The Trilogy of Poetry, Poetry by Shannon Griffiths

Genre: philosophical, inspirational

“The Trilogy of Poetry” – By Shannon Griffiths

When alteration finds peace in the ringing of thoughtless guitar strings
Accidental misunderstandings which consequently
Shape preconceived perceptions; undeniable in their wavering threat
Things are humans, humans are things

A tragedy is
What gets the attention of the fearful minds…
Why do we have to fall subject to victim-hood
To suffer without silence? Dissolve, dissolve,
Compost, dissolve, gone. Where is the resolution?
What revolution have we been called to join?
Condemn and repent is not applicable
To every cripple (for Jesus only healed a few lepers)
Especially the disguised ones that mask their face
With self discrimination – self-hate kills.

Open up your soul to the erasing goldmine,
Falling stars, empty bars, what has been remembered? Is the solid space
In the far out extensive galaxy forgotten? Lost?
Patterns inside numbers, statistics
It’s all just too stiff to mold into a renaissance painting
Formulas and functions; the quadratic, erratic, sporadic
Sexual intellect exudes and seduces the
Naïve girl with hair that meets her shoulders,
That surrounds her once soft face.
Expand your mind to words,
Accommodate your schema

The words absorbed extract, erase, regress, suppress – confess
Your pain to a God somewhere, you are told
To believe exists somehow in this perverse world.
Turn out the light and introduce the soft expanse of night.
Things are humans, humans are things,
We are one in the same with all matter around us
The matter is us (what’s the matter with you?) clustered together
In genuses, biomes, ecosystems, planets, galaxies, etc….
Pondering the wonders of the world, attempting to uncover the
Mystery of our true existence. but we so often, in fact,
As humans – selfish, dumb, naive – assume existence of matter
Revolves around our existence.
But we are so obscure in the overall scheme of things
We are a sliver hard to see stuck in the fingertip of it.
And by “it” I mean everything possible to be.

But if we know that we barely play any role in the theory of it all
We cannot assume we are better than any other thing, being, idea, etc.
Out there in this intricate notion of “existence” in our conscience

As our essence
Based off chemicals
From our cells
Belonging to atoms
And in atoms
Smaller molecules
Protons, electrons, and neutrons
And that motherfucking string-theory;

But out there in space with planets
A million times bigger than ours
And more plausibly in space with an infinite number of other galaxies and things that
Not so coincidentally match ours
How does our knowledge create an accurate view of the world?
Why do we refuse to listen to anything which is not of us?
We haven’t even seen the end of space.
What else is out there that sees our existence as we see an ant’s …
As small and simple as they are, their worlds contain much more that we may not
Be able to “humanly understand” – their anthills, and tunnels, intricate
And horribly instinctual

Ancient civilizations crumble before the feet of the economy,
Falling into the dirty hands of money.
Cathedrals covered in the dust from factory buildings,
Temples eroded in the polluted rain,
Mesopotamia destroyed by dystopian wars.

Go to the shrine
To see all who bow to their lord
It’s a Costco,
A Walmart, a Target – it’s slavery
Dressed up with makeup on.

A genocide here,
A genocide there,
And the planet still sits on space
And revolves around the sun.

(Holy fuck what have we done?)

The distance between the sun and the moon; the spaces
In between are what take up the most room to merely
Expand and collapse again. What really exists?
What trees are we killing for paper that will get burnt
Eventually, even after poems and stories have lived on them?
Would you recognize yourself if you saw you walking
Down the street, or do you interpret your reflection differently than reality?
What golden ratio exists to counter attack the death soldiers
Our society protects us with? How do we break free?
Fade away.

Maybe life and the world is not clear after all;
That makes me feel better about
And my choices.

Life takes me in unique time to continuous
Destinations of change.
Each event planned,
Yet fragile;

As my tear-ducts
As my smile.

Dissolve, dissolve, dissolve.


    * * * * *

Deadline for POETRY Festival – Get your poem made into a MOVIE and seen by 1000s. Three options to submit:

WATCH this month’s poetry readings performed by professional actors:

Watch Recent Poetry Readings:

Watch Previous Poems turned into movies: