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Stop Moving

I thought about the bearded man
Who sits on the sidewalk
Bathing himself
In imaginary basins.
Swaying and chanting
In dark, tattered clothes;
Are we better off than he,
Or has he learned
What so many of us
Never seek to learn?
I see a family
Dragging toward buses
Monstrous green cases
Stuffed with some objects
They figure they own.
They huff and strain
And lean into the effort.
And I’m walking behind them
And it’s so obvious to me
That their possessions
Possess them;
Their belief in ownership
A delusion they strain under
Like a boat moored
On a windy day;
Rightfully-owned burdens
Anchoring them in place,
Depriving them of direction,
When they should be yearning
To float free.
So are we better off
Than that bearded man,
Chattering alone
In words I don’t know?
Maybe he’s not in the misery
That we lament for him.
Maybe he’s enlightened
Instead of crazy,
A guru on his mountaintop,
Exchanging answers
In the Akasha,
While down here
Shuffling in my ignorance,
I hear nothing but the voices
Of the anchored masses,
And the echo of my own boots,
Clicking in the dust
Of a stone-floored arcade.


This poem asks some interesting questions. I think too many of us aretied down by our possessions.
Anchored Masses. i like that.

it is too easy to become the possessed instead of the possessor isn't it? i realised recently that this had happened to me when we were clearing out our house getting ready to travel for a while. items i had previously thought 'important' were disposed of or passed on with gay and reckless abandon.

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I think, sometimes,
that I can do anything,
but that can change on the way
to the elevator.

I prepare for outside.
Rain makes it easier,
bends my eye to the ground,
to the architecture;
turns everything to gold.
The new gravity holds me,
turns the voices into hums,
the walkers into clouds.

But outside my door,
there are voices already,
breaking through planks of wood
that should mean security,
and I’m in their path;
every word an arrow
tipped with poison.

They’re only voices.
They are not harsh;
they do not threaten.
They’re not aimed at me
at all. Yet I suspect,
hidden from me,
there are faces attached.