Who Cares - What Matters
Our Song is individual
Our Song is varied
Our Song has different tunes
Our Song has multiple verses
Our Song has different meanings
But Our Refrain
OUR REFRAIN
is the same
We are walking each’s other Home
WE ARE WALKING EACH’S OTHER HOME
N E V E R
n e v e r
NEVERMORE TO BE EVER ALONE
Thoreau once said,
“IF YOU HAVE BUILT CASTLES IN THE AIR;
YOUR WORK NEED NOT BE LOST;
THAT IS WHERE THEY SHOULD BE.
NOW PUT THE FOUNDATION UNDER THEM.”
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME,
Eyes that see
what they don’t always notice
Ears that hear
what is not always said
A Heart that beats
for someone, something, other than me
Hands that extend
not so much to receive as to give and comfort
Paths that lead
to places I would never choose but need to be
Truths that I’ve refused to consider
Meaning to the seemingly meaninglessness
Food that nourishes
more than just my body
Water that quenches
all thirsts
Breaths that require
no air
Peace that banishes
all war, conflict, unrest
internal, external, eternal
Unconditional love
without hints of the conditionals
Diseases that
lead to healings
Pockets full of change
that are changeless
Time that never has to be traveled
behind or ahead and appreciated for its
eternal Now
Answers to all of the
why’s, what-for’s, how-come’s
Beginnings with no ends
Moments past Forever’s
Prayers that never need
praying only realizing
__________________because there are
endless__________________that’ll be innumerable
GIVE ME, GIVE ME, GIVE ME
Leaky Ink from a pen
Dull led from a pencil
Dirty computer keys tapped on
Until words appear
Without much definition
And even less meaning
Still tell a story
That can’t be read
That can’t be told
That can’t be heard
That can’t be seen
That can only be experienced
And is
Mostly without notice
Leaving us to question
WHAT JUST HAPPENED
As we bemoan the agony of
Change
but embracing lovingly the
Q U E S T I O N I N G
Everything is plundered, betrayed, sold,
Death’s great black wing scrapes the air,
Misery gnaws to the bone.
Why then do we not despair?
By day, from the surrounding woods,
cherries blow summer into town;
at night the deep transparent skies
glitter with new galaxies.
And the miraculous comes so close
to the ruined, dirty houses —
something not known to anyone at all,
but wild in our breast for centuries.
~ Anna Akhmatova ~
H U H
along with me. . .
May I live this day
Compassionate of heart,
Clear in word,
Gracious in awareness,
Courageous in thought,
Generous in love.
JOHN O’DONOHUE
Excerpt from ‘Matins’ in his books, Benedictus (Europe) /
To Bless the Space Between Us (US)
Stained for good
Jagged uneven pieces
Discarded for garbage
Hardly pieces of art
Until the Light
Explodes me instantaneously
To a panoramic brilliance of beams
That eyes can only merely see
But souls understand
experience
Creating me
STAINED FOR GOOD
Assuring
that even a space
that once held a tinged altarpiece
still lets in Light
I’ve always thought that
THE HOLY
was never a Place
so much as
A PERSON
and more intimately. . .
Y O U
and from that came
THIS:
I went to Church
it wasn’t Church-ing
I went to the Playground
it was no longer a ground for play
I went to the Movies
they weren’t movie-ing
I went to the Show
it wasn’t showing
I went to the Concert Hall
it had been silently hall’ed away
I went to the Park
it was prohibitedly parked
I went to the Mall
it had indefinitely been mall’ed shut
I went to the Store
it had been mostly stored away
I went Home
it had been homed sheltered up
and though familiar
so utterly unrecognizable
and then
Then I journeyed in
to a cavern
to a nook
to a creaky cranny
I seldom visit
And there
t h e r e
was the holy
an altar not often knelt before
a communion rarely shared
a hymn not yet sung
a litany never recited
a homily vaguely strange
(maybe imagined)
a benediction
challenging to go forth
and make a difference
while urging me to stay
and know a sacred distinction
May be
(be it may)
that what’s Holy
is THAT which is
WHOLLY
ME
Perfectly Imperfect
ME
Ahhhhhhhhhhh
Christmas, Easter, New Year’s Rosh Hashanah, Yom Kippur, Hanukkah, Kwanzaa, Ramadan, Eid Al-Fitr, Eid Al-Adha, Diwali, Holi, Vesak, Parinirvana Day, Chinese New Year’s
At Once
Wholly
Holy
In Me
“later that night
i held an atlas in my lap
ran my fingers across the whole world
and whispered
where does it hurt?
it answered
everywhere
everywhere
everywhere.”
