The truth bends
into a spoon
with which you feed yourself
until the bowl
you put it in
is empty.
Then you look
for other bowls
with equally measured offerings.
Meanwhile, life
comes to your table
in platters,
heaped with bite.
The truth is razor sharp.
It slices and divides
until everyone
has a piece of a piece
of the pie.
It is not fair and
not always palatable.
It is forgettable,
dulled when lied about,
the dangerous blade now
of betrayal,
unable to penetrate
a thick skin.
The truth is a telling
fork in the road:
go left,
but if it is not right,
you will catch hold
of nothing. You will
keep searching,
and never arrive.
Take the path
that is right
and there will be
nowhere left
to go.
This poem first appeared in Northshore Magazine in 2006. An old favourite.
Lynne Burnett 
Beautiful, Lynne. Those bowls and platters! We just can’t trust them.
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Haha, isn’t that the truth! Glad you liked it, Bob, I thought it was “your” kind of poem.
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It definitely is!
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Lynne, Lynne – I’ve always loved it and it’s so timely now with Trump! I had forgotten how clever the poem is, but not how clever you are. xo Helen
Sent from my iPhone Helen Ann Hardisty
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Oh, thanks for that, Helen! Funny, I actually thought of Trump when I posted it!
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Well done surrealist imagery.
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Thank you, Michael! Sometimes life feels a little surreal these days eh?
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Certainly, in the news stream. We need new writers for that.
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