What Truth Is…Or Isn’t

Some truths reinforce

The obvious

Then Truth comes along

And all that came

Before it is shattered

As long as I keep thinking

That it matters

What other people will think

I will stay stuck in the quagmire

That they too

Are trapped in

Is anyone thinking

For themselves?

How would I know?

I certainly can’t ask them

even as they are certain

that they do

So who knows

Anything?

Whole civilizations

Built on

Telling you what

You should know

And how you should think

And never to question

What is Decreed

And it works

Until it doesn’t

We abandoned

The natural world

And became civilized

But we can no longer

Smell the Roses

Or the bullshit

Have I always

Looked outside

Of myself for truth?

Was there ever a time

When I could see

That there is the curtain

That obscures

The clarity

Of pure perception?

Am I part of a tribe?

If I am,

That tribe asks me to be

Asking these questions

If there is truth

In the asking and

In the not-knowing,

I will be stripping back

What I think I know

To find it

If there is no tribe

Waiting for me

When I get there

I will be alone

But at least

I will not be fooling Myself

Or still seeking a truth

From others

Who claim it

Second hand

and pass it on

Through generations

Like it is a birthright

My Birthright is

The ability to question

What no one else

Questions

The ability to

Stand Alone

When there is no Tribe,

Questioning

What Truth Is

Or Isn’t

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Some Park remains

Where the Ancient Pine and Oak Woods

Of my Childhood stood

Where we played

Oblivious

Behind the house

On Beaver Dam

Where a spring ran

Underground

Just a short walk

Along the

North Road

to

the Canal that

Was carved

Between the River

And

The Bay Head

Not far from

Mother Ocean

Just by the Ocean Road

That led to the Boardwalk

And the Beaches

Where the Clamdiggers

Claimed their cherry stones

And the shrimpers

Cast their seine nets

And the horseshoe crabs

Reminded us of a prehistoric time

That no one could remember

or even imagine

Yet here they were

Along the banks of the Manasquan

Where we were born

And almost died

On the Pine Bluff

Where we learned to swim

And threw crab apples

And watched fireflies…

From where the Treasure Island

was just a short paddle away

And the punk grass grew

Up in the narrows

Saturday, July 19, 2025

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RIP Tall John