On Being &mdash a Found Poem
We crave truth tellers. We crave real truthAmid the noise, the chaos, the fury,Where is the silence, following a thoughtful question?Is anybody really listening, taking time to ponder orOnly preparing their next bullet pointHow do we know truth when we hear it?How do we turn down the volume of inane rhetoric,Of daily news: expert commentary, analysis,in depth coverage (repetition of a few observations,Legitimate or not, repeated ad nauseum)We're tired of being bamboozled, hoodwinked,By slick smiles and coffee talk commentators.
Where did real journalism go, and when?Where are the individuals with words of power,Those who dare to ask the right questionAnd to listen to the sound of silenceBefore the answers comes?
Where are those insights thatShimmer like iridescent scales of a serpent,The precise language, the paradox, the new twist?
These maddening, burning conundrumsRattle around my mind as I begin a newSpiritual practice,Asking real questionsThat I don't know the answer to,Trying to open up the space ofInterior conversation,To find another kingdomIn a poem, to understand betterWhat I don't know that I know .
Exploring this precious human life,This human condition.
I crave truth tellers. I crave real truth.
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