Suckers in silks, suckers in rags
talk about “we” with a fist on the flag,
chewing on freedom tight as a gag
justice in dollars, truth’s outta the bag
to dance with surprises, to switch the tags.
So watch your back, your step and your wag
and get ready to zig where you used to zag.
Duvich is the witch of poetic justice waiting along history’s winter alley for a jolly prophet of joyous jellied jingles guaranteed to improve reality.
She owns infinite patience and knows that they will eventually pass within reach for her bite.
She’s seen the suffering greed can inflict. Dried blood on a torn child cannot be made to flow with flowered words.
She’s watched the poisons running into streams and wells. Cancer doesn’t become kind with sugared advice.
She’s heard the grunts of honest people carrying their homes in a bag. Despair doesn’t start smiling with promises of bright tomorrows.
She’s heard the worried whispers of roots searching for moisture. The morning cannot be hurried and dusk cannot be stalled regardless of the purity of prayers.
She’s felt the pulse of raw anger behind the bars of injustice. Walls don’t crumble from catchy phrases sounded through a holy-plated trumpet.
She’s witnessed the wounds that the clubs of hypocrisy have caused. Justice can’t climb over a mountain of money with feet tied by corruption.
She waits. One day they’ll pass by and stumble in her trap. Faster than a cobra she’ll strike and bite out the part that pains them most. Their wallet.
Damaged and scarred he wanders away from his tribe.
He didn’t cry when they flashed the colors,
and didn’t bow to conventional sentiments
or sentimental conventions.
He questioned official answers,
showed no obedience to petrified traditions,
felt no reverence for titles
and didn’t worship the accumulation of glitter.
He didn’t conform to glossy advise on how to be
and displayed no fear of being who he was.
He heard the drums of a distant truth
beating to a rhythm that matched his pulse.
He heard the song of many colors singing in different harmonies.
He longed for soft words speaking hard questions
calmly determined to respect knowledge in the service of justice.
He follows a vision of walking down strange streets in strange places
meeting familiar smiles eager to cool his burning curiosity.
He wanders. He wanders in search of a greater tribe.
You know everything you need to know
to find out anything you want to know.
Life has no secrets,
but doesn’t talk to those who don’t listen
or those who don’t ask
or those who believe their ignorance is holy.
Do not fear your uncertainty.
Embrace it, caress it and whisper its name.
Search its sensitive spots with your eager curiosity
and make it yield, breath by breath,
to your passion for knowledge.
Every spot has hundreds of angles
that change as the day turns, the light bends
and the tide of your mood flows through your intelligence.
Trust no one, trust everyone and respect the respectful.
Life has equipped you with the knowledge of life.
You know that we all know all we’re ever needed to know
about what needs to be known.
Together we know enough to do what needs to be done.
What else do you need to know?
They hunt love in the jungle of things
imagining themselves well equipped,
unaware of the burden of their sharp needs
or the handicap of their heavy wants.
They are loaded with Musts, Oughts and Shoulds
as if love cared about laws and rules
other than the law of life and the rule of obedience to the dictates of desire.
They think by capturing love they can train it to produce happiness whenever they clap their emptiness.
They want to give and take, but love never takes.
It gives and grows by what it receives.
It cares not for things.
Caresses weigh more deeply than gifts.
An unnecessary kiss on the back of the neck
can grow into priceless passion.
They fear to stand naked in the face of life,
apologize for the purity of their desires
and look for love among things.
Silly flowers fearing being desired as fruit
imagining that love can be captured.
Love is the hunter.
I float between my soul and my body.
I feel pain and joy in the flesh of my soul
and hear the poetry of my spirit in my body.
Am I but a reflection of the earth in a living form? Or am I a reflection of the spirit of life tied to the earth?
Sometimes when I listen to the ocean of history flowing through the calm of the moment, I hear a voice so great it need not speak.
“Love,” it says, “is no mystery. It’s the gravity of life, pulling us together.”
I tell myself that I don’t understand. How can anything so simple be understood?
The great voice smiles and whispers on the current of eternal truth.
“You are nowhere and you are everywhere. You have always been and will always be. You are nothing and you are everything.
You are a piece of life,
a reflection of love.”
System Humanity 