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Wednesday, March 28, 2007

The Need to belong...

What different tongues we speak among our own tribes.
- Everybody has a language that is unique within his village.
The village may be aboriginal, Abysynthian, or absurd
- But each speaks its own little set of coded signals
Like red ants do when they smell each other
- To see whether or not whoever it is belongs
. on this particular anthill.
Humans, I guess, are just a little more auditory than ants,
- So, we slip in little subtle verbal cues
That only we - the initiates of this little circle that we move in - know.
- Tones of voice, tricks of speech or accent
That way we can sniff out others, and push them out,
- Away from our fledglings.

I think that insecure people do it more than the all the rest.
As if the act of excluding outsiders makes the insiders more
- Inside than they would be without the rules that exclude.
Dear God, how we need to belong!!
- Did you do that? Did you make us that way?

My mate says you made a mistake, God, in giving us all that free will.
- She has a point. It leaves our fledglings at terrible risk.
They may move on without us and choose some path
- That brings them hurt.
They might change their accents, eschew the code,
- Ignore the warning signs
They could become different from those who remain
- In our safe little worlds
They could think things and do things
- That take them beyond the borders of the places
Where they have grown up.
- And, for that matter, so might we.
So, we code our language, habits, joys,
- To keep out, people that we don't know, but probably should.
And to keep in those we do know only too well
- And cannot bear to be parted from.

How sad!

I love language and code words and customs and habits,
- But as something that defines us rather than separates us.
Oh, what we miss for the sake of safety and the snug security
- Of the anthill or nest or village.

Just one man's opinion....

Tom King

Tuesday, March 20, 2007


In character, we all walk about
Makeup, perfume, hair in place
The spotlight shining just so,
And we hope someone will be able
To look past the paint
And see inside
Where the lonely little boy or girl
Huddles in the darkness
Weeping and frightened

And sometimes someone does
And sometimes no one does
But always God does
Though he doesn't always tell us so
He doesn't always stroke the child's head
And comfort.
He doesn't always speak to let us know
When He's watching
For sometimes His hands
Remain in his pockets
Sometimes His voice
Remains silent for reasons we do not know.

And then sometimes. some of us
Remove the makeup, let down our hair
And sometimes we reach out with hands
And voices that belong to God
To stroke and comfort other huddled children
And find the child within ourselves
Stroked and comforted in return.

Tom King