Writer's Tale

A writer wanted to write a tale.
But the writer had to live that tale first
before any writing could be done.
The tale consisted of a path.
The path consisted of a variety of
grounds and conditions, and an unknown
number of obstacles, in a series with no
particular logic. At the end of the path,
the writer knew, there would be a garden.
Where fruit trees bore offerings to creation.
Where clear water flowed over rocks
unmoved in centuries.
Where giant ancient trees housed noble spirits.
Where, perhaps, happiness could be found
each day, and labour was generously rewarded.
To get to this place, the writer must first guide
the protagonist of the tale through
struggles, gambles, defeats, victories,
the range of emotions and all necessary
preparations for what is to come.
But WHAT is that?
The writer thought that the tests
and exercises were meant to take the protagonist
to the place where the lessons learnt
would then be applied, for the good of all.
Was it not that type of journey, perhaps?
Perhaps the journey had no end.
Perhaps the garden only opened up to a new path.
Unlike but alike the previous one.
What then? Can there be any resolution?
Can there be any point to a build-up
and a climax? When all that awaits
the protagonist is more struggle.
More defeats and victories.
More uncertainty.
What sense is there to the search
for happiness? When happiness is
but another gate unto another path.
Another series of obstacles.
Another game where one could come out
winner or loser.
Why?
The writer guessed that these questions were only
relevant in that they were the first stages
of the journey. The stage that comes
before decision. And the stages that come after doubt.
That writer thought that there was a choice
that had to be made. To either live the tale
or create it in some other form so that
it could be told, shared in that way.
The writer wanted to do both.

© RJMorelos 1994

Reserve

A supreme court ruling

gave us a clue

that all was not well.

So we ran.

So we held unto

the torch

that burns through many.

And we fired unto the promised land.

Freehold land.

Crown land.

Our land.

What is the difference?

A legal title

on my soul.

© RJMorelos 1996

Two by Seventeen Syllables

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Memory runs away

The candle burns

Grandmother sits by my side

Centre for Policy

Research into war

Recent controversies

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© RJMorelos 1996

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I BELIEVE
I AM A
NEO-HUMANIST
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