Poems by PoTai


Kingmen are we.
Thus we are not free.
Having given up what we already own.
Selling ourselves for pottage.
Father forgive us for we know not what we've done.

"Thou art always forgiven.
I've never driven thee
nor cursed thee,
but what thou hath demanded
came from what was given."


All judgement is given
To the son.

Who are we?
We continually ask.
Thinking we know.
For a time.
Living the error.

There is a reason.
never ends.
That is it’s purpose.

Who am I?
Can one ever know?
If one is always discovering?

Can there be choice?
Without opposition?
Can there be wisdom?
Without ignorance?

We choose
To play the beast.
To discover.
To judge.
To choose again.
To create again.

With authority we create
that which is not us
that we might live
by choosing,
by re-creating,
by re-discovering,
by living.

Claiming that we
are not
but that what is
our brother.
That we might
who we are
and live more abundantly.


Jesus is our brother.
Yet we worship him
by taking his hide
the sacrifical lamb
as our covering
like the apron
the garment
of blood
to vainly cover
up the beast
and pretend
which is outer

Putting the Christ to death
and covering
that is always there
because it cannot

Beasts are we,
crucifying the lamb
wearing the apron
the garment
faining holiness
denying life
mocking ourselves.

There is resurrection
of that which cannot die
by seeing through ones pretense
and giving up
the image
one has created.

Christ will not come.
Because tomorrow never comes.
Christ is come
to his own
who can see him
when he is ready
to cast off his own

It always happens in this generation

Life is just a metaphor

Sailing upon the waters
With the wind to move me
A firm hand on the tiller
A compass for my guide
Life is just a metaphor.

Catching the falling rain
For the cistern deep below
The house that I call my own.
Which one holds my soul?
Life is just a metaphor.

Out of the belly of the fish is paid
The tax the temple asks
Am I that fish, Am I that Temple?
That is symbolized in all?
Life is just a metaphor.

And how can a fish be thirsty?
As he searches along the shore
For that which is in the deep
Both above and below
Life is just a metaphor.

The air I am always breathing
Filling me up with life
In constant inspiration
Nourishing me, yet often forgotten.

Yes, life is a metaphor.

Truth and Illusion

Behind all illusion there is truth.
Truth is never changed by illusion
Except a perception of it.
That is its purpose.

By the illusion, we can change ourselves
In a continual re-creation of who we want to be
And comprehend by experience
What that means.

It is because of the illusion
That we no longer have to be alone.
We can only share
When another appears.



I am.

Is not a substance, per se.

Because it's more real than that.

Thoughts are things.

Yet they pass as do all things.

I remain.

As the second witness.

The first is me too, yet not me.

I am.

That which will also pass.

Yet I will remain.

Faith, as all things, is a passing

dependent for it's life on a


I forget.

I hope so.

That faith is hope, things, and not seen.

That is faith.

Passing away.

As all things.

Yet when it has passed,

Only one will remain.

I am faith.

Yet at the same time,

Without faith,

I still am.

Faith is too, illusion.

Required for life.

Yet, also, not required.

Because life just is.


Sometimes I write


Bad poetry


that we might see

the bad

from the good.

Who can poeticize?

Who can write?

we can

I can.

But that's

a trite drop in

a bucket

that's full

but doesn't know it

like would-be poets

who don't know it

because they don't



are better than poets

because humor

is good for the heart

like exercise

as poetry with humor


in such

a way

as to cheer

one up

when life

is down.

I write

for myself

to see

where I





I've been.

And by

reading it

I can see

where I


The Cry of the Mountains

There's a cold wind a blowin' from the West

On the edge of the mountains, yet in the hollows

Where blood and injustice and can still be smelled

Above the scent of a still peaceful meadow.

Once came a train of wagons of seekers

Chasing their dreams and trailing their children.

With a promise of tomorrow and hope on their lips

To find that still meadow is where they'd rest them.

The frightened children and their mothers cries

can never be heard when there's a deed to be done.

And some men won't listen to reason

As long as remains a battle to be won.

The denials today still echo in the valley

beside the false promises made on that day

that vanity tries to erase from all memory

that it's themselves who've been buried away.

But, long ago in that same mountain meadow

Sat a man upon the box made of wood.

Bent with remorse and broken with regret.

And he seemed to have finally understood.

He said he trusted him to be his protector

The one he believed to have the power to save

Said this with a heart overflowing with feeling

Right before he was shot by the firing squad.

Did you realize it before it was done, Mr. Lee?

Did you make your living among those who don't perceive?

Do you now understand what it means

To stand and be counted for what you believe?

A cold wind still blows from the West

Where vain ambition and arrogance grows

That ended the hope and dreams of their brothers

And forgot what remains in that still peaceful meadow.

Men still forget and and the vain still posture

and beat their drums in indulgent parade

Knowing not that in a still meadow

Is where their dreams and hopes are laid.


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