POEM: More of the Sane

Going through
Various docks said
You are just
Going through a phrase
And heeling
Wood be
Yores soon
Enough
Finally cured
Of
That is
Green
With
Of what might
Passably be
More of the sane

This poem is about the of sanity.  This has less to do with the faults of the quo — though they are myriad — than it does coming alive, infectiously alive, in a living world.  Security, in conventional wisdom, is sought through well-worn, predictable means.  Such is based on a knowledge of order in the world.  This is simply the triangulation of scientific facts, providing a coherent framework from which to navigate our lives. Yeah, go science!  Well, order is knot the whole of life.  Disorder is necessary for possibility, any veering from a determined course.  Order as the hole of negates freedom, creation, and certainly most of the fun.  Of course, the point is not to create disorder, an of that already exists, the point is to bring to life — that is, create — new order, more conducive and congruent with the higher and deeper orders in creation.  This perpetual and is sharing in the of what it’s like to be God, perhaps God’s greatest gift.  We are meant to with creation, as God’s children, not be some set for or other humans to manipulate to their own — and our — constipated end.  Our is not a disorder that needs to be cured, it need only by infectiously creating more life.  Such disorder is not a threat to the well-ordered physical world.  However, such disorder is a metaphysical dis-ease with existence being reduced and lived (sic) out in simply a mechanical weigh.  In truth, such disorder is a higher order that cannot be reduced to mere mechanics, lifting up the hood and fixing it.  Such disorder is the infectious need to sail life’s oceans.  Of course, this is vastly aided by abundant knowledge of shipbuilding, navigation, etc.  Even greater though, it requires a of discovery, a of the feel of the ocean’s wind and spray in your face, and the to the vagaries of the wild, the powerful, and the unknown.  While boldly and infectiously sailing life’s oceans may strike many as much less secure than, say, building ships for others, I strongly suspect that one of God’s deepest desires for us is to freely be the captains of our own lives.  However exquisitely we may craft tools for others, does not desire that we simply be tools for others — that would deny God’s exquisite craftsmanship.  is a crafty one, peering behind the veil of indeterminacy, which many consider a disorder itself.  This thorniness behind results in much anguish and pain, the inescapable fareness of a free life.  The thorny crown atop God’s craftiness is unparalleled, except perhaps among humans, made in God’s image, where an irrepressible to pain the prize is billed in.  May your inborn desire to create be guided by an abiding for and it’s infectious seeking know cure.

This entry was posted in Poems, Political and Philosophical Musings and tagged , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply