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On Being &mdash a Found Poem

We crave truth tellers. We crave real truth
Amid the noise, the chaos, the fury,
Where is the silence, following a thoughtful question?
Is anybody really listening, taking time to ponder or
Only preparing their next bullet point
How 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 question
And to listen to the sound of silence
Before the answers comes?

Where are those insights that
Shimmer like iridescent scales of a serpent,
The precise language, the paradox, the new twist?

These maddening, burning conundrums
Rattle around my mind as I begin a new
Spiritual practice,
Asking real questions
That I don't know the answer to,
Trying to open up the space of
Interior conversation,
To find another kingdom
In a poem, to understand better
What I don't know that I know .

Exploring this precious human life,
This human condition.

I crave truth tellers. I crave real truth.