell everything we know from our eyes,
and we hardly
ever blink.
Occasionally, a man wears disdain
and distances himself like a toddler
full of no, but even that
is a challenge as cute as stomping feet.
We sit behind desks and ask to be taught
that which we can easily teach ourselves.
We prostrate at the feet of the famous
and
the physically pretty.
We fawn at the hem of the fashions
and yet
there is something so powerful in our surrendering.
We sign contracts pledging our loyalty without asking to see proof.
We give and lose and give again.
One leg up, one leg down, one leg up again.
The power of the human
lies in the soft soft underbelly
of vulnerability.
There is power in our foolish ways of trusting,
in our back resting, belly up offering we give
in our hopes for a gentle rub.
The hidden rulers, which seem separate but are not,
We are thee, too,
with their/our painful daggers
to cut into that soft flesh – we
don’t understand the strength in the weakness.
They/we shun the trust and the beauty
of the stupid creators that we are – yet
They too are in a type of sleep –
a dream of forgetting –
delighting in a puppet play where they pull all the strings
yet leap from their own shadows.
The mystery of the humans will never make sense.
How can a swaddled baby be more powerful than a corporate Titan
towering in his empire built on human backs?
Yet it is.
And we are all expressions of the same
same same…what?
creator?
god?
impulse?
I don’t know – obviously
I’m stretching.
This I do know, but I don’t know how…
The helpless, clueless,
trusting
newborn idiot
has only to beckon
and
he can reign down blessings.
When the sleeping infants wake,
what wonders will unfold.
(I keep tinkering with these words – they are driving me crazy. I want to delete but I will let them stand now – I witness in myself the learning that comes through words, reflection, edits, flow, letting go. words scribbled with the end of a stick into the sand just before the tide comes in taking the words out to sea:)
Life as Improv 
Truly a intersting social political metaphor but unfortunately true a distraction technique to qweull the masses.
Cheers
Benjamin
cheery, good morning my friend.
Good morning 🙂
;;
🙂 -x.M
Oh yes. That’s it.
And so poems, written in the sand, slip into the sea, eventually. (Hat-tip to Jimi Hendrix)
well, now, Jimi and Ik are throwing seashells back up on the shore –
what a variety of expressions we play out in all these forms – 🙂
The infinite flow of eternal form, formless in its fluidity.
Peace, Ik
Love this. Glad you let it stand ♡
I was just thinking..Can we hold all of this ?
I guess that’s why we can observe from outside of ourselves.
Much love ~
I love the voice that asks from this infinite space: Can we hold all of this? Sitting still even in motion together – we know! Much much much love!
Thanks for liking our blog, I like yours too. We are working on something you might like, an improvisational drama presented as a reality video series. It’s called Recursion, and will be on rue YouTube channel soon. Hope to hear from you again.
Sounds interesting. I will look forward to exploring when you put it up. Thank you!