The Grains of Truth

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas

THE GRAINS OF TRUTH

Why is it so hard to embrace weakness
when we were born with it?

Small and helpless beings utterly
dependent upon the hands of another.

With no strength to feed, drink, or nourish
our bodies with sustenance.

Why is it so hard to embrace weakness
when it allowed us to be loved and cared for?

What is strength without first knowing
the pangs of weakness?

What is nourishment without the knowledge
of dire hunger?

It was weakness that first allowed us to know
the comfort of assurance.

It was weakness that allowed us to grow,
become strong and resilient.

It was weakness that allowed another to
embrace our needs until we were mature.

But yet maturity means to reject our
very nature.

Maturity means we dispel others who seek
to embrace our most basic needs?

It means we reject the weakness that
seeks out the flood of unborn tears.

It means we actively suppress the nature
that makes us passionate human beings.

It means we scurry away from the weakness
that brought us all the vigors of life.

Yet real maturity means we embrace the
brittleness that is—the essence of life.

It means we open to the oppressed well
of tears, and embrace the fears of flowing.

It means we grasp the grains of truth,
reject the lies that keep us from knowing—

That we are not truly weak.
We are just human.

© Benjamin Thomas

Under The Moon Of Reflections

Posted on by Benjamin Thomas 

This poem is dedicated to those who lost their lives in the Tulsa Massacre 100 years ago. R.I.P. 




UNDER THE MOON OF REFLECTIONS



The night lamp hung tight;
the yellowy vibrant glow 
of suspended moon-rock
riding the night skies—

Casts no light of its own,
yet it owns the sure fire ways 
of blazing sun. 

Its shining is resolute,
bearing witness to and exposing
the sins of those who shed blood. 

She tearfully remembers—
the dark deeds of those 
are written on her eyes. 

Her moonlit tears,
streaming down are wet with grief;
pondering the voices of those 
crying out to her. 

She knows them by name,
their escaping last sighs, and the heart wrenching cries of orphaned lost children. 

Her light danced across 
their little faces—but they would no longer see the faces of loved ones.  


But of strangers, 
they would come to know 
the face of bitterness, 
and the countenance of death. 


The night-lamp held her breath,
taking in the harrowing 
account of lives lost. 


She always sees—
the nightseer, and always delivers
the hushed misdeeds of the spoken night. 

Because there’s still,
an inflamed material witness
when they turn their back
on the way of the light. 

Even though they may move
about in the darkness—
no one can escape the revealing eye
of the open moon. 




Benjamin Thomas