The Old Truths

Some of the old truths hold up pretty well out here.
They are not really truths, but we don’t know that.

If we opened our mouths to try and explain them,
it is possible our tongues would refuse to move.

Not that they are like slogans on refrigerators,
but more like something we would store inside
that cool box, imagining that we might consume it
as a nice condiment at some time in the future,
that famous day which never comes.

The jar or bottle is there anyway, keeping faith.
These days, there is so little we can count on.

Maybe it’s not really there like we think, but instead
is more in the nature of a quantum phenomenon —
only existing when we reach in and look at it,
trying to determine if it has passed its date code.

Would it be a case of anthropomorphism to say
that it is utterly indifferent to its quantum fate?

To the point, does it even have consciousness?
Perhaps one of those old unsayable truths
is that there is only consciousness.

Now we are slipping into the tricky trap
of conceptual designations, those mental
fabrications at the source of endless droning
debates among the voluntarily unemployed –
the whole burning question for example
of whether there’s destiny or free will.

As it is, those chilled condiments cling to neither
position, and so are they all the wiser, or is it
simply that they are prior to consciousness?

Consciousness can’t know what comes before it.
For all we can say, that may be one of the old truths,
those very ones which we can never quite say.

Likewise, she felt mischievous walking away
from the refrigerator, and suddenly blurted out:
“Let’s get drunk!” He thought that was a good idea,
but then realized that he would need to return
to the refrigerator where the old truths are stored.

It seemed a long walk back, since the years
now fly right by in the twinkling of an eye,
but God is great, and he was game.

When he reached the door and looked inside,
he found waiting there, so patiently, so faithfully,
one of the jars of cocktail olives — was that a sign
of destiny, or merely proof of the chaos theory?

He didn’t care, he had learned one of the old truths,
and so refrained from assuming some position
in that regard, or any comparable regard.

He felt the olives would complement the vodka
stashed in the upper freezer compartment,
and in that sense, all was good.


About Bob OHearn

My name is Bob O'Hearn, and I live with my Beloved Mate, Mazie, in the foothills of the Northern California Sierra Nevada Mountains. I have a number of blog sites you may enjoy: Photo Gallery: Essays on the Conscious Process: Compiled Poetry and Prosetry: Verses and ramblings on life as it is: Verses and Variations on the Investigation of Mind Nature: Verses on the Play of Consciousness: Poetic Fiction, Fable, Fantabulation: Poems of the Mountain Hermit: Love Poems from The Book of Yes: Autobiographical Fragments, Memories, Stories, and Tall Tales: Ancient and modern spiritual texts, creatively refreshed: Writings from selected Western Mystics, Classic and Modern: Wisdom of a Spirit Guide: Thank You!
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