Sustenance

Before she’s drawn a second breath or viewed
her mother’s face, a newborn seeks the breast.
No special training’s needed, there’s no test
for measuring a baby’s aptitude
or mother’s love. The cycle is renewed
as fed becomes the feeder, doubly blessed
with strength. Instinctively, we all ingest
the substance packed in life-sustaining food.

So why should care and feeding of the soul
be shrouded in enigma? Through the worst
imponderable doubts, our Living Guide
extends a standing offer: “Here’s a bowl
of hearty stew for free.” And with a burst
of sight, the inner cynic’s pacified.



o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2000 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

On Filaments and Firmaments

Every night when Lady Luna
beams across the wooded steep
after daily clamor dwindles
and the children fall asleep
Emma comes to tend the garden,
kiss the flowers, and commune
with the fairies, imps, and pixies
frolicking beneath the moon.

Emissaries of the spirits
spawned before the planet’s birth,
Emma and her sisters hover
gently on the edge of Earth
in the space between confusion
over what we’re doing here
and The Realm That Knows Forever
liberated from the sphere.

She is but a fleeting image
of the fiber that connects
all the multiverse’s secrets
to the path that intersects
with the pattern of Creation
spreading from a single source,
infinite beyond description,
dauntless on its chosen course.

Someone waited in the shadows
half the night to capture proof
in a picture we can study,
then she vanished in a poof,
so I left this verse for Emma
in a scented envelope
thanking her for nightly visits
sprinkling peace and feeding hope.



o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren


With thanks to the unknown photographer

View discussion on this poem.



Gremlins & Goblins & Trolls, Oh No!

In the prevalent rage
of the digital age
to debate without logic or manners
be aware of the march
scheming under the arch
waving signs and political banners.

They’re a scurrilous lot
with a penchant to blot
Lady Liberty’s gains in the ether
as the poison they brew
stirred with spittle and spew
hits the platform that wobbles beneath her.

Social fabric will rip
from the zingers that zip
through each forum and blog in the cyber
til the populace learns
to ignore scum that churns
in a cauldron of fictional fiber.

If you want to survive
the incursions that thrive
on your ignorance, look to the sages.
Join the movement afoot
to see miscreants put
in the cages of history’s pages.



o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

Rational Aftermath

Given the sinister nature of tyranny
strutting its stuff on the national stage,
why should an outbreak of violent rage
come as surprise when another atrocity
borne on the bullets of deadly velocity
massacres hope?

Spare the survivors the further indignity
pouring from pundits’ imperious airs,
hogging the cameras, offering prayers
full of their own brand of blatant hypocrisy.
Decency clings to our fragile democracy —
throw it a rope!

Bring us some leaders with proven integrity
poised to deliver the legal restraints
long overdue. As the world reacquaints
citizens’ rights with the cry of humanity,
carry the flag of compassionate sanity
mounting the slope.



o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

The Road Home

There is more to a word than the spelling,
neither future nor past in its tense,
and the story that grows in the telling
can jump over a pastoral fence
on the drive coming home. It’s compelling
in a deeper than physical sense.

When I think of the love that enfolds me
in the leap of a frolicsome pup
and the arms of a husband who holds me
like an obelisk propping me up,
there’s a presence that softens and molds me
to the shape of serenity’s cup.

From a window, the woodland is sounding
with the hush of an orderly mind.
In a natural rustic surrounding
there is space for the nerves to unwind
from the noise of a world that is pounding
the humanity out of mankind.

So the run-of-the-mill intersection
on the way to our humble abode
masquerades our affluent connection
to a heavenly area code
as it leads to supernal perfection
living large at a bend in the road.



o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.



The the Base of the Tower

“Let no man pull you so low as to hate him.” -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

Tyrants learn to climb a ladder
stepping on the hands below,
thinking status gained will matter
in a human puppet show.

Sycophants advance by reaching
wildly for the boots above,
spurred into a frenzy, screeching
epithets devoid of love.

Bullies on the ground are spreading
lies to bring the ladder down,
instigating chaos, shredding
decency from base to crown.

All of us approach the spire
bearing scars that touch the core;
none are standing any higher
than the people we abhor.

Marching next to truth revealers
labeled neither “Ours” nor “Theirs”,
let me be among the healers
on a stronger set of stairs.

o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

In the Silence

In the silence, coexistence
overcomes innate resistance
to denials that evade
Spirit, while its masquerade
chases bodily subsistence.

Synergetic intermissions
born of mystical omniscience
flourish as divisions fade
in the silence.

Buddhists, Humanists and Christians
meditating through the distance
bring a unified brigade
facing chaos unafraid,
seeking peace with calm persistence
in the silence.

o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

Choose Love

“We have before us the glorious opportunity to inject a new dimension of love into the veins of our civilization.” -Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

The lifeblood of the planet is in peril
of swift extinction by exsanguination
from injuries inflicted by the feral
barbarians attacking its foundation. 

Physicians for society have proffered
a proven remedy through mass injection
of Zenicillin. Hordes, instead, have coffered
an arsenal of hate to breed infection.

But deep within the body, organisms
are gathering in overwhelming numbers
to spread the needle’s healing for our schisms,
awakening compassion where it slumbers.

The power of love is dazzling when it stirs.
Don’t flee before the miracle occurs.

o0o

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

Epiphany

Epiphany, that sacred day
the Magi’s beacon led the way
to witness royalty that lay
in Baby Jesu.

The virgin birth’s a fragile myth,
an ancient bulky monolith—
irrelevant—yet teeming with
epiphany.

For only when the trappings dim
can rebirth rise above the rim
of rigid views to welcome Him,
The Christ Within.

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.

America in the Mirror

We’re appalled in confronting the picture —
a reflection for too long denied —
of a country that’s spiraling swiftly
down the drain in its ethical slide.

As each visible blemish emerges
it uncovers what runs underneath
that’s more painful and deeply enduring
than the spinach between our front teeth.

We’ve been stripped of our make-believe mantle
in assuming an elegant pose,
for that arrogant profile’s now hidden
by the hideous wart on our nose.

What we fancied a flawless complexion
is revealed as a sallow facade
tinged with orange, an outbreak of acne
that is oozing infection abroad.

It’s a face only Mother could cherish,
overdue for a treatment to rout
every trace of disease and self-loathing.
We are one. “As within, so without.”

cc-by-nc-nd

  2019 Mary Boren

View discussion on this poem.