testing long poem

                                          
I. Ruminations                                                        
                                                      
Perhaps it is befitting upon suffering                                                      
to return to our chosen conception,                                                      
rewind the poem to our humble beginning                                                      
the origin of our writhing birth.                                                        
                                                      
The instance of gelatinous pod rupturing                                                      
its own ocean of submerged Life-form,                                                        
constricting to spill forth the contents                                                      
from the gestation of its sonar depths.                                                  
                                                      
Into the fumbling gravity of sterility                                                      
flailing arms and dissipating memory                                                      
absorbed by the harsh light of welcoming                                                      
into the bloody fold of humanity                                                
                                            
II. Delivery                                              
                                            
A bulb-suction of amniotic lungs                                              
the gristle of umbilical cord, gleaned                                              
a shard of air expanding corpuscles                                              
into a back draft of gurgled scream                                                
                                            
A schoolmarm of keyboard conformity                                              
her weighted bosom and face mask                                              
counting normalcy in the number                                              
of fingered and toed appendages.                                              
                                            
Stretching wide a squirming resistance                                              
into a measured length of inches                                              
against a cold scale of pounded flesh;                                              
Her pink latex gloves, bloodied and wet.                                              
                                            
III. Conception                                            
                                            
Before That was only This lush                                            
palpitating Presence from fertile Energy,                                            
an atomically-shelled Life of cloudy being                                            
programmed to continually multiply, procreate.                                            
                                            
A formless nebulae whose whole Existence                                            
moves within pure expanded Consciousness                                              
emerging tangibility to form Individuality                                            
for the simple evolution-like experience.                                            
                                            
Our supplications rise in progression, endless                                            
coupling amid Ninth Dimensional possibility,                                            
return inseminated by Belief and Faith                                            
to gestate in Time before coming to pass                                            
                                          
IV Frequency                                          
                                          
In the Beginning was the Frequency                                          
and the Frequency was synchronous,                                          
trajecting three-dimensional energy                                          
through vast rippling nothingness                                          
                                          
Signaled wavelengths, electromagnetic                                          
expansions of equal intensity burning                                          
silent revelries into an atmospheric                                          
origin upon Creation's destined planet.                                            
                                          
Teeming organisms, Prime Source                                          
manifesting vibrational Life forms                                          
into a species of common ancestry                                            
by its prolonged breath of resonance.                                            
                                          
Has it not been written:                                            
"In the Beginning                                          
The WORD already existed"?                                          
                                          
Listen for the way it feels.                                            
                                        
V. Existence                                        
                                        
Is merely dark-mattered experience                                          
beyond computability, reasoning itself                                          
into a conspiracy within its own sonar                                          
resonance of non-physical Entity.                                          
                                        
An extreme Outlier, Atomic in nature -                                          
a simple variable measured in Energy                                          
not subjective to systematic error:                                          
The Estimator of Central Creation,                                          
                                        
Whose Poisson distribution remains                                          
a constant Source of insemination,                                          
fertilizing grids of human oblation                                          
barring any explanation excepting                                            
                                        
"I am that I am.”                                            
                                        
VI. Consciousness: Sight                                      
                                        
Absorbed in nothingness, we are nucleus                                        
encased by our stellar evolutionary stage.                                        
Conjoined particles of atomic Wholeness -                                        
reverberations from the Origin of Truth.                                        
                                        
As supernovas, we ignite violently, outshine                                        
galaxies amid broad wavelengths of multiplied                                        
refraction, singular glints of intuition bouncing                                        
from mirror to mirror into the spectrogram.                                        
                                        
Lambency separates our unique frequency                                        
into an obscure vision of reality. Discarnate                                        
Spirits, we, seeing once so clearly, become                                        
shrouded in the experience of human error.                                        
                                        
‘For now, we see through a glass, darkly;…’*                                        
                                        
                                        
*1 Corinthians 13:12 (KJV)                                        
                                        
                                      
VII. Consciousness: Sound                                      
                                      
............................lub....dub....Lub...                                        
                                      
