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.
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Toward A Destiny

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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.
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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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GENETIC MEMORIES

Lurking behind every door are ghosts
from a shadowy past,
eager to be translated
to a dubious present.

Impregnated in genes
are the memories of these ghosts,
split second DNA, with desire housing
the delicate substance quoting life.

Stupid am I to allow
others' memories,
lurking in my fresh Being
to suck life out of my present.
But power filled, even to think
that I could release their tenacious hold
from a life unfulfilled
and requiring recompense.

Helplessness rages simultaneously,
pleading a judicious balance
to satisfy life's imbalances,
yet knowing

I cannot do it.
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Peace In The Center

Refresh yourself at the trough of knowledge.  The water is cool and fresh and deserves a thirst that can appreciate it.

When the eyes see, there is peace in the center.  Providing of course the footwork has been done.

Not until one sees where one has been can one change direction.

Illusions are the finery with which we dress all the dailyness, all the scullery to make life not only bearable but to elevate it also.   It is a noble endeavor.   It is a god-work.

Evolution can only be taken a step at a time.  No lesson is skipped else it will not stick and carry forth.

It bodes no good to keep ploughing when the field is ready for seed.

One cannot expect to govern a body of men when one cannot govern one's own body.

One cannot be a better anything that what one is as a person.

Words are water and actions are stone it is said.  Your actions will shout who you are and your words will whisper to the ears of them who do not wish to hear and hear what you do as louder than what you say.

Do and you will be shown how.

The Spirit requires an indulgence now and again.

Man is a country quilt.  A patchwork of many colors and shapes.   Altogether beautiful.
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The Farm Woman

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Woman of the Earth,
you are loved.
You gather the fruits
of your labors to your bosom
and feed the children.

You’ve inched your way
along the dusty path
with back bent in great fatigue
and cultivated the rows
yielding wise fruit.

You would feed out of your mouth,
those you think hungry
and then beyond measure.
The fruits are the heart
of your labors, the harvest of
your mind’s philosophy,
spilling indiscriminately.

Who is left to feed you, farm woman?
What commissary is left open
to feed your hungry soul after hours?
What bookstall will house the words
between stiff covers
to increase your harvest?

Labor, till the sun
closes its blinds on the day.
Restless legs will
speed you through the night

to find the bins ever full.
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Like Minds

My thoughts rove the ethers
like a magnet pulling
like thoughts to themselves.
The excitement rumbles
through my belly
while heart accelerates its beat
forcing my blood
to course through my body,
drunkenly.

Heady stuffs
to know that mine is thought
matched by invisible minds.

I swim in conscious waters
resembling earthstone.
Pulsating, yearning,
I find it humbling to think
that heaven's thought

has searched out mine.
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Midnight Excursion

I saw them,
leaning against the rail
with grey curls circling their faces.
They were in animated conversation.
Their eyes were glued
to the waters, I think.
The wind blew their housedresses
about their knees.
Frowns and furrows
made ridges on their foreheads.
They giggled with laughter.

Not out of the ordinary, you say.
Certainly a commonplace happening.
The hazy sun was evident,
but most of the surroundings, blurred.

I could have stepped
into their conversation.
They would have welcomed me.
But I did not.

It was with a start
that I realized I was the visitor.
The midnight excursion
placed me in their time.
I had broken stride

and found me another world.
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King To Pauper

Rendering itself useless now,
the elements of Nature
first borned by Man
to work for him have gone rabid.

But in wisdom still,
the moon continues
to pull the oceans by great force
and gently lays the rolling waves
on windswept sand, clearing man’s debris.

The wind if amortized,
would harness its power
to push the plow.
And sun, first born of woman
would gladly warm
the earth’s chilled bones
and never cast a shadow.

The earth would form the nested nettle
where foot transgressed,
with pleasure support
the frame of man forever.

Air in bunches note
the going in and coming out of men
and upholds their stance, untiringly;
gladly yielding itself to noble ends.

Relegating himself to the beggar’s position
of that which man himself created,
the Art is lost and in its stead
small triumphs rise.
Birth and death are Nature’s saviors
preventing man

from raping her in anger.
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A Perspective

To forgive and forget has become a shopworn edict.  It can work just so long but when you realize that the god of the other person weighs your interest against his best interest, you might come in second.   You can forgive until your face turns whatever color it is not, it still is heavy on the heart.

Forgiveness can only work when we give up hope that the past can be rewritten.  Generally the insult or injury is not viewed as such by the other if they are still in our lives.  Even when pointed out, there is no ‘I am sorry’ because the other does not see a reason to be sorry.  It does not mean that the injuries are not valid.   It means that the other has a different frame of reference and heads are different.   It means that what is, Is.  It does not mean that all things are forgotten, but that from this point on there will be notable changes.    How different will depend on what we value.   And that is where the hard work of sifting and sorting and building a philosophy begins to accommodate life’s challenges.

Education of people varies so one wonders about credibility.  Women stand by erring husbands and often feel guilty. People stand by their governments no matter how rancid, employees stand by employer’s outrageous malfeasance, and children work to cover their parents’ stupidities.    Now everyone is to be held accountable.    This is how it should be.   But it is a challenge.

The question then is how to forgive the daily irritant in our lives, related or not.  In this day of  DNA , we are more than a little surprised just who our relatives are. The commandment still is to love one another.   When we look upon Others as separate from us, we deal with me, my and mine instead of we, us and ours.  Open warfare is the agenda and we become Separatists, whether we speak of a person, families or countries. 

Forgiveness may be difficult when we cannot accept the effort of Others who behave in a manner that is within their frame of reference or their culture.  That path may not be what we can share but we must remember within them also is the earnestness to find a way toward their truth.  When we acknowledge our different perspectives and that the past is accepted as past, we can begin to write the script for the future by our actions today, the present.

Let us gift ourselves and make today our present to us.

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