To measure your happiness with spoonfuls of sadness-
How much soul-greif can this soul-joy contain?
To be at one with the sky…still…mourn the solitide of the moon-
There are never answers-only increments of wispfuls of-
Understanding-that all this push (and pull) is it This that makes life worth it(how to measure worth though?)
Is faith worth the wrath of dashed expectations- who are you, to judge the believer, when you’ve never seen Wreckage, from a faithful one’s eyes?
(my faith carries armfuls of doubts each day-on sunburnt shoulders, with steps of grace)
And to measure love- is it through its pain- worth? How much love can fill the canal until it overflows-till you cry-
That’s the flaw, in all these numbers-and all this questions-
Am I happy? Yes. But
Today-a father of 4 slit his wrists in the bedroom, and
Today marks the tenth year of a teen boy crushed to pieces-by a truck…he was homebound
And Today, they post pictures of white-lipped babes wasting from chemicals and-(how is Syria measured, today? In Isis tanks and Trump’s promises and all the inferno or all death-numbers?)and-
Today I write-not in anger, not in pain-
you of all the words, of all the headlines-painters of anguish in naked grey-strokes-
The stricken teenagers cry-
We watched our friends-cease.
Cease. Shot dead-blood and grey skin-how to measure the life-vacany of an.
And how to measure all this loss-in political discourse?in passive agreement?in policy pawns?in virtue points and sycophant Tweets?
Who are these children-to you?
Do you fall asleep to the hope-will, that they one day will feel sunlight on their eyelids without wanting to rip their eyes out?
Do you ask them how they measure the worth of Unseeing what’s been seen?
Do you drive across the country-to hold one stricken child-
What do you believe in?
Is the cadence of routine- do you shout about the guns and Russians-
about the gaping hole within your youth, that hold the weight of Nothing on their shoulders?
Is it worth to feel this chaos- this doubt and hope and love and disgust?
Do you still hold a space within the hilltop, where stillness sweeps away the ego- where you meet a tattered being, a voice cast hoarse from Asking- do you weep with the wind, in this space-cave (i do not have any of the answers).