The Stranger

The Stranger

With unseeing eyes
Hollowed from a dozen
Imposters’ faces,
I squint at the emerging
Stranger
Traversing regally through
My life.

Each counterfeit countenance conveys
A piece of the truth, and
“The play is the thing
Wherein I’ll catch
The conscience of the King.”
A questionable cast of characters all:
Control.  Fear.  Manipulation…

Curtain call
Brings them all on stage.
Kudos and bravos for
Truth learned and support loaned.
They fade with dimming lights and
The Stranger takes center stage,
Hostage no more.

© rita h kowats 2013
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Naked Truth in the Blogosphere

take off the mask

I bare
my nakedness
to the world
that the world may see
who I am;
not the mask that hides my flaws
not the mask that hides my beauty.
I bask in the light and
I take off the mask.

– Jocelyn Soriano

Do you see what I see?  Retired, and contemplative by nature, I have the time to dedicate an hour each morning to read posts relating to spirituality, poetry, justice, psychology, and LGBTQ  concerns.  I try to be present to bloggers’ experiences and expression.  Often their stories stay with me throughout the day, and as I recall them I am in solidarity.  A pattern has emerged which gives me hope in the midst of the incessant ego-driven political chatter and gratuitous violence our world continues to spew out.

This is the hope I see:  a longing and a commitment to be real.  Where my baby boomer generation learned to wear masks, the millennium, (generation “Y”) and generation “X” bloggers, are unafraid to show their mistakes, even their deepest wounds.  I am not talking Dr. Phil Show here…What I read is not for show; rather, the sharing seems to come from an authentic desire to grow.  They face the truth with courage.  They do not wait for a guru to tell them their “truth.”  They strip down until they find it themselves and they bask in their humanness instead of cowling in shame.  When I was their age the false humility I was taught made me ashamed of being human and kept me from growing.  The masks I wore became very heavy.

I put my hope here.  Do you see what I see?

Submarines and Food Stamps: Called to Nineveh

“Jonah” is a poem I wrote during the first Gulf War, which was raging during my tenure as a nonviolent resistor to the nuclear weapons at Subase Bangor in Puget Sound.  Living beside the railroad tracks leading into the base, I witnessed monthly  shipments of missile propellant fuel destined for Trident submarines.  Admiral Trost said that the subs were necessary to “protect the lifestyle to which we had become accustomed.”  Nevermind, that most people do not share that affluent lifestyle, and they are in poverty partly because taxes are allocated to these weapons, while food stamps are drastically cut.  My spiritual practice is to try to live a lifestyle that doesn’t depend on the weapons to protect it.

The poem reflects the despair I felt then and now, but it offers hope that resistance can breed resistance.  It was dedicated to Steve, a submariner who applied for, and received, conscientious objector status. We are called by conscience to go to Nineveh.  Will we go?

Jonah

JONAH

For Steve, Who Broke the Silence

How obscene.
How obscene that submarines slither through unseen.

Journalist to Pentagon briefer: “Sir, is it true that
A cruise missile was fired from a submarine?”
General Kelly:  “We never discuss submarines.”
They slither through unseen.
As unseen as the bodies in Baghdad.
How obscene.

Today I sit on Hood Canal-
Mountains, sun, spring wildflowers.
Euphoric, here where
Submarines slither through unseen.

As if to confirm the paradox
Two patrol boats pass.
Do they escort the Leviathan?
I can’t hear it.
I can’t see it.
The beast breaks silence,
Its dark, hulking frame mimicking the
Great Orca of Puget Sound.
Sacrilege.

Shivering, shedding silent, shame-full tears…

I re-member:
When the beast descends this time
It goes down depleted.
Another Jonah has tumbled out,
And his “No” will echo forever in
The belly of the whale.

© rita h. kowats