Archive | May, 2012

Family Drama

We should give children roots to know they are connected to us but we must
remember to uncover their wings so they can fly.   Then they will come back.

The straight spine is an inheritance.  It is agile enough to bend but its natural
position is perpendicular. . . . to hold the chin up

When as adults we realize that we no longer have the chance to save the world,
there are the children.

The children will do what we did not or could not.   It is with great relief that the
torch is passed.

As we get older, our world becomes smaller but infinitely richer.

The one who chooses to come with an open head is the miracle among men.
Are all babies born this way and we masterfully close them up?

Each of us have soft spots in need of gentle handling.

Friends feed the Spirit and good families are icing on the cake.

We should be building lives for ourselves, not lifestyles.

In a partnership there must be a compromise . . . of wishes but
not of self.

If humour was a monetary form of exchange, too many of us must
of needs file for bankruptcy.
2

Time In The Heart

I was an oppressed people.
I wandered long
and became very tired of wandering.

I hugged the banks
of the green river and
shredded lives of high calibre.

Crying hard and loud
I voiced irritation
that rubbed edges raw.

And soon I walked
into the promised land.
Even before, even before I died.

It was green and fertile
and without enmity.
Without rancor I tended gardens.

And in the wide calm of doing
I knew of Being.
Ah, it was so.   It was so.

Tending the cabbages
I found the young fruit sweet.
Tending the orchards,  I found the hearts tender.

It was in the doing that I found beauty.
And I know it has never been done this way.
And I have done it before.

Each time fresh, each time new,
but the promise and the land even
more beautiful than I had remembered.

But even now, new eyes approach mine
and I whisper. . . . search for it,
search for it.

It is real and when you find it,
you will know it never was a place

but a time in the heart.
6

Toward A Destiny

No_writing

wild geese move
within the moments of their destiny
framing patterns struck
upon a naked sky.

clocked by indiscreet motions
they move
in gentler waves
instinctively.

confirmed in their geesehood
they soar with speed
amid the chastening winds
and luring skies.

untethered, unfettered.
dressed in their celestial garb,
melding motive and design
toward a destiny disclosed.

in a moment
they can do
what in a lifetime
I cannot.
7

The Poet’s Memories

Torn from an event
with memories still alive
and placed in an incubator to breathe
are poets expected to live.

Leaving a world incomplete,
they wander in vegetation totally unfamiliar
and yet expected to survive.
And give rise to credence
in a world with no root,
where trees are shades of others more vivid,
whose flowers whisper their names
in a forgotten language,
whose people are ghosts of livelier images,
all crowding the nimbus.

Where horizons are vast
and what eyes behold are stark lines
dividing two dimensional realities
pretending a depth that fools not a one.
Where snow sheds its stars
on a crystal night and the night becomes
a holy night eliciting unexpected
extravagances bestowing grace.

All grasped in a moment's vision
to linger through worlds creating ulcers
by gnawing the viscera
with dreams not completed.

The poet's pen translates worlds
of mean existence from memories held
long in the heart's pocket.
Translates the colors of those other places
where winds caressed and sun bathed
a skin unlike their own.
In another place and time they walk
and because they do,

their memories give rise to Others' dreams.
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