We unfurl from Life's Spiral Nautilus                                        
our sonar depth of amniotic resonance                                        
turbulent with reverberations, pulmonary                                        
repetition, valves rubber-snapping shut.                                        
                                      
dub...Lub-dub...Lub-dub...Lub-dub...                                        
                                      
Heart strings, their papillary muscles                                        
contracting, parachut leaflets ballooning                                      
slightly into the atria to abscond a back-                                        
drafted current of misdirected blood.                                        
                                      
Lub-dub.Lub-dub.Lub-dub.Lub-dub.Lub-                                        
                                      
The song of Source low-pitched, dull                                        
before the levee cracks, depositing                                        
bulked flood waters into a shallow                                        
reservoir of mass-manufactured latex.                                        
                                      
-dub....................................................                                        
                                    
                                    
VIII. Consciouness: Touch                                    
                                    
The constricting passage dialates                                    
becomes space, a reservoir of flailing                                    
emptiness receding into dryness                                      
surrounded by the basin of birth.                                    
                                    
Surfactant, amniotic fluid separate                                    
from form, waterfalls to white tile,                                    
pools at the feet of gods whose                                    
latex grip is slippery synthetic.                                    
                                    
Their instruments warmed metal                                      
and pointed rubber. An hour halts                                    
moments in transit that a keyboard                                    
register a screaming immigrant:                                    
                                    
A moment of silent presence...                                              
before guiding its first steps                                      
over a certificate's blackened ink                                    
as verifiable proof of existence.                                      
                                    
IX: Consciousness: Taste                                    
                                    
Apperception, a new acquaintance                                    
of oxygenation – lungs expanding                                    
crossing the threshold of conception                                    
into this contextual presence.                                      
                                    
From perception to appreciation                                    
attention taking sole possession.                                    
Budded lips rooting the breast                                    
for that nipple of sustenance.                                    
                                    
Thus consumption commences,                                    
grows stronger with daily desire -                                    
suddenly we are mere humans                                    
experiencing our first lesson:                                    
                                    
The initiation of a Noble Truth                                    
overcome only by Knowledge,                                    
Enlightenment through growth:                                    
                                    
Craving –                                    
the result of ALL suffering.                                    
                                  
                                  
X. Consciousness: Smell                                    
                                  
Budding sensory cells, olfactory                                    
receptors mediating fresh detection                                    
beyond four basic qualities of taste:                                    
Sweet, sour, bitter, and salt.                                    
                                  
Within our nasal cavity tiny antenae,                                    
invertebrate at attention, transmit                                    
identifying kinship for registration                                    
into the prefrontal vortex of memory.                                      
                                  
Coding recognition of our Mother's                                    
scent, the aroma of her breast, thick,                                    
odorant with the sweat of birth, now                                    
emmanating rich, creamy colostrum.                                    
                                  
Perfumed Love ingrained by suckling,                                      
infusing an Earthen bloodline of Home.                                    
                                  
XI. Awareness: Temperature                                  
                                  
Our oceanic beginning lies ship-                                  
wrecked across a flaxen island                                  
of flesh, this gelatinous radiator                                  
of thermally insulated breasts.                                  
                                  
Our bare skin, tiny fields of sown                                  
follicles engorged with C affergents,                                  
offer a simple tactile pleasure: ardor,                                  
endearment becoming a new womb.                                  
                                  
A sustainor amid the endless illusion                                  
of separation to come, a vast winter                                  
wilderness so barren at times we'll forget                                  
we chose this very experience to evolve.                                  
                                  
We'll freeze, wish for Death, until warmed                                  
by Love in the Temperature flux of our                                
venerable Spirit, reminding us who we are.                                
                              
XII. Awareness: Body                                
                              
This physical housing of contained                                
matter moving as one object is a                                
visibly tangible extension amid                                
each corporeal world we selected.                                
                              
Our defined contiguous boundary                                
in a 3-dimensional space is systematic                                
of quantitative properties: mass                                
momentum of electric charge.                                
                              
Known by the application of senses                                
we gestate from atomic formation                                
inside other Earthly Beings; interstellar                                
fertilization to experience existence;                                
                              
