Thursday, October 13, 2011


On one hand she bars the door and bolts it fast,
Her soul securely sure, her cynicism drawn
Like a weapon, to save her from truth at last.
Afraid to be a pawn, she is a pawn;
Her fear a captive makes while she looks on,
Blindly willing her freedom past.

On the other, irresistible urges
Pull her unwitting, a moth to fire;
An impulse innate toward goodness surges
Against her will, that unwelcome Higher.
The thing she won't admit, that alone purges.
Hints abound, in "Unmoved Movers" and "Demiurges,"
And dead men rise, to call her heart a liar.

1 comment:

  1. I think this one requires more explanation. The title is Greek, meaning "On the one hand... on the other hand." This poem is one of a series of "face" sketches I have done, and it is supposed to illustrate the "face" of the sort of person whose defensive attitude is an attempt to protect him- or herself against pain he or she has experienced in the past. I empathize deeply- but I challenge all who "on the one hand" want to protect themselves against pain, not to "on the other hand" shut out truth, love, forgiveness and healing.