Connor Poetry 4/25/16

Weeping the World

There are moments
so small we are thought crazy
for thinking they matter
but their gravity
warps our very Being
with their passing.

How can I speak to the dead?
Why bother speaking to the living?

Here, in this pile of graphite and wood dust
I exist suspended between the two.
There is the carcass of a lady bug
that left me weeping.
The world within a grain of coffee
envelops me entirely.
Do you know what it means
to inch along the cold concrete floor
through the cobwebs and urine?
Do you think, really, the world is so small?
I have spent years
in a single puff of smoke.

It is so easy
to get lost where a strand of hair
meets the eraser shavings.
Or to wander dazed in the scent of animal musk.
Who encompasses all of this?

It is to the Source that I am falling.

The Truth They Cannot Kill

I don't pretend
or expect to be understood.
If that were my intent
I would leave it at this:

Islam is the Truth.
 This society is falsehood.
Lo! Falsehood is ever bound to vanish.

An Opening, Darkening

Beauty exists.
Between the concrete
and concertina
even here
balanced on a blade's edge
from a rope of hair-thin steel,
the Finality
of six walls.

(they yearn to smother us, but
they only harden our resolve
to grind their world into dust)

Beauty endures
but there is a lesson buried beneath
the beast's boot:
We must learn to make our beauty light,
to feed it nothing but raw essence
for how else can we survive
but to fling our hearts into the vast sky?