A reproductive colonization in human form                                
brought to pass from one mere Word -                                
                              
"God saw all that he had made,                                
and it was very good."                                
                              
XIII. Awareness: Balance                              
                              
Once afloat in a fluid chamber, wizened                              
distribution now equally sustenant                              
by extraction from a human wet-nurse;                              
her Life-force permeating continuance.                              
                              
Tribal survival through even dispersal                              
of measured proportion against her ample                              
mounds of skin, countering empty space;                              
resisting gravity nipping at our heels.                              
                              
Our suctioned tongue's seal now broken                              
exchanging this bundled position                              
so palpable the Universe shifts upon                              
its axis from right to left breast.                              
                              
In one single motion of perfect balance                              
thus nursing ourselves into experience.                              
                            
XIV. Awareness: Pain                            
                            
Some say all Life is suffering,                              
that we choose to experience                              
such damaging stimuli, the complex                          
phenomenon defining itself as pain.                              
                            
Beginning with our desire to feed,                              
stomachs twisting in emptiness;                              
the sharp bayonet of our lungs                              
piercing our mother's back in sleep.                              
                            
Thus does pain expand to engulf                              
the quality of Living around us,                                
its misery swallowing the ability                              
of happiness to easily permeate.                              
                            
Others say only great pain liberates                              
the bound Spirit; and while it may not                              
make us 'better' individuals, it can                                
birth a more profound compassion.                                
                            
As though Love required a sacrifice,                              
a personal crucifixion Via Dolorosa                              
on the summit of our own Golgatha                              
piercing us to relinquish the ghost,                              
                            
Crying, "My God, My God, why                              
hast thou forsaken me?"                              
                            
Before the resurrection of Awareness                              
appears nail driven and scarred,                              
proclaiming our rightful liberation from                                
Earthen forms of attachment and pain.                              
                            
XV.  Experience: Transition I                            
                            
The age of accountability varies                            
by written doctrine of culture,                            
this implicit yet abstract concept                            
bestowing judgment as an adult.                            
                            
Children are educated to understand                            
how they become responsible for                            
their decisions, learning every action                            
is countered by inevitable reaction.                            
                            
For once we were small enough                            
to fit into tiny clothes and shoes;                            
have now grown bigger, not just                            
physically but Consciously as well.                            
                            
We are taught our Heavenly Father                            
is wise, a patriarchal ruler harvesting                            
wheat from tares between those who                            
choose right from the remaining left.                            
                            
And what began as Love and innocence                            
safe in humanity's playground, void of                            
race and color on the merry-go-round,                            
united differences all spinning together                            
                            
Evolves as fear under the iron eye of man;                            
his prejudice emerging as commandments.                            
                          
                          
XVI. Experience, Transition II                          
                          
At eight-years-old, some children                          
are asked of Baptism to receive                          
the Holy Ghost,  having attended                          
their parents' church since birth.                          
                          
Accept Jesus, be cleansed by His                          
blood; a crucified Saviour who died,                          
was entombed,  yet rose the third                          
day to conquer Death all for us.                          
.                          
I was protected from the bible-beating                          
fundamentalists, encouraged toward                          
individual choices from the cultural                          
melting pot of Belief that was Earth.                          
                          
How can someone who thinks we're all                          
perfect believe that Life is born unclean                            
in an amniotic coating of sin purified                          
only through another's suffering Death.                          
                          
Does Love require a sacrificial lamb.                          
                          
How could I, Trusting each day as a gift                          
believe we're damned to eternal hell and                          
brimstone for Being naturally who we are;                          
Unless I chose to experience the contrast.                          
                          
Perchance I've  been Hindu, perhaps even                          
a Buddhist monk too,  maybe an Atheist,                          
surely a Holocaust Jew, who died naked,                          
suffocating in showered streams of gas.                            
                          
What is Life if not an existential choice;                          
a predetermined blueprint drafted not by                        
some cosmic dictator, but ourselves, and                          
those who ensure we find our way back.                          
                        
