Artists

Each of us is an artist; that is to say, a liar.
Or at least when trying our hardest we betray
an ignorance intense as fire, yet concealed
deep beneath an earth-like crust. Or if not
ignorance, then a denial of what is bitter,
a desire that things were better; to caress
as if from a distance, to possess a discerning
fashion sense - believing scrutiny will reveal
impurity, the way gemology tends to dispel
the illusion from refusing to look too closely.

The Terroir of Our Existence

Only from the richest loam can we grow. Down below
our grubby roots bestow the strength of their scaffold
from which our manifold drives unfold and evolve.
Having once been thrown into the world, on our own,
through untold terrors we groan, and with such stubborn
insistence we lean toward an essence that's purified
and honed: a more refined sense for delight, a more
joyful persistence in the ruddy face of verity or error;
wringing our hands or singing our chants while being
planted securely in the splendid terroir of existence.

The Meaning of Your Name

Molly - a mode of Mary - truth is, once thrown
into the world of color and form, it doesn't matter
whether your name's meaning is known or unknown.
What matters, Molly, is that not even a fool in his folly
would mistake the map for the territory, knowing that
the best paths lead straight and deep into the very heart
of mystery, bringing us back always to a fresh start.

Through solstice and equinox, year stacked upon year,
through slow ticks of the clock and hours steeped in
bitterness or fear - may your days shine brightly and
unalloyed, bright enough to lighten any load or mollify
any dark and lonesome night. Savor your mystery,
knowing that mysteries, once embraced, can lead to
elegant discoveries and, sometimes, even to grace.

The Politician

The politician is never clear - though he may be bright
thanks to the reflected light of those with might, or those
adept at instilling fright. This secondhand brilliance
bathes him with a kaleidoscopic shine beneath which
we can only guess as to the uprightness of his plight
as he continually whirls in the wind of wrong and right.

Worn down for so long, he was no longer a singularity.
Underneath the polished finish the politician was finished;
or at least whatever in him that was worthy to anoint
became, under popularity, a mere extension-less point.
And his inviolable niche - with its ever-diminishing cache -
where genuine tomes of conviction could be unleashed,
consisted of nothing more than some fiction and pastiche.

When at last he falls from grace and loses his station;
when he looks inside himself for some final consolation,
expecting to find left some authentic bits and specks;
within his mind he's surprised to find that his original text
wholly disappeared under the prevailing interpretation.