Thursday, February 19, 2015

What the World is Missing


“If we could read the secret history of our enemies, we would find in each man’s life a sorrow and a suffering enough to disarm all hostility.”
~ Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

The heart of an armored man
is a big and beautiful thing,
built as it was in the
small and vulnerable body
of a once sweet and tender boy;   
it glows now inside the bunker
behind the puffed out chest
of the man he has become,
treasure of a superhero
who was once nearly annihilated,
deeply hurt and betrayed by,
maybe once just disgusted
or deeply ashamed
or backed into corners
over and over by
the behavior of his parents,
and the rings of his small and earnest
hammer blows still echo
against the metal of his
hastily erected bunker.

And that boy who relegated
his wounded heart
to the darkness of that bunker
has guarded its secret tenderness
faithfully ever since, blowing on the coals of it
as if in a dragons lair,
determined to keep the fire
of his joie de vivre alive at any cost,
growing so beautifully on the outside of his body
but maybe not so much on the inside,
allowing only the most carefully
chosen few to see behind the forged metal
and into the walled off red chambers,
lobbing grenades and fiery explosions
in the form of judgment and expectation
at random passersby and even
close family members who dare to encroach
upon his carefully marked out territory.

Believing his sensitive heart
will stay secure with enough
muscle and ink, a loud voice
and big engines, big boots and
deadly weapons, rigid opinions and
the uniform of the kind of men
who make things happen,
he labors under the delusion that
surety and safety are actual real things
he could count on, if only
he could find and count them,
and he greets each of his problems,
large or small, with overblown adrenaline
and righteous indignation,
believing, it seems, that he’s
the most important person in every situation
and especially in his right to an easy
existence and a smooth ride
through life and is defiantly determined
that since he believes he deserves this,
he should therefore
most definitely have it,
regardless of his fire breathing tendencies
and its impact on others,
regardless of the shrapnel and the smell
of burning flesh he sometimes leaves behind him.

And even so,
he is dizzyingly sexy and commanding
the way only truly confident men are,
and the way men who have,
- oh, somebody’s got to say it -
fairly large cocks, but he is, alas,
the kind of man who works and plays
so hard that he leaves no room,
especially in his own mind, it seems,
for questions about his own existence
or his view of life,
who appears so certain that everything he believes and
everything he says is true and unquestionable,
that there is nothing new to learn
about the world or his place in it,
and especially nothing new about
the unchartered territory
of his wildly beating heart or the hearts
of those around him.

Clearly he has forgotten his true purpose
as a man, if ever he knew it:
to protect and guard as a superhero would,
oh, not just his loved ones but the Earth itself,
Mother of Us All, and everyone on Her,
to use the power of his very own heart
to lead and to change,
not just take what he wants from the world
but to bring, to serve, to heal, to protect,
which he often does anyway and does well
while forgetting the reasons why.
Sometimes he remembers and then
golden, glowing cracks appear
in the shabbily forged metal of that
thrown together bunker,
times when he’s making love, perhaps,
with that sweet and special someone
or in un-witnessed moments
with his trusting and adoring child,

or in an unguarded moment alone at dusk
when his relegated heart clamors for attention
in the form of thoughts and memories
and feelings of longing too vivid
and wonderful to ignore, overwhelming
in their insistence until he
gets a hold of himself, for God’s sake,
or reaches out for intense yet fleeting
sensation in the physical world
-noise, movement, sight, taste, touch -
to make it stop,
to ground and steady himself
when his interior world seems
such a flimsy, insubstantial place;
but when the liquid Light of his glowing heart
and the rhythm of its steady beat
beam through the cracks,
its warmth and energy and
ability to protect is the glorious
rapturous color of summer sunsets

but sadly, those moments are just
a gossamer glimmer, a hint out of the corner
of his eye and the eyes
of those around him of the deep and real
and enormous power of the steadily
beating heart he hides from the world,
wrongly believing it a rare and weak thing
to be so easily and unexpectedly
hurt, or moved to tears by joy or sorrow,
or by the touch of a faithful woman,
the pure love of a child, the wish
upon a star or the music of patriotic splendor
or even dumb commercials
that breech all his walls, flooding the dark cave
of his secret and sacred
sanctuary, not knowing how deeply
the world needs his wild heart
to burn as boldly as the sun
and light it up like a quasar.

For GK by Suzie Jones, February 2015