Poetry

Reach Deep

by

Joseph Roque

Few things can argue with the sun.

Give it two black eyes.
Wipe that silly smiley face undone.

Life’s losses is one of them. They can
roll a black cloud veil over us, easy
as we pull down a shade.

Few men can argue with life’s losses.

Make them back off their bully poses,
bloody up their noses a bit.

These men are ancient heroes, fierce
reclusive champions known throughout
the ages simply as Hope and Perseverance.

They do not easily commit,
but savage if they do.
They will come to you, but you must
bring to battle proof of your heart’s desire,
you must reach deep, find your inner fire,
without fear, pull from it the hero inside you. . .

The one they call Faith.

The Exodus

by

Joseph Roque

Monday, I decided
to become an Archaeologist—

digging and uncovering,

meddling and loosening,

chasing the possibility
that another race of us,
but perfect in all respects,

existed previous, but left.

By Friday, I could
clearly see, enough to
prove discovery.

From all the signs long
left behind, was proof most
clearly ample, that unlike us,
these beings were quite special.

No petty, banal vices,
no aberrant dysfunctions,
no small anemic slices of
dispassionate compassion.

They left because
they feared becoming us!
They feared the avarice,
the greed, all the sick
misdeeds of anger
fear and prejudice.
Mostly, they feared the
image in the glass
that looked just like us.

But where did they go?

They are just gone. Quietly
withdrawn to a better place,
far away but always close
as close conveys,
a single heart that hopes
and prays, for a better way.

Stone Wombs

by

Joseph Roque

The caves of our ancestors hold
many untold stories.

Not all of them bleed histories, or
give away the secrets of our early
brothers—the silent ones bore witness
to the birth of fierce men and fire.

These sturdy stone wombs stood strong,
kept bosoms warm against the elements,
against all enemies.

Against the selfish gods that schemed
to keep men small and ignorant.

Keep them dependent.

Learning to Lose

by

Joseph Roque

The urgency of distraction
renders subterfuge amenable.

In love,
feigned disinterest proves
invaluable, its strategy
a mascot of irresistibility.

Emperors pay dearly for
this knowledge. Others
kill to prevent its use.

The wasteland of love’s losers
and strategy non-users is
littered with tangled carcasses,
the jury that convicted each,
unaffected.

In this forlorn place there is
no luminous escape, no end
to lines of suitors
seeking amorous acquittal.

Questions

by

Joseph Roque

When is enough love enough?
When is too much love a gruff
excuse used to limit love
to barely just enough?

Worse, what if enough is not
sufficient; sadly deficient,
rudely inefficient?
What if more is needed, but
the need irreverent, and we
are not heeded near enough?

Stay calm.

Love has no limits, can never
be enough or too much, never
be deficient because love is
always perfect in purpose.
There is no defect in perfection,
only in our flawed perceptions

Look around.
More love is always needed.
Because love understands the
impertinence of impatience, love
listens, feeds our need. Love
prevails, regardless, in spite of,
because of—renews and sustains
itself, bold, solid permanent,
relentless as an ancient beacon.

Best of all, love rocks. Shakes and
sways and rises up, surprises us,
is never too deep or wide enough.

Be careful, though.
Sometimes love gets rough—
impetuous, electric, nostrils flared. . .
can leave a naughty aftertaste
like ripened wild cherries gone bad.