                        
XVII. Existence: Blueprint                        
                        
Books chambered high, mapped                          
in the Library, many Existences                          
recorded by vast Experiences;                          
Alternate Realities differing.                          
                        
Domed charts, Holographic                          
Road maps illuminating features;                          
Light Beings with lazered fingers                          
calculating multiple outcomes.                          
                        
Not all prepared traverse distance                          
through folded space, tangible breath.                          
Others manifest for specific reasons;                          
Enlightenment and Social Justice.                          
                        
Paramount that an evolved Humankind                          
overcome their destructive ignorance.                            
                        
                        
XVIII. Existence: Infancy                        
                        
Colors vibrating against mobiles                        
musical entertainment, inflated                        
zoo animals, polka-dotted giraffes;                        
pink elephants pirouetting in air.                        
                        
Except that was another Lifetime ago;                        
this one's poverty, wind tunnels through                        
wooden cracks, beetles scuttling across                        
dirt floors; my crib a cardboard box.                        
                        
The iron stove breathed warmth                        
throughout a freezing Mississippi                        
mud shack; a Vietnam war claiming                        
responsibility for my father's absence.                        
                        
Though a poorly remembered beginning,                        
I don't remember anything poorly lacking.                        
                      
                      
XIX. Experience: First Steps, Toddler Years                    
                      
There is less to remember about growth                      
where everything was restricted: Area 51;                      
off-limits, the slapped-sting of hands                      
a baritone resonance, "No!" on repeat.                      
                      
Sugarcane stalks gnawed pulpy,                      
tiny rat teeth too-young for class;                        
Lighted holiday carousel fueled                      
by candles, melted chocolate eggs.                      
                      
Spirits; Light Beings mirroring me,                      
their cloudy play rooms only inches                      
over mine, secret entry ladder visible                      
before its veil permanently sealed.                      
                      
What we experience in youthful                      
hearts proves comfort in solitude;                      
Magical theater called 'Trusting'                        
with no explanation or logical reason.                      
                      
These little things known as a world                      
are extended gifts from the homeland,                      
before doubt seeded itself as adult into                      
ripe thoughts, contaminating pure Belief.                      
                      
Twisting Truth into an acceptable version,                      
Else what would all the neighbors think.                        
                    
XX. Experience: Nursery, Pre-K                      
                    
What can be said for the memory-age,                      
developing consciousness an infused                      
bud of evolution breaking the barrier                      
between worlds of Truth and illusion.                      
                    
Technicolor downplayed in existence;                      
mud pies, snapping turtles, frog legs                      
box kites disappearing with distance -                      
your dreams dissipating spaceward.                      
                    
You never understood why gravity                      
dodged your Spirit but held your mind                      
close to this planetary beginning                      
far from where your heart longed.                        
                    
Looked for that ladder to climb, once                      
so visible now long gone, its veiled                      
doorway a wall, the anchor of doubt                      
sinking ever lower into your thoughts.                      
                    
Until you wondered if it ever happened                      
at all. Were they real...Was I there.                      
                    
Bridges met your feet and creek beds                      
your fingers excavating mossy rocks;                      
More relevant was Memory rooting                      
firmly into the History you now were.                        
                    
The light is what you remember most;                      
shining through everything, its heat                      
burning you black in the cotton fields                      
stuffing sacks for multi-racial laborers.                      
                    
You witnessed Virgin cotton absorb                      
the blood of pierced flesh, become                      
a metaphoric repetition as you aged:                      
a Sacrificial Lamb of Love and choice.                      
                    
With such beauty of created existence                      
under the joy of swallowing each second                      
awaited always the contrast of pain,                      
ready to teach confusion and suffering.                        
                    
And this is where Life truly begins                    
                    
                    
XXI.  Experience: Phase 1 Integration, Kindergarten                    
           ( Southeastern USA )                    
                    
Satchels, penny loafers and laced bobby socks                    
crayons, playgrounds, and segregated groups;                    
different water fountains, separate toilets;                    
Was I alone in my confusion of this edict.                      
                    
