Confessions of the Human Kind

My halo slipped

a bit today…

I judged a man

for what he wore,

without a thought,

without a doubt,

his worth, or lack of it,

for sure

I felt I knew.

His temple was in disrepair,

A shoddy remnant

of a time when

time was good

and he was strong,

that time is gone,

As is his youth.

He squared his shoulders,

smiled at me, a little smile

that spoke of shame,

Then looked away,

at better days,

 He is no stranger to the truth.

My glance can be direct I’m told,

It’s often bold. It cuts beneath

to what is there and lays it bare

in search of truth. I searched again, and saw it there, 

beneath the stains upon his brow

a gleaming light, a subtle glow that’s only seen by those who know.

I saw on him the mark of one whom God has blessed to

breathe his air

I saw the soul in need of care.

The truth is not a sacred cow

to trot out Sunday’s…

and talk about.

It lives and breathes right hear and now

in that man’s plight.

His need is mine, his joy is mine,

His life divine. That is the truth.

© Scarlett Rains

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So Let it be Forgotten

Let It Be Forgotten

By Sara Teasdale 1884–1933

 Let it be forgotten, as a flower is forgotten,

Forgotten as a fire that once was singing gold,

Let it be forgotten for ever and ever,

Time is a kind friend, he will make us old.

If anyone asks, say it was forgotten

Long and long ago,

As a flower, as a fire, as a hushed footfall

In a long forgotten snow.

What this poem means to me....

What is past, is past, over and done with.  Move on.  Forget about it. This is the dogma of coping by sweeping it under the mat of the subconscious, to escape reality.  For me, forgetting was a means of surviving severe childhood trauma and the betrayal and loss I’ve experienced since.  Though living ‘in the past’ is not a state I advocate, a recollection of it certainly seems warranted…a measure of the days in my life that passed…for something, some reason.   As I’ve matured, I’m able to remember bits and pieces. I’m taking them in and healing, with God’s grace.

What does this poem mean to you?