The Secret Name Of The World

There is a person somewhere
who lives and breathes only sunlit air
and views any storms that come
to soak or drown or bury them
in snow and ice and isolation
as fickle hiccups in the general
benevolence of our corner of the world. 

There is a person somewhere
who looks at love, justice, and connection,
sees the teeth in their smiles,
and sneers at how obvious the evil is
lurking behind any sweet impact
of the random benevolence
of our corner of the world.

There is a person somewhere
who thinks it all balances out, 
or will at the End. They would take 
the sunny one and the dark one and have them talk
as if it might work to smooth the crags
and spice up the bland plains of this
varied stage set of a world.

Neither joy nor despair seem worthwhile
to some. They grit their teeth and say
it’s a round ball and the only truth
of how it rolls is that it rolls and only luck
shifts its juggernaut beauty away
from crushing any one of us riding
this inconvenient marble of a world.

A fourth way, out there somewhere,
is found perhaps on a lover’s transient face,
the skin of a maple or palm, the fur
of a mouse or the cool of a stone in hand;
found when sinking into storm and sun as One;
found in watching as the complications of ecstasy
and sorrow spell the secret Name of the World.

About Tony Brown

A poet with a history in slam, lots of publications; my personal poetry and a little bit of daily life and opinions. Read the page called "About..." for the details. View all posts by Tony Brown

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