A people’ s roots are like a tree, deep and entwined in the soil of their land. When the tree is uprooted and planted elsewhere the roots grow in new soil, the tree becomes of it’s new soil forgetting the old soil. Generations lose connection to the old soil that made the tree. The tree lives on and new trees grow. When the wind blows through the leaves it sings a different tune. When it rains it drinks different water. The Spirit of the Tree in new soil, hearing new wind, drinking new water, is not the same. It has changed through environment, the home a memory. It feels different. It is sad, for a reason unknown. Hard it adjusts to the new soil. The happiness fades as the soul tries to reach out and feel the old soil. With tough bark it has courage. It passes the seasons living, doing it’s duty to nature. The forest is new, the sprouts young. Yet it is not the same, something of the old forest is gone. At night, in the breeze you hear a distant whisper. A whisper of longing of a return to the old soil. Of roots deep to the rock. The new forest without the ancestors is lonely without their whispers, it grows and loud are the voices of the young. They ask for stories, they ask of the Elders. They ask for heroes. The Willow asks the Oak, grandfather what of the old day, of your Father? May we hear the wind from there, here? The Oak answers; no Willow for you are young and that place is far away. The soil is old and the wood is in it. The wind does not speak this far. The Willow asks the Oak, do you remember Father grandfather? Yes, Willow it was a long time ago in different soil. The wood fed our roots, the water we could taste with our leaves, the animals we sheltered under our limbs. We sheltered and watched the animals through many generations. We knew them. In time we will know these things in this new place. Oak, grandfather when will we go back? Never Willow for our roots are here now. Grandfather Oak this new soil is new like me. I want to know of the old soil. I want to learn the Wisdom from the old soil. I want to shelter the forest in friendship and kinship. I want to be Oak. Willow I’ am sorry for this soil is too new for you to be Oak.
A dream of the future
Of a future long on
The horizon of a rising sun
Crackling wood, crisp winters
Bright summers, cozy nights
An axe in hand
A book in hand
The fair woman
Curled up in the plush chair
Her body warmed and comforted
By the bearskin
Enveloping fair skin
Smooth and shining
A wind gently assaults
The stalwart logs
Of a cabin in the woods
The axe splits the wood
The hoe tends the garden
The gunshot fells the moose
The pen carves into rough paper
Seen from the frosted window
The dog chases the hare
Seen from the chair
The cat lazes by the stove
Of crackling wood
Of comforting heat
Tranquility and purpose
Peace and struggle
Exist hand in hand
In the beautiful dance
Of nature and rustic cabin
Blood and sweat to build the cabin
Love and God to fill it
For the Kingdom is made
Through struggle and purpose
Inch by inch
The foot, one in front off the other
A thought on top of the other
A calluse is a path to entry
Bliss is earned of work
For thousands of years philosophers have pondered the most difficult question of all; The Meaning of Life. This question is integral to our existence and has been left unanswered, only postulated. There are several questions on the periphery; where do we come from?, what is my purpose here?, is there a God? Asking these questions you can come to why am I here? What is the meaning of all this? Is this real or illusionary?
Due to the profound nature of this question finding the answer directly is monumental. So I’ am going to attack it from the flank. Let me start with a definition from the Oxford Dictionary of English;
Definition of create
- 1 [with object] bring (something) into existence: he created a thirty-acre lakeover 170 jobs were created
- cause (something) to happen as a result of one’s actions: divorce created only problems for children
- (of an actor) originate (a role) by playing a character for the first time: Callas created only one role, and that was Eurydice
- [with object and complement] invest (someone) with a title of nobility: he was created a baronet
- 2 [no object]Britishinformal make a fuss; complain: little kids create because they hate being ignored
late Middle English (in the sense ‘form out of nothing’, used of a divine or supernatural being): from Latin creat- ‘produced’, from the verb creare
Religions have a creation myth and many cultures sufficiently advanced have one too. A vast amount of people agree we are living in a creation of an entity; supernatural, omnipresent, ruling over our existence. Pick your attributes. The attribute that I’ am focusing on is the creator one. At least two creation myths I know about say we were made in the image of the Creator entity. It makes sense as our penchant for creating art, technology, cities, etc, would reflect the inspiration and fire of this Creator, a mirror of the image. If we are in the image of the Creator are we not creators?
