“The quality of mercy is not strained
it droppeth like the gentle rain
from heaven upon the place beneath.
. . . It blesseth him that gives and him that takes.”
— William Shakespeare
Rush me forth
into your heart
hear me
for what I say is the way
even though I stray from the path
I can only admire enlightenment from a distance
from further and farther and further away
like a distant star twinkling in the night
from further than a crawled mile on a gravel
road, palms and knees torn to bleed, moistening
the dry dust beneath. More like to the outer edge
of the milky way.
But here now,
it is time for us to travel.
the torches are all lit
and most will die out
before we reach
the millionth mile.
That place in the night it is unreachable.
But it’s the way we travel, the way we move, that is of most importance.
He
No matter how well
I seem or how long
it has been between
outbursts,
he’s always there
just beneath the surface
waiting to be released
to lash out
to scream
he is the bad man
and my body and mind
his habitat
No matter how high-minded I think
I’ve become or the level of patients
I achieve, his face always rears again.
He is angry
for being abused
for being born
for having to watch
his aunt die in the same room
with him when he was nine
and for watching his mother
lose her sanity as a result
for watching the late-night fights
the cocain binges and the whiskey
splattered on the wall at 2:00 a.m.
for his mother being beaten
while he helplessly was forced
to stand by, for hearing the smacks
and cries from the darkness of the next room
where he prayed to god to save him.
But god never came.
I—I am madness
with a twist of reason
watching benevolence
like a distant star
he—he is all anger
(c) 2009 James Eric Watkins
