Truth. Are we up S**t Creek without a paddle?

No. But we are being sold down our swollen S**t River and the best we seem to be able to do with our paddles of truth is to try to steer a course over the rapids. We will eventually face catastrophic waterfalls if we don’t paddle for all we’re worth against the onslaught. Our canoe could tip over at any moment. Hold tight!

I wrote a poem recently about how we, as a country are dealing with truth in our modern world. Poorly!

Sink so Low

Down, down.
All-precious agua sinks,
Reluctantly draining into oblivion.
Swirling, snaking, agitated and squeezed through
those narrow channels, trapped.

The chipped white porcelain bowl,
The vessel that, if plugged could save, nurture all.
Instead goaded and polarized.
Now so cold, hard, unstopped,
Unyielding under the unseen gravity of it all.

Yet is it all tapped out?
That universal nourishing fluid,
That swivel mix of warmth and cool.

Those gate valves of life,
or withering death,
Marked right and left,
or red and blue.
Why do those faucets flow and mix no more?
Wrenched in place
by tiny, deliberate, revengeful and unwashed hands.
Throttling and robbing with the numbing repetitive choking off.

Soon, if not released,
Empty, dry, cracked,
And therefore ruthlessly truth-less.

This cannot be.
Will not that Divine plumber lend His hand?
We must resist, insist, enlist,
To loose the spigots, restart the flow,
“We, the people” must rust shut nevermore.

If you agree with me keep paddling!