heaven in her season of passion,
in her laughter and her kisses:
why refuse a taste of hell now?
My life belongs to that untamed past
where she still dances in kinetic waves
but my soul soars on winds of eternity
where I surely will recognize her again...
Living In
living
in
a
( get all you can while you can and
damn you, yes! my antiperspirant
I S
drier
drier
drier
: M U C H !
(than)
A N Y
other brand of antiperspirant )
world
is quite a bit like
what it's commercially tele-
viced
to
be.
The Sea
The wild easterly sweeps from the open sea;
gray ocean waves batter a gravelly shore,
their white-crested manes tossed
like some watery hell stallions galloping,
neighing their freedom; thundering madly
over a heaving, frothy wintery moor.
Whipped snow and sand hiss among brown grasses
mixing brown sugar puddings, drifting, filling,
mercilessly driving shorebirds from shelters.
Plaintively peeping to one another
these seek new refuge among standing rocks.
White gulls glide on motionless pinions,
skirting lashing waves, crying;
black cormorants in rapid wingbeats
skim the green tempest purposefully
diving out of sight in rolling trenches.
Scavenging along the thunderous beach
turnstones and black oystercatchers
seek their allotment of daily sustenance
among tortured seaweed and rolling gravel
occasionally bashing to its death
a small crab flung high upon the shore.
From a distant rock hidden by driven clouds
a mournful horn blares its warning:
!warning!!warning!!warning!...
warning passing trawlers and freighters to
!stay away!!stay away!!stay away!!
The storm rages unabated
its perceived violence proving once more
that in contest between man and sea
primordial force will always possess
the last word upon this magical world.
Time
I once met an old man,
who said:
“Time is never a friend,
my friend.
It conspires against us;
allows us to believe
it has a generous nature
then proceeds
to rob us of life.”
I've thought about those words
every day since that encounter
and what can I say?
He has a point!
Who can deny it?
Waging War On Society
Waging war on society,
creating global injustice
in the name of security or profit:
does that really work?
Does this make us "better?"
Longer-lived; morally superior?
Does it not just bring us closer
to some catastrophic downfall
of a world that has turned its back
on sharing and understanding?
If history shows anything at all,
it is that continually waging wars
has never brought forth
the "intended results" -
namely -
given individuals or nations
the peace and security they crave.
All violence is not evil -
but violence planned
to achieve some selfish goal
at another's expense,
at the cost of another's life
or livelihood: that is pure evil.
All the wars waged by man
upon this benighted world
fall in this latter category:
there has never been a "just war" -
only "just more war" -
for wars create enemies;
and "enemies" are fed by fear, anger, hate
and a desperate need
to get even if it takes a thousand years.
Kindergarten lesson number one:
Wars, by their very nature
are not waged against enemies:
they are waged against society;
against what we call life;
against all; against our self.
Wild River
Some ponder daring trips
down rampaging white waters
driven by the need to conquer.
A perceptive one told me:
"To travel a river quietly
in a light canoe or sleek kayak,
is not to conquer or to win
but to find oneself far away
from driven madness.
The exercise rests the mind,
giving it a peaceful unity
within natural surroundings.
What point is there fighting for life
in raging waters
making it impossible
to savor the passage?"
I learned from this that
challenging white water canyons
at the risk of life or limb
is but another expression
of thoughtless human pride.
It is best to remember
that nature's mighty or tender ways
are given to be enjoyed
not dared, conquered, tamed or killed
(and may I add:
not raped nor destroyed!)
Will That Be Dust Or Ashes?
Some live on and long
past the expiry date
on the birth certificate
brandishing a valid
credit card number and
some die young
some not so
some in notoriety
some in fame
some still popular
and some, oh well
that should read
and for most, oh well
not much of anything
young or old
the poor rich
and the rich poor
in faded jeans and business suits
exchanging places
in trading places
and they unseeing
walk the same sidewalks
drive the same freeways
frequent the same attractions
and death, like a mousetrap
snaps shut
on the fat and skinny
the cute and ugly
the smart and dumb
the white and (the
politically correct) non
will that be dust or ashes
the undertaker asks
his death silent
twenty-sixth
seriously reposed overtaker
eight hundred and twenty-third
lopsided grinning loