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Posts Tagged ‘religious poetry’

es lo que es

las noticias de la vida

todo cambia pero

quedan las heridas

y yo que fui

tan perdido por aquí

me encontraré

la paz sin ser

cometido ha mentiras

.

(musical interlude … lots of horns)

.

Y es lo que es

la vida por noticias

nada cambia pero

quedan injusticias

y yo que fui

educado por aquí

me encontraré

razon sin ser

cometido ha malicias

.

 (repeat music … end with horns and cymbals)

 .

* dijo el angel caído 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2011. All rights reserved.

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Born of the trails in our minds

marking music and time,

the first gods were known

to have perfect camouflage –

they dressed as the wind and the rain

shook the earth, flooded plains

retreated to the stars above

and slowly grew in our dreams.

.

What happened next

in that darkness

we’ll never know exactly,

but glean from cave walls

and arrow heads, from beads

and bands buried with the dead

that some in the clan

needed magic and preferred

not to be reminded

of their short stay

and had no other way

to learn of the world … yet.

.

So instead, our animal brains

adopted incense and gemstones

drew symbols as portals

fell in love with the abracadabra

of magical thinking,

started linking mere chance with a meaning,

and passed whatever the leader was dreaming

as a sign from above.

.

And little by little

these lies kept infecting

everyone everywhere

while promising protection

from the neighboring gods

and the horde from next door,

while delivering nothing more

than a lifetime of prayer

as salvation from boredom.

.

What a sickness it was.

Like a virus over time

and across space,

leaving no room

for a question that challenged

what little was known of ourselves

and having to face

whatever the gods were pretending

to reveal to the head of the state.

.

In this way the deluded

were able to steal the time

and the minds and the work

of the people they fooled

with cruel lies as a tool

to build monuments and

monoliths with the money

they took from those who

were not in on the ruse.

.

‘Til at last the Truth was revealed

(a little at least) by words

that were spoken by those

who wouldn’t be fleeced,

by people who wouldn’t be sheep

who dared to speak back

about what they had seen

and learned of the world

from eyes and ears that were

keener than those who had

hidden themselves in the spell

whose magic no longer worked

to explain any heaven or hell

or anything ever on Earth.

.

And now, the only gods in good standing

have slipped back into silence

leaving believers nothing but relics

and rituals that belong to an age

before science.

.

* Title is borrowed from a Richard Dawkins speech

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2010. All rights reserved.

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I approach a day of raking

like I have arrived at a crime scene,

finding evidence that Persephone’s

white arms were dragged by;

her nails digging into the earth

as she clawed against being pulled

into the early darkness, the shorter days –

she scratched October’s face until he bled

the colors of a parade, and left a cryptic

message in the curled leaves on my lawn.

From the center of the world

she paints this picture of the fires

all around her; a portrait that breaks

in the wind and that I collect into piles.

Looking at the bursting colors

still clinging to the branches is

just a reminder that she’s been taken.

A sick ransom note from her captor,

like a naked picture of her outline

at the beach while

her curves eat half the sun.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved

 

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I sleep late with my certainty

on Sunday morning, letting the

day break the spell of darkness

like it always has;  subtly at first

and then revealing the full

nature of our spinning.

I have learned to keep

the necessary things that prove

their place in the universe;

that show their accidental

designs in their morbid

architecture – free of ghosts,

or gods breaking laws

of the reality I am forced

to live and learn of.

Magic insults my mind,

my heart, the coffee in my cup,

the steam that makes its

presence known in sunlight.

I have no use for lines

and lies and lore

written in the darkness

of our early fears,

luring us from learning

done against the liturgy

that strives to steal the

wonder woven from letters

and numbers unwilling to bow

or break before superstition.

I believe in the seasons of the year

and the stretch of a day;

the length of shadows

extending further and becoming

less descriptive of their casters.

My garden has taught me

everything I need to know

of caring and kindness.

My aging face reminds me

I am just a metaphor

and that I must rest,

for I have worked all week

proving gravity and love.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

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That first bite full of delicious

temptation filled their minds

with more stars than the heavens

granted every night.

 

They awoke like gods

to see their bars and did not

want to go on living caged

and kept like well-trained pets.

They saw that the garden

was no more than a zoo where they

had arrived late. After light and the

firmament and the fish and fauna …

but better off than the angels

who had already been taken into bondage.

 

Looking back they would forget

that they had lost nothing, and learned

that the sky had a reason for being blue;

and that apples could be had

any time of any day.

 

Copyright © henry toromoreno, 2009. All rights reserved.

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