There Is No Truths
And That’s the Dare
(This poem could be taken as being written by a regular human, which it sort of was, or as being written from Allie’s perspective in her long and low flights over several of our generations, which it sort of was. More on Allie below the poem.)
“There is no truth, but only dare”
I loved the play on words.
I’ve heard so many clever forms
of shepherds’ calls to herds.
“The truth will set you free” one says,
but what is meant by free?
How many shepherds…does it take
for us to, finally, see their plea?
One will plead for power,
while another pleads for love.
He or she will please a crowd
and claim to hold a dove.
But which dove of the many tales
where doves have been invoked?
And which love does the shepherd hold
to ensure sheep are coaxed?
The drive to find confirming cries
to bolster their own wants,
conniving wolves or selfless souls…
each persuades and hunts.
How many shepherds…does it take
to change the lights once known?
How many to invoke the dove
and show the sheep how much they’ve “grown”?
How many years will they replay
the scenes of cults refashioned?
So many cheers and shears
await their wool’s release — impassioned.
Though none were born just yesterday,
their mesmerized eyes stare.
They’re drawn into the shearing stall
— a shiny object there.
The ewe, the ram, the little lamb,
all prey for shepherds’ shears,
but ewes are the most prized,
as I’ve seen throughout the years.
Then held in place by a crowd’s embrace,
reassured by the shepherd’s smile,
the shiny shears are raised,
still she can’t see the shepherd’s guile.
Then shorn she briefly wonders
if she’s trading more than wool
for herd approval, the shepherd’s smile;
she wrestles with her soul.
“Who am I? Or whose am I?
Am I a source of wool?
I’m standing here, I can’t deny,
I don’t feel safe or whole.
I see them smile. I hear their cheers.
I stared right at those shiny shears.
And I complied, and now I’d hide,
but they can’t know — I’ll hide my tears.
I’ll hide my mind.
I’ll make it so no one will ever see
the me of years ago is who I really want to be,
before the shiny shears and cheers,
before they “set me free.”
I don’t feel free at all.
I want someone to come save me.
.
.
.
The lavender, the white daisies,
the birds…that’s being free.
But I touch more than soil or trees.
So what’s “free” mean for me?
Oh, there’s the question, where I’ve just guessed,
and it needs an answer before my quest.
The shepherds quake when sheep can ask,
‘Just who am I? And what’s my task?’
I need a purpose, more than free
or pleasure, power, or fame.
I’ve seen my face but I can’t find me.
I’m not sure what to blame.
But when the sun sinks down below
and flowers fade to grey,
and stars come out to sing and glow,
and shepherds go away,
I hear a clearer sound,
a pleasing ring that knows my soul,
or maybe it’s my soul that knows
it’s stars that make me whole.
And when I search amid the stars,
forgetting shears and pain,
forgetting shepherds’ calls and scars
and what I’ve done in vain,
and know I’m needed here, not just for wool,
but whole again.
Incredible…what shepherds fake to make us
shake and pay their toll.
I’ll turn their shears
into charms and chimes,
to remind me of a better kind
of tears and clearly better times.”
There is no truths,
and there’s the dare,
to challenge herds of shepherds where
linguistic games and ulterior aims
have beckoned sheep and filled the air.
Shearing is for literal sheep
not star-eyed humans, whole.
But markets and the marketed keep
acquiring more — more wool.
And once the wool is sold,
sheep feel a chill and need a coat.
A shell is what keeps out the cold,
but not the way they’d hoped.
The warmth is gone, and in its place
the clinical quivering shell.
I wish I knew the point to bring
to break the shell and spell as well.
Then wool could grow again,
and then the warmth would come at last.
We’re never really free despite
refrains of sophists…in our past.
Life is meant for stars and skies
not shears and fears, and tears, but full.
The truth won’t set us free
but we still need it all, the whole.
Let’s begin again to find
the stories others left behind,
uncover what’s been buried where
our hearts and minds are married, dare.
A rare composition by Allie Space-Owl, who is usually fairly reticent, or just not in a good position to compose poems…nor prose. She’s typically observing from the sky. But she has extremely keen hearing and vision. She and Stu, exceptional for their species as far as we know, see themselves as part of us, us earthlings, as you can tell from her poem here.
It was mostly Allie that was behind the Star Eyes concept that she and Stu use in 7th Pie Theory. Stu had recognized how our eyes, our irises, resemble stars, but it was Allie that was able to see the number of people looking at the stars, and she felt like she flew among the stars, and she’s the one that saw the need for a connection between our sense of ourselves, in the most physical and rational ways, to a sort of back-door passage to an ineffable, call it spiritual for now, awareness of our full existence and impact. I hope we hear more from her.
