The poet is born lungs screaming for life urgently seeking her deepest need– the search for truth in the illusive word; that one poignantly perfect poetic expression revealing naked-born reality, writhing, hungry, pure, wearing a living beauty like skin, (not possessing it like a coat, removable when uncomfortable). This poet searches for adjectival justice; illuminating truth laying bare…
Truth stands on elemental rock embedded in time solidified by centuries. Compressed diamond-like I hold it in my hands– Logos–word of truth. Its facets of virtue reflect knowledge revealed in white space. In logical progression it marches across ages . . . pages . . . Somewhere down in Egypt it struck camp. No longer written in stone it whispers…
In the movie “A Few Good Men”, Jack Nicholson as Col. Jessop yells back at Tom Cruise’s Lt. Kaffe, “You can’t handle the truth!” Maybe he’s right. I know I’m not about to tackle the age-old philosophical question, “what is truth” here. Not in a short blog on a writer’s website. Alas, I am no Bertrand Russell. But for argument’s…