Donald Traxler's Poetry

Wednesday, February 3, 2021

This body is an illusion, in more ways than one.

It calls for neither pride nor shame.

It is temporary, like one's name,

a wilting flower in the sun.

This body is mostly space

(an illusion, too),

riding the illusion of time

and the farce of place.

This body is Consciousness's car,

made of energy and light,

as such, it travels far

through Chaos's dark night.

My eyes are not blue,

they are hazel, which genetically

is a form of brown.

I am of the hot-blooded

pre-mutation permutations,

the ancient nations,

who speak from the heart.

The Injun in me won't lie to you,

because lying is a form of disrespect.

The Jew in me will not stop studying,

because studying is a form of ascent.

The Pygmy in me, of ancient birth,

will not let you destroy the earth.

We, the brown-eyed part,

will speak to you from the heart.

He sees far, and not as others.

atsvyai gowatase inv, ale tla tsilv soidi.

ᎠᏨᏯᎢ ᎪᏩᏔᏎ ᎢᏅ, ᎠᎴ Ꮭ ᏥᎸ ᏐᎢᏗ.