Warsan Shire
When
W O R D S
find me
in the form of a poem
they often
e v o k e
my words to form
a poem:
This Body
has laid in a crib
placed there by loving hands
This Body
has laid in a field
looking up at cloud formations
the rising
the setting sun
and the stars that have poked holes
in the black velvet curtain of night
This Body
has laid in sand
having the sun seep into its pores
while the ocean has baptized it
This Body
has laid in a bed
companioned by a love
never to be fully described
but intimately known
This Body
has been on a gurney of pain
not to so much experience Cure
as to have a certain healing
This Body
will lay in the ground
It’s ashes swallowed up
not to be forgotten
but to begin again
in a new way
to lay again
“ Hope”
It hovers in dark corners
before the lights are turned on,
it shakes sleep from its eyes
and drops from mushroom gills,
it explodes in the starry heads
of dandelions turned sages,
it sticks to the wings of green angels
that sail from the tops of maples.
It sprouts in each occluded eye
of the many-eyed potato,
it lives in each earthworm segment
surviving cruelty,
it is the motion that runs
from the eyes to the tail of a dog,
it is the mouth that inflates the lungs
of the child that has just been born.
It is the singular gift
we cannot destroy in ourselves,
the argument that refutes death,
the genius that invents the future,
all we know of God.
It is the serum which makes us swear
not to betray one another;
it is in this poem, trying to speak.
“Hope” by Lisel Mueller from Alive Together. © Louisiana State University Press, 1996.
I learned early on
that the vulnerability of
putting words on a page
. . .even if that page
is crumbled
is unlined
is torn
is just-in-time-saved
from the bottom of a dirty waste paper can
is not just merely
p o e t r y
but . .
H O P E
at its best
. . .even if it’s just because of the vast amount of critics
WE ARE ALL POETS
No blank page is ever really needed
to write a poem
. . .P O E T R Y
begats
P O E T R Y
. . .hence:
A Voice
not heard
A Scent
not smelled
A Beauty
not seen
A Delicacy
not tasted
A Touch
not felt
An Intuition
not realized
And for all of the
jumbled
tumbled
tangled
N O T S
The holy common
Y E T
is
unexplainably still
e x p e r i e n c e d
h o p e
H O P E
. . .it is in the poem trying to speak
ONCE they held
Whatever was deemed
Important
Significant
Sacred
NOW they are emptied
THEY worlded Memories
of what Was
But More
What Hallowedly WAS
THE WAS
Can’t ever be fully photographed
and yet
never has to be
FULL HEARTED GRATEFUL
What never has to be
Empty Shelves
are never fully empty
and what habitats them
can’t be seen
so much as
f e l t
for an ever
I wanted to Disappear
To get so lost
To go so very Un-GPS’s
To go so very off Grid’ed
To go so very Un-mapped
To go so very Un-charted
To go so very Un-detected
To go so very Un-abracadabra
v a n i s h e d
That a happen chance NoBody
Or a wandering SomeBody
Or a searching AnyBody
could ever find me
only to Christopher Columbus
d i s c o v e r
THAT
road is not a
Street
not an
Avenue
not a
Boulevard
not a
2/4/6/8 lane highway
but a Road
always
highly
occupied
Traffic Jammed
DAMN
This is a poem I wrote after a day that felt like a month that can’t be found on a calendar; a day that makes you want to become a skilled magician so you can slight-of-the-hand-blink-of-the-eye-quick-vanish without so much as reflection from a dirty mirror or a wisp of lingering smoke. . .
But here’s the best thing about day’s that feel like months not found on any calendars:
THEY END
and what they take from you
compares not what they gift you:
S T R E N G T H
A detour
sometimes masks itself as a
short cut
and always something more than just another
Way
The detour?
Compassion
The Short cut?
Giving it
The Way?
More often than you have. . .
Talk about a wild ride on a dark night
(on a road that seemingly doesn’t exist)
Giddy Up
I love this poem by Warsan. . .
I’ve never heard of her before
let alone
R E A D H E R,
but it brings up a universal sad truth
in just one word:
E V E R Y W H E R E
Right now
at this very moment
think of the one person
in your life
who’s home has never known
loss
hurt
disappointment
grief
devastation
unmet expectation
d e f e a t. . .
Wait. . .
WHAT?
Is it
Y O U R ‘ S. . . ?
Behind every door is a pain so deep
it can’t be spoken. . .
Know that;
Know that you know That;
Bet Your Life That You Know THAT
but most of all
FOR THE LIFE OF YOU
A C T A S I F Y O U K N O W T H A T
The World is a raw
Opened Wound
That’s not so much seeking a Cure
b u t
H E A L I N G
. . .and we are carriers of it. . .
But more than Carriers
WE
desperately need to be
D E L I V E R E R S
E V E R Y W H E R E
