Religion | The Poesie of Igor Goldkind – Reciting Truth to Power

Our Lady

You are our lady
And now your dress
Is flames.
The beauty of your sunken dome from a drone
Is a poem in itself.
Written by us and
Destroyed by chaos.

This is what we do that rivals the stature of the gods:
To astound ourselves and each other,
With the wonder of
Pure enduring creation.
The sacrifice we all make to our better selves
Who gave buildings wings and
Lay the foundation stones of
Our own perfecting.

Epiphany is not found in the act of worship
It is found in the insight gained by a gratitude for the world.
Exactly the way we built it.
Exactly the way we know it to be.
Whispered prayers are but poetry
That none other than you will listen to.
It is good to talk to yourself,
To sing in harmony with all the selves who are listening,

Wearing
Not false, but true masks
Revealing the kind of truth that can only be told with a lie.
The subtler architecture that carves heavens into the spaces on this earth.
Reconstructing what can be seen behind your faces,
Behind all the saints who guard you,
Behind the divine grace of your stature.
The sensuousness of your catastrophe is breathtaking.

April 19, 2019 | Categories: death, Emptyness, Faith, Meaning of Existence, Meditations, Mindfulness, new poetry, poetry, Poetry Therapy, spoken word | Tags: Notre Dame, Religion | Leave a comment

5 Submissions of My Latest Work

Life is Always Replaceable

You might have lost something or broke something

You know you can always look for it or fix it or get yourself a new one

That doesn’t crunch her popcorn in bed.

And shoots farther & quicker than you ever thought possible for a bullet from a gun.

You know, what isn’t replaceable or even predictable is this Stream of events pushing past us

Like panicking strangers in a crowd

Or even worse, engulfing us, trampling over us, nearly drowning us,

Pushing us back from whence we came.

Then leaving us choking for breath on the shore.

Being is Becoming Still

Existence is a limitless screen of emptiness,

Ecstatic contemplation

And gratitude for the joy in rolling a boulder blissfully up a steep hill

Tripping over our thoughts like loosened cobblestones,

The truth is a truce we have struck with uncertainty.

After losing the desperate struggle

To cling to some kind of hope buried at the root of our own awareness.

I am fearful of fully failing myself

Although I love myself best when I am alone with eternity.

I am safest and most secure in this clarity I call awareness.

Insomniac Awareness

We who are hiding in our second bedrooms,

Licking the silver from the backs of our screens,

Are living in a different time zone

Of Insomniac Awareness.

Sometimes two, sometimes three, sometimes four or more

Lives are lived and lost each night.

In our rooms, by ourselves

Sitting precariously at the edge of our beds.

This is our legacy

The lasting perpetuity of our sensory species:

The glow that contests the light that once shone from our eyes,

Right up to the surface of our understanding.

What is not yet known.

Or what was known and long since forgotten.

Dances across the screen you stare into.

Tripping over your coded memories; in Real Time.

Who are you reading this?

Do you know

What perturbs your sleep-walk into the night?

Or are you merely waiting for the screen to pull you through?

Into your own quiet world,

Where things that count never change.

And no one is dreaming you, but your mother

Who has left you now for another child.

The Last Halo of Hope.

Hope is mortal, not eternal.

Though it may feel like eternity

Sitting in a chair by the window.

Gazing up and down the path that leads

Up the hill and down to the canyon on your doorstep.

Every morning, every evening, every day.

Awaiting an answer to your prayer for your hope to be restored.

Resilience rewarded

Patience still burning brightly

Under your old photograph on the wall where you live now.

I’m not sad.

No, sadness is just a passing rain to irrigate the eyes.

Instead, I’m a new planet

Ringed by the last halo of hope

Wrapped tightly around my head.

Pebbles

Thoughts are merely pebbles

Being gently washed by a passing stream.

You are the stream.

Thoughts are merely pebbles on a beach

Being gently rounded by crashing waves.

You are the waves.

Thoughts are merely pebbles in the sand.

Being gently worn away by the passing wind.

You are the wind

My words escape on.

Words are merely thoughts

Being gently read by a passing eye.

Yours are the eyes

That can read my thoughts.

October 1, 2018 | Categories: art, beat, death, Depression, digital insurgency, Emptyness, Existentialism, Faith, Healing, literature, Meaning of Existence, Meditations, mental health, Mindfulness, new poetry, physics, Reigion, Self-Therapy, spoken word, story-telling, Suicide | Tags: art, Faith, Igor Goldkind, Life, literature, Mind, New Poems, philosophy, Poem, Poems, Poetry Submissions, Religion, Self, Truth | 2 Comments

The Halo of a Hope

Hope is mortal, not eternal.
Though it may feel like eternity
Sitting in a chair by the window.
Gazing up and down the path that leads
Up the hill and down to the canyon on your doorstep.

Every morning, every evening, every day.
Waiting for an answer to your prayer for hope to be restored.
Resilience rewarded
Patience still burning brightly
Under your old photograph on the wall where you live now.

I’m not sad.
No, sadness is just passing rain to irrigate the eyes.
Instead, I’m a new planet
Ringed by the last halo of hope
The one wrapped tightly around my head.