Back to the war zone
It concentrates the mind wonderfully,
returning to the war zone.
The condemned man realises,
despite all the masks and guises
he may wear
to hide him from himself,
he still stands bare;
however much he feels alone,
webs of connections link him,
his life is not his own;
though you may think it doesn't matter,
we mustn't forget
that even yet
no bomb or missile made can shatter what makes us human.
That goes for you, man,
and you too, my sister,
however disconnected you may feel
from what in childhood you expected
from your fellow mistress or mister.
Your needs are real
and may not be rejected.
The danger
of death dropped from on high
by someone pretending they're a stranger
tells us nothing we don't already know.
It makes more relevant the seemingly irrelevant,
more significant the insignificant concerns of life and love,
requires we nurture the struggling plant of joy in sadness,
pain in ecstasy;
all else is madness.
Once more we see
this human ant heap
only as a means to keep our separate lives together,
not mindless workers and drones in hives
only swarming into sunshine in fair weather,
robbed daily of our sweetest nectar,
the parabolic vector joining cradle to grave
nothing but
the bottom line in a sterile ledger.
Each time we pledge a love, devotion to something better than ourselves,
we open our eyes
to catch a glimpse of paradise.
This puts back into proportion the stupidity of petty hatreds and broken friendships.
When death comes calling,
we suddenly discover autumn leaves already falling.
Life is a terminal disease,
each remission too precious to be wasted.
It must be tasted,
its flavours savoured,
the sweet and the sour,
the dark and the light,
the day and the night.
And what is life?
Is it only the big picture, the grand design,
the “till death us do part” part?
Is it the uneven beating of an astonished heart,
the sudden smile of a complete stranger on a bus,
the joining of you and you and me in us,
a telephone call from an almost forgotten friend,
a promise good to last up to the bitter end,
and beyond,
a fond realisation that this is all there is that we can do.
Many or few,
a hand unheld
has rebelled against our deepest need.
A kiss unshared
is a lonely cry:
better to die
than sigh alone.
In truth
each life is a war zone
but wearing body armour
is no protection against harm. A
proof of our humanity
is simply this:
a kiss,
a risk of bliss,
a journey to the rising sun.
When day is done
we lie alone
but still reach out to touch
reality that's far too much
for a single person to outreach.
Each life should teach
what Eve and Adam learned in Eden:
freedom is learning to be
unfree of each other,
to discover
in each soul and body the sweet lover,
whose arms embrace us all.
And help us rise if (or rather, when)
we fall.
All else would lead us to the Tower of Babel,
through the murderous brotherhood of Cain and Abel.
