Dogma

Dogma tells me to hurry up when I slow down

 to look at the new display in a store window,

grimaces when I hear an unfamiliar band and turn the radio up,

hides the paper advertising a short story contest,

crumples my sketches of spaceships.

Change is suspect Dogma says,

eat your plain oatmeal,

learn your lessons as they are spelled out in the musty books.

Don’t question, memorize.

Leave your hair alone.

No you can’t because you aren’t a real

artist

writer

astronaut

ballerina

Change is uneasy Dogma says.

It is a mattress that doesn’t have your mold already,

it is a room full of people you don’t know,

it is tests you haven’t studied for.

Change is scary Dogma whispers.

Like an elevator that could let you off anywhere…

better to trudge the stairs.

But what is a stairway except a place that exists

only to take you to a different level?

As slow or as fast as you want,

as you are able,

and your voice carries louder in that space between spaces

as if to remind you it’s there.

Let it sing,

let it recite poems,

let it tell you what you are instead of what you are not.

Dogma says stop…

Heart says 

Expand.

The stairways rise and fall 

twist and turn

abounding with a choice collection of doors

and true,

 there may be tigers behind some of them, 

because sometimes change has claws.

But sometimes,

sometimes change has wings.

Sometimes the smallest flicker of light is a star.

Dogma says the unknown may fail,

that sparks should be extinguished so they don’t burn

and that change may end in heart ache.

Heart says everything aches while it’s growing,

regret hurts even more.

And I tell Dogma to come with me,

we can take the stairs together.

©jayetomas2016

 

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About chimerapoet

I write. I write a lot. A. LOT. There are times I am half blind with a sentence ricocheting off the walls of my stupid, cant be shut off to save my life, brain. I am miserable until I get it down on paper. Punch it up a bit. Usually cross out half of it. And then breathe. Relax. Only to do it all again..... But I just thought that was me. How I am. Not a writer....noooo...not me. Writers are.....writing people. People Who Write. REALLY write. Write things that matter. All grown up very important things. Not.....me. I am just a scribbler of sorts. And I was/am content with that....if it's true, well then....a scribbler am I. Until the thought wormed its way in to my brain (the furtive sneaky bitch) that maybe...just maybe...that is writing. My style. My strange way. But....still writing. So here I am at the dance. Not sure I know any of the moves and the music is entirely mine. But.....only one way to find out. Would you care to join me?
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8 Responses to Dogma

  1. alb29oclfl says:

    very nice, I have had to take dogma by the hand myself a few times, and still have to listen to his arguments
    .

  2. Splendid poetry ..thanks for sharing.Have a new great year.

  3. that’s really good stuff (sorry, I don’t have the words to praise it ‘properly’) well done!

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