No one discussed it; it wasn’t questionable;                      
you were expected to adhere to its unwritten                    
law with not talking in the hall, or chewing                    
gum inside the playroom during class.                      
                    
The division bell and distance between us                    
so palpable to the conscience it becomes                    
our first choice: concede or resist, only to be                    
slapped by Whites for loving Coloreds as is.                    
                    
The fog of repression creeps into thoughts                    
until an army of wordless soldiers is born,                    
recognizing a silent allegiance to a cause                    
we were too young to even understand,                    
                    
And certainly didn’t learn at home.                    
Or not from my parents.                    
                    
At six-years-old I chose an arterial Blue                    
Belief to contrast a superficially Red hate;                    
however, failed to bleed for fear of bullies                    
slapping our face on the playground.                      
                    
Even today I feel the sting across my cheek                    
and deep regret for not having slapped back                    
despite how much bigger they seemed to be,                    
when really, they were so much smaller than me.                    
                  
                  
XXII. Experience: Integration Phase 2,                  
        First Grade (Deep South, USA)                  
                  
I. Post Desegregation                  
                  
Crowders, Mississippi, Panola                  
County the first day of school,                  
the side of highway 51 holding                  
a sign with a penciled bus number.                  
                  
The things you remember through                  
migration aren't prized possessions                  
that survived the cardboard box;                  
it's experience through contrast.                  
                  
A new school, a new desk, a new set                  
of bullies because you were different;                  
the new kid on the block unsure                  
who to Love while trying to adjust.                  
                  
You search for kindredness among                  
the students but see hatred, conflict.                  
You seek guidance from teachers                  
who remain silent or turn their back.                  

II. Alternate Identities                  
                  
You try to figure out what you are                  
doing wrong, mimic alternate forms                  
of behavior seemingly acceptable                  
to the status quo until absorbed.                  
                  
Until the mask you don becomes                  
believable, and Truth in contrast lies                  
in yourself, fighting to get out every                  
step you take and choice you make.                    
                  
The things you remember aren't                  
your homemade dress or ponytails;                  
but the things that shape how                  
you'll Live and what you'll Believe.                  
                  
Like boarding a school bus from                  
a highway your first day of class,                  
just to be tripped by a "Colored"                  
girl because you were White.                  
                  
III. Intuition                  
                  
Self becomes an ebbing moon                  
into the dark side of your heart                  
because at the time Neil Armstrong                  
hadn't leaped all over its surface yet.                  
                  
Or perhaps it was simply hidden                  
in a televised hanger of illusion                  
while millions of trusting people                  
believed what they were spoonfed,                  
                  
Like what you were feeding yourself.                  
                  
Yet, somehow I Trusted intuitively                  
an instinct without logical reasoning,                  
Believing always in the Source of Love                  
to release the Truth in us all one day:                  
                  
We're One Species; Black and White.                    
                
                
XXIII. Experience: Integration Phase 3                  
         Elementary School, Grades 2-6                  
         (Northern England)                  
                
I.                  
                
Passports and jet contrails, cabin                  
pressure and air sickness, but before                  
that was tears, farewells; America a                  
dissipating dot from a plane window.                  
                
The cow in the old barn engorged                  
with warm milk I'd never again taste.                  
Piglets in the pen rooting sow's tits;                  
horses beyond the barbed wire fence.                  
                
The red gully and family dinners,                  
overalls rolled to the knees, bare feet                  
pigtails and poverty, "a not so mobile                  
mobile home" left for a can with wings.                  
                
But a new Life where more than animals                  
would understand. Hope became my                  
luggage packed with wishes and dreams;                  
Life would be different now, and Love exist.                  
                
For the next 12 hours of flight I felt excited                  
about Life, and could barely get any sleep.                  
                
II.                  
                
"Yankee go home! You're not wanted here!"                  
                
In that instant a transformation occurred;                  
I felt a coat of fear locked by insecure                  
doubt cordon off reality, wedge itself                  
between the fragility of Hope and Belief.                  
                
And if things couldn't get any worse...                  
I was born on Guy Fawkes Day. I won't                  
deny that for the first time in my 8-year-old                  
Life I wanted to blow an entire country up.                  
                
