Miscommunication (poem) by Michael S. True on AuthorsDen

Miscommunication
by Michael S. True → (All Poetry by Michael S. True)
Rated "PG" by the Author.

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As lightening goads thunder Through temperamental paces We expect the unexpected. We suspect it’s just an illusion. We suspect there’s someone else to blame. We suspect that we are prisoners in these, our cages. No matter what the offering. Or better yet, the promised changes, Things as strange as panda boots And Komodo lizards tying laces Only serve to tweak our day to day, Tell tale signs of the pandemonium, A storm that swirls about the parapets Of this, our ego-centric age. It’s who we are. It’s what we miss. And most likely some small part Of a waking dream That springs to life with morning’s kiss. Since much has yet to manifest, Will we ever know if race was won? Inside looking out. Outside looking in. Our hearts adrift upon the wind, Our tripping feet upon the stony ground, Too busy with our own distractions Not to jump when startled by a sudden sound. In this span of breath we call our life Will we make the cut? Will we use the knife? Will we know who won the battle When the lights go out tonight? And in between, How often will we beseech the Powers That Be For a repeat performance? “If only we could get another chance!” we plead, Insisting on the need for new, A re-spark of the innocence, That prerequisite to a deeper faith, The hidden keys to compassion’s vault, And a better understanding of trust, Of love and benevolence. My God cues this destiny, Steps out of the way to let us pass. Relativity having some reasonable weight. Theories of entanglement Too random not to have A string or two attached. And occasionally we think that we can see The light at tunnel’s end. A passage through this hostile land. Believing in our power, Our godliness, The need to steal the train, Determined to travel Down through the valley And westward to the Golden Gate. While others have their own ideas Of where we should be living. It is a message from the mountain top, The thunderclouds and the lightening bolts, A passage to the other side revealed. A sacred scrim transposed by searing light, The gift of understanding, The booming secret bellowed, Yet unheard. Where chaos and havoc require a zoo, God still puts their food out in a bowl But seldom gets forgiveness in return. Michael S. True 10-13-13

Reviewed by Odin odin@aflx.com

Reviewed on October 14, 2013

The creation process, the "who done it" light bulb that never turns on to illuminate some empirical answer, like a woven ikat thread, coalescing its rainbow color into a pastel complacency of color and texture, satisfied with the status quo. So goes the frustration of questioning poetic arrows that seem forever to hit their mark with questionable effect. Let's hear it for the pulp readers of the world, the ones in most need of your "Miscommunication."

Reviewed by Ronald Hull

As a child I heard that thunder was, “God rearranging the furniture in heaven.” Maybe so, but lightning is still one of those unsolved things that if we could, harness all that power, we wouldn't have to worry about providing enough electric power for mankind.

On the other hand, you could be referring to those brilliant flashes of thought that change everything.

Ron

Reviewed by Lark Pogue

Well, I don't understand what Roger is saying, but I do know that to me, this describes the confusion I feel in life about which way to go. And about the occasional spurts of hope thrown in.
L

Reviewed by RWE SAYS BYE (Reader)

Reviewed on October 13, 2013

A more probative, penetratingly provocative metaphysical than this one could not wish to find, and in the stillness out of the light comes an inquiry of innocence and experience not unlike some nexus of naturalism and neo-gnostic nexus between Thomas Hardy and William Blake. Iconoclastic imagery and supernal nouthetics pulls the reader inexorably towards the horrifics of an implausibility of explosive implortunistim fused with original syntax and other fatal Flaubert-laden laws of attraction... You've got a keeper here, my friend.

Roger