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My Never Native Land.

April 18, 2011

I was just going through some of my poems from my poetry class last year and came across this one. I had forgotten about, but I remember it being one of my favorites from the semester. It could probably use some more work, but I think it’s still kind of cool.


I was lost in a forest of insignificance

when I came upon living, laughing, lowly, natives.

They were surrounding a stunning and still beautiful box

of bows so fancy, colors so bright altogether shining like a starlit lamp,

like peering into the blues of the oceans, skies, and distant mountains,

together with the greens and yellows of nature’s most tantalizing trees.

It had the reds, purples, and oranges superior to any bed of flowers found wild.

Even a bit of the most beautiful brown was found stabilizing the other colors around.

Though this box was full of so many colorful colors and beautiful beauties,

the content could not be described by words created by man.

It was like looking into a setting sun rising or a rising sun setting in the

distance of a mountain’s peak and the closeness of a river’s leaking leak.

Full of curiosity and wonder, I stepped forward to be noticed.

Looking back at me with faces of similar interest, the natives stopped.

“What a gorgeous box you all seem to possess”

“It’s called the box of worship,” they said

“It is a box full of joy and awe and wonder and Spirit.”

So I played their games and sang their songs

and was soon welcomed in by their trustworthy trust

I was given a box to call my own and it

was just as stunning as theirs, to me it was more, but I

was given one instruction in which I never quite questioned.

I was told the bows and the ribbons to never undo and to keep

it closed for all my life and on to the next and my mind never argued, for what

the spirit, the splendor and substance brought forth was far too great to refute.

Time passed as I danced the dance and sang the song

of the box of the natives.  I never questioned a wrong.

They lead me always straight so I never had to ever turn.

I kept on holding my box and kept on keeping my hold.

Until one day while out on my own, a wondering wonder

crept inside of my mind.  For I noticed nature’s familiar sight

all around me.  It was suddenly strange that the flowers nearby

seemed so similar to the paintings that were found on my own box

that I held. The colors seemed so similar as if one was faked from the other

and so my mind wondered,  “Which one is the former?” and then not soon after

I realized the strangeness of holding on to a box so dear with knowledge of its

contents never even reaching my ears.

So very tenderly, I began to unwrap the

wrappings of the ribbons, bows and colors so bright, when slowly I

opened and peered inside to find the contents deep  –  dark and  –  full of despair.

It was like  –   a hole the light  –  could never reach

or a black  –  that could never bleach.   My hand  –

spontaneously reached  –  inside to find it  –  cold  –  and wet and  –

slippery  –  and loose.  And just as the light  –  refused to find  –

the inside  –  the contents refused to peek out.  Scared to admit or

reveal the truth.  I wrapped the box back up in things more glorious yet

and promised to myself to never reveal my findings.  And so I said with a bit of chagrin

“ Now  better it looks than ever before.”

Only in truth it really didn’t.  As I walked back to what I considered my home,

the others immediately noticed a crack of black along the edge of the box.

I was set to burn and forever be banished from my never native land.

If only I had realized before that my feeling of insignificance

stemmed only from my unwillingness to keep open my

eyelids and see that the beauty of the box was

always right there.  Right there in front of me.

It was there in the trees and the mountains

and things.  It was there among nature that

no box could maintain.  It was there

among nature that gave me

my true name.

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