My People
by Tom Jurgensen

My people —
And who are my people?
The hardy &
Mechanically inclined German & Swiss
Of my biological lineage?

Or, are my people of the Earth,
Of the Red & Brown of
This land of my birth?

Or, are my people
These lost, frightened, forgotten ones —
Struggling with worlds they do not comprehend —
Perceiving visions & voices
Which they cannot integrate,
Doomed to the fringes
Because they cannot ignore
What is too much ignored;
And who become themselves ignored
Because the world does not wish to 
Hear what they hear,
Or see what they see ..
What we see ..

So, perhaps my question
Is answered for me.

My people
Are those who see
What most do not see —
Who hear what
Most do not hear —
Who suffer
What most would not survive.

My people wander the fringes —
Minds confused —
But hearts innocent.
Innocent of the hatred
Which mocks them.
Innocent of the greed
Which fails to motivate them.
Innocent of the arrogance
Which needs no God ..

My people suffer ..
Oh yes, we suffer ..

It is not the suffering
Of engineers
Who wonder if they can
Solve enough puzzles
To pay the bills,
And keep their wives in credit cards,
And keep their children
On the path toward
A similar success.

No, this suffering is
As Paul put it,
“A groaning of the Spirit;”
The travails of birth —
The birth-pangs of eternity ..

And we are the midwives;
And we are the mothers;
And we are giving birth
To eternity ..
And it is we
Who are paying the price —

Not the mechanic s
& the carpenters
& the clerks
& the clerics

But we,
We whose minds 
At times are not our own —
We who bridge the abysses
By crucifying our souls across the spans ..

We, who mediate the VOID,
Who stand in the breaches,
Who keep the demons at bay ..

These are my people —
And I am proud to be
A seer,
A visionary,
An artist,
And a shaman.