Monday, March 21, 2011

So Easy

Forgotten Tears

Do we so quickly forget what is so important? Do we so quickly succumb to the false warming arms of apathy? Do we so easily pass off the burden of life? Do we, in our conclaves of religion pray for reclamation of freedom and do nothing to stem the pressing boundaries of hatred? Do we? Do we live the lives of hypocrites?
The concerns of our fellows lies in other places apparently. The lies that we so convincingly tell ourselves so that we can have a better nights sleep knowing that a babe cries for the arms of its mother. Knowing that once was past was glorious and proud, knowing that what once was couldn't ever come back again. Do we kneel with our eyes so piously bent before the Almighty, and yet we pray for rain? Yet we pray for sportsmanship? Yet we pray for bountiful food? We pray for a better seat at which to feed our gluttony while we watch Fox News and bath ourselves in the lies that we speak “We are great”.
Do we forget tears that once so easily fell from the eyes of every mother, father, brother daughter for wars and defiance of injustice that pervaded our very society. Do we forget so easily that the toll of life, the toll of life that commands the attention of our very souls to be committed to the cause of justice? Do we forget, with our self induced haze of immediate mediocrity that life demands the actions of every mother, father, brother, daughter to command the greater vestiges of their soul, body and mind to obtain the very essence of freedom? Do we praise our men as they press forth the Pax Americana? Do we sing with joy as we count the deaths of the barbarians?
Do we. Do we for the sake of pride strip naked another? Do we for the sake of self perceived strength shoot?
The flames of war, the disease of human condition, where life and innocence become the first of long list of casualties. To the weak we pray for their strength, to the sick we pray for their well being, for the poor we pray for their means, to our enemies we pray for their demise. Next in a long line of humanity to be consumed by the hands of man, the ability to love thine enemy.
Do we call from our high places the death of others for our sake? Do we sit in our chairs and wish for the angels of Heaven to place the swords of glory against the throat of some unknowable fiend?
Do we forget that humanity is a work that constantly needs the hands of every mother, father, brother, daughter to be vigilant to bring forth its collective greatness.
Do we cheer when plowshares are reforged? Do we cheer when metal rains? Do we cheer when deep green of the artificial night illuminates the dead? Do we sing in praise to our marvelous actions when flags are flown high? Do we forget that good and evil are but separated by mere perception? Do we so easily stand in linens so great and fine knowing little, knowing that our collective ignorance of a dead mans freedom is so easily forgotten as a blank spot on that screen with the news anchor stating its end as a matter or war and it is to be expected?
Easily we sit at the tables of our homes, easily we stand quietly enjoying the silence of apathetic ignorance of the facts that surround us. Easily we call for destruction, easily knowing that our hands could be cleaned with the simple action of soap and water, while we watch the son of man to be hauled off for a matter of political convenience. Easily we stand cloaking our stupidity to the world in veil of self humiliating piety. Easily we call this march, easily we call this movement, easily we call the deaths of so many, easily we call the actions necessary, easily we call forth the remnants of fallen heroes to sanctify our devilish thoughts and actions and easily do we forget our sins.

Wednesday, March 9, 2011

Confessions of a Liar: Stone Carver

Confessions of a Liar: Stone Carver

Stone Carver

The sweet feel of the chisel tightly held in the hand, guiding its meanest parts artfully against the back drop of the granite, to be violently smashed with a hammer sending pieces of the stone flying in all directions. In time to a metered pace known only to the carver, the hammer falls again. With a explosion of sound the chips of granite set free from the contact of chisel, wistfully travel to their undetermined locations. Gracefully, almost providential, the hammer is raised again, to level not to high, as to force the chisel to bite to hard, but around the center of the head, with a slight tension of the body the hammer falls. Over and over, the rhythm undeniable, the carver works. Shadows of the outside, glide across the floor, still the hammer a constant, the chisel vicious, the carver divine.