I wanted to go back to where Whites                  
hated me for Loving Blacks, and Blacks                  
hated me for being White because at                  
least animals understood what Love was.                  
                
When you suddenly feel a million miles                  
from something you've always believed,                  
and nobody looks like family, you realize                  
all you have left to Trust in is your Faith.                  
                
You get tired of being ridiculed, so evolve                  
even more into someone you aren't.                  
Refuse to let them smell your fear; become                  
a Tearless Warrior all unto yourself.                    
              
              
XXIV.  Experience: Integration Phase 4              
        Jr. High School              
              
I.  Somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean              
              
There's a time in everyone's Living              
where they'll learn to appreciate              
what they despise simply for its              
intrinsic value to teach contrast.              
              
You begin to recognize patterns              
coagulating inside Life, formations              
slowly hardening like lime jello              
solidifying for dessert in the fridge.              
              
You begin to detect rings inside              
years of poems worn like condoms              
to protect yourself from the mass              
insemination you'd be forced to abort.              
              
You're only 13 and yet migrating as              
an albatross over the Atlantic Ocean              
toward sunnier weather, without              
one dream or ounce of expectation.              
              
II. Southwestern USA, New Mexico              
              
Here we are; used house, old school              
carved desk - and 250 Mexicans, staring              
your British wardrobe and accent down;              
Your olive skin ivory from lack of sun.              
              
The boys made their moves in hallways              
between classes; the girls waited in the              
bathrooms during break; I walked through              
like a toll booth you get used to paying.              
              
And if things couldn't get worse, the wicked              
witch of the menstrual cycle decides she              
would bring me lunch one day; what can              
you do but laugh with everyone else.              
              
In the lack of verse during the long days              
were shady spots to think, to wonder if              
anything had changed for the better, just              
for once. You sought comfort in Words.              
              
Until it was time to leave once more.              
              
III. East Coast USA, North Carolina              
              
The pretense was deafening despite              
the numbness of experience. I was 14              
just another sardine in an auditorium              
of life-long friends, of which I wasn't.              
              
Many had barely left the county, much              
less the state. Everybody knew your name;              
and what you did, also what you didn't.              
Those were the times you remembered.              
              
That, and suddenly being swept up in a              
religious right-of-way to dictate codes              
of conduct and judgmental edicts regarding              
what was acceptable in their sight.              
              
I felt the corset of my costume tighten              
and the mask suffocating a personal belief              
of One Love behind cheering pom poms              
and hypocritical chants:  "Rip their head off!"              
              
You secretly vow you'll never lose yourself,              
you'll hold your own ground and belief              
in the poem until old enough to write your              
way out;  until you meet your first boyfriend.              
              
I was 15 and about to learn the gruesome              
contrast of a tender, loving relationship.              
And there would come a time in my Life              
I would appreciate what I'd once despised.                
            
            
XXV. Experience: Integration Phase 5              
        High School              
            
I.              
            
Learning to fight is a moral battle              
within a Warrior, who would prefer              
solitary confinement with the Poem              
dressed in a nice pattern of Words.              
            
It's a process of scars and regret until              
aiming a boomerang straight becomes              
a necessity without possibility of return              
to rub salt in the wounds of who threw it.              
            
There's a fine line between Karma and self              
defense for one's own survival. You bear              
markings of combat one bruised rib, leg              
and back ( always out of sight, initially ) at a time.              
            
I recognized shame in the hallways, girls              
who couldn't look you in the eyes,              
boys branded gay and marked outcasts              
by Sunday's best dressed hypocrites.              
            
The only thing we all had in common was              
that no one was who they really were,              
because everyone was scared of not being              
accepted if they weren't someone else.              
            
That's high school for the most part,              
a reality episode of the 'Walking Dead'              
with very few exceptions being those who              
knew exactly who they wanted to be.              
            
What we were scared of varied depending              
on environmental influences of individual              
circumstance. Whether or not you'd been              
bullied, beaten, molested, or betrayed.              
            