Looking at the life systems of our home life seems to have one goal designed to create. A tree seeds, a cell divides, animals reproduce. Every form of life has a mechanism to create a copy (reproduce) of itself.
God ‘brings (something) into existence’, a world and man, the man in his image. His creations create and one, man, creates in the image of his Creator. All of our life we are creating, the blink of an eye bringing a movement into existence, writing a symbol on paper, eating and feeding the division of cells, building ideas made of wood, stone, metal. As you read this these words sixty times a second these words are blinking in and out of this creation.
The Meaning of Life is to Create. The Purpose you have to find for yourself.
Much today is unspoken
Of the White Man and his flight
From places he alone once tamed
And brought into the light.
But plenty is spoken now
Of a vision widely known
Of cruelty, hate, and genocide
Reserved for White alone.
The rationale is plain and simple
Those with evil hearts will say
White is the oppressor color
Who still yet rules the day.
By declaring the White Man thus
The eternal evil one,
Atrocities easily excused
His humanity undone.
Escape seems not possible
From hatred so arrayed
Dissed, dismissed, denounced, disposed
Where is the White to stay?
In his lands and neighborhoods
Built with ancestral hands
Darkness comes on millions’ feet
All across the land
In his house no peace resides
As the jungle calls his young
MTV, rap rhymes, sexting, Web porn
Evils abound full flung.
At work where skill should rule,
For him it never reigns
Handouts go to other’s kin
His whiteness but a stain.
In government where law should rule
White finds comfort’s not the way,
Those who hate him have full sway
Seeking his final fall to his dismay.
In church, for sure, the house of God
Peace should come at last
To find the comfort of the Lord
Whose love’s beyond skin cast.
Yet at church, it brings least peace
As White is often told
It’s in his whiteness the sin lies
He must embrace the fold.
Is this embrace like brothers
in God’s spiritual family tree?
“No”, he’s told, “It’s not enough.”
To be Christ’s he must interbreed.
There is no peace when clad in White
No place to call his own
The U.S., Europe–all but gone
So darkly overgrown.
The Black gets to be a black
The Brown is just as free
But no matter what the setting is
The White may not white be.
The Lord made Earth a tapestry
Each kind unto its own
He brings the races to Him at last
To stand before the throne.
You see it’s not that we deny
Our brother’s humanity
But if they can revel in their kind
Why can’t we be as free?”
Copyright 2013 by Sidney Secular
In a rare moment of inspiration and lucidity I wrote something that did not want me to throw it away after spewing out the words. I was thinking of the insanity going around in the West by governments now blatantly tightening control, how the average person will soon be choked from the iron fist around their neck. I wrote this poem in a matter of minutes without having to edit it, and feel I should not edit it when something like this flows so freely. It is a snapshot of that moment.
I call it a poem for convenience and a lack of alternative definition. It rhymes a little, it has a meter a little, it has a poetic truth a little. So here is some of a little:
LAMENT TO FREEDOM
Remember the bravery and honour
Of ancestors gone by
Forge your heart and arm
To steel and light
To shine and harden through the ages
Let the righteous anger
Boil to rage
Let the righteous light
Shine through the darkness
So your enemies are blinded and defeated
So the memory of your deeds
Are remembered by the poets of future
So your deeds are remembered by
There is no name except the name
Made for the generations
Made for the children
To honour and respect
Made for the women to respect and lament
Let their moistness
Raise with deeds of words and steel
Warriors of righteousness
Raise your flag
Plant your feet
Raise your steel
Harden your heart
Yell your cry
Let none take the generations away
Let none take your memory away
Poets sing your song
Remember the freedom
Granted by those of steel and light
Never forget your sacred duty
Farmers plant your seed
Nomads shepard your flocks
Scribes sharpen your quills
Smiths fan your forge
Priests light your incense
Life requires your diligence
Freedom will not leave our hearts
Lies will not silence our tongues
Deceit will not kill our honesty
Blasphemy will not still our faith
Murder will not stain our shields
Evil will blood our swords
Liberty will strengthen our arm
Our descendents will live free
Note: I had to insert the greater than signs for the breaks to be noticed.