Looking in the Mirror

Spiritual Revelations for those seeking Humanity in Humans ~~CordieB.

Archive for responsibility

Like Spilt Milk – The Spirit of a Man

Art Work Courtesy of Rick Mobbs

This poem was written especially for Rick Mobbs at Mine Enemy Grows Older. Rick has been so kind to feature his beautiful work to inspire us to write each week. Due to other responsibilities, Rick has informed us that he will no longer be able to continue his beautiful art prompts. His latest beautiful piece is shown above. . . . I wrote this poem as an interpretation of the art .  .  . and  . . . how I imagine most men, including Rick, may feel . . . at times.

Like Spilt Milk – The Spirit of a Man ~Written by CordieB.

I hold the world with closed iron fists

Though others cry; I vaguely mist

My ego causes my heart to roar

Yet also causes my mist to pour . . . . like spilt milk wasting on the floor.

Instinctively I’m a territorial being…

Not into that which can’t be seen…

Though often I claim to see the light…

Most times I focus on black and white.

My vision prompts my groin to sour…

Yet also causes my mist to pour. . . .like spilt milk reproducing more!

My thoughts so often unrealized…

Not even I can crystallize . . .

the myriad of issues– real or fantasized . . .

My triumphs cause my voice to roar

yet also cause my mist to pour. . . like spilt milk gushing out the door

My God chose me to oversee…

Why has earth’s fate been placed on me?

Should I choose peace; should I choose war?

Responsibilities cause my mind to explore . . .

yet also cause my mist to pour. . . like spilt milk crashing on the shore . . .

~Written for Rick Mobbs in response to his last visual arts prompt. . .

A Spiritual Riddle – The Most Demon-Like Spirit of All Times


Photo courtesy of daphid and is licensed under a Creative Commons license.

Some say I’m the most demonic-like spirit of all times;

I have been responsible for a many cacoethes crimes.

I’m the most wrathful spirit known to touch the hearts of men

If not put in check, I can cause all types of vengeful sin.

My rampant rage is likened to a storm weathered battered sea;

My face can become so distorted, you would not even recognize me.

I am red, blue hot; flaming fierier than hell in a forest fire;

I am truly not myself; and you know what?. . . the devil truly is a liar!

I am completely irrational; incoherrent, and out of control;

My emotional complexities reach down to the depths of the very soul;

Don’t come near me; don’t look at me, don’t dare say one word.

Because, I can only hear my own anger and my vision is blurred.

I’m sometimes tamed and charmed by sensual music; a little wine and dance;

But, If I were the object of my desire, I would not even take that chance.

My eyes are bloodshot red with a glimmer of green, and I tremble from inside;

There’s a thin line between love and hate; but it’s not love; perhaps hateful pride.

Whatever it is, take heed my love–for you have been forwarned!

Don’t touch me; Stay your distance; Run for cover, I am the spirit of . . . (Click below for the answer)

Read the rest of this entry »

If


My Son Sam – It’s Wonderful When Boys can Be Boys

I read the following poem on Sue Ann Edward’s, Always Embraces Always blog a few days ago, and I feel compelled to share it as well.  I hope it enlightens you as it has me.

If
by Rudyard Kipling

If you can keep your head when all about you
Are losing theirs and blaming it on you;
If you can trust yourself when all men doubt you,
But can make allowance for their doubting too;
If you can wait and not be tired by the waiting,
Or, being lied about, don’t deal in lies,
Or being hated don’t give way to hating,
And yet don’t look too good, nor talk to wise:

If you can dream – and not make the dream your master
If you can think – and not make thoughts your aim
If you can meet with Triumph and Disaster
And treat those two impostors just the same:

If you can bear to hear the truth you’ve spoken
Twisted by knaves to make a trap for fools,
Or watch the things you gave your life to, broken,
And stoop and build’em up with worn-out tools;

If you can make one heap of all your winnings
And risk it on one turn of pitch-and-toss,
And lose, and start again at your beginnings,
And never breathe a word about your loss;

If you can force your heart and nerve and sinew
To serve your turn long after they are gone,
And so hold on when there is nothing in you
Except the Will which says to them: “Hold on!”

If you can walk with crowds and keep your virtue,
Or walk with Kings – nor lose the common touch
If neither foes nor friends can hurt you,
If all men count with you, but none too much:
If you can fill the unforgiving minute
With sixty seconds’ worth of distance run
Yours is the Earth and everything that’s in it,
And – which is more – you’ll be a Man, my son!