Whether or not you perpetuated the cycle              
rested in your own decision. But, sometimes              
despite good parenting, bad apples fell              
hard and rolled from perfectly healthy trees.              
            
II.              
            
A volcano can only contain pressure to              
its own boiling point, and like words burst              
from origin with such force, unawares of its              
capability for cataclysmic destruction.                
            
Life can be precarious for its inhabitants              
and hunter can turn prey in an instant,              
oblivious to the shadow circling its own              
peripheral line of tunnel-visioned pursuit.              
            
Everything and one has a breaking point              
before they choose to Live or succumb              
to Death. I don't know what loosened the              
corset of my costume after four years.              
            
Maybe nothing did. Perhaps in one swoop              
of growing pains I shed it like tree bark              
in this juvenile forest. Something wanting              
away from its forced dormancy with fear.              
            
Maybe I'd discovered the Holy Grail of Love              
its swallowed contents bursting the confines              
of my throat, spewing blood and Truth              
into the atmosphere of bewildered abuse.              
            
Perhaps the scream was so curdling it              
raised the hairs and fists from my beaten              
face just long enough for my foot to find              
his sweet spot, and kick it straight to hell.              
            
And then maybe my own fists became              
two fevered escapees from an insane              
asylum pummeling a passing motorist,              
and perhaps the spit from my swollen lip              
            
Landed in his eye, causing him to wince.              
But there comes a point when Something              
inside you says "Enough." But you think,              
"How? Five minutes for years of suffering?"              
            
III.              
            
Conviction is a powerful compass within              
the Eternal Spirit. Its Voice can become              
lost in the turmoil of Life's uncertainties,              
wind tunnels through our fleshly Temple.              
            
But when you hear it, Choice becomes              
an Apparition of revenge or Forgiveness              
demanding an immediate audience, no              
Time for tea and crumpets in its court.              
            
This is the moment in your Life you decide              
you're either going to heed the Call, or forgo              
the narrow, twisting road whose destination              
is completely hidden from your blinded view.              
            
Frost's 'Road Less Traveled' made perfect              
sense. Shakespeare's Sonnet 116 too; despite              
suffering, Love truly remains unaltered.              
Poetry had been my language, my Holy Bible;              
            
The Poem Salvation from hatred. Source              
knew my Native tongue and thus called              
it forth into Being. In that instant of pure              
humbleness,  I realized who I truly was.              
            
IV.              
            
As he lay on the ground writhing, squeezing              
his crotch, I felt compassion despite              
my own two black eyes and busted lips.              
With tears I asked for his forgiveness.              
            
I don't know what that did to his heart,              
but I swear I saw it crack behind his ribs.              
And I swear his tears were the salt in his              
wounds from his own boomerang returning.                
            
I spoke to a few classmates over decades              
who were always curious as to why we split              
after all those years; we seemed so perfect.              
"I guess it just wasn't meant to be..."              
            
He dated a few women, some were old              
acquaintances, finally got married. From              
what I hear, is a gentle man, has never              
lifted so much as a finger against anyone.              
            
V.              
            
Learning to fight is a moral battle for the              
Warrior; it tests our true Spirit and resolve              
by how we choose to administer our own              
defense; I would like to think I chose Love.              
            
But, more importantly, Hope I had given it,              
thus witnessing evil shamed in utter defeat.              
          
          
XXVI. Experience: Integration Phase 6            
             College            
          
I was 19; my mother had just passed            
a few months earlier from a five-year            
bout with Cancer. She’s in the medical            
books as the oldest person to die            
          
From a childhood disease. The only thing            
the university could ascertain was that a            
gene had simply remained dormant,            
and for whatever reason decided to wake.            
          
She was 34, and I remember thinking            
how old that seemed, when in reality            
her life had just begun. I never knew            
her beyond a mother into friendship.            
          
But often wondered what kind we'd            
have been had she lived a few years.            
          
My father dove into vodka with two            
stepmothers before he exited the planet.            
He was violent yet he never abused me;            
My stepmothers hated him for that.              
          
When you come from a broken family            
it doesn’t feel broken when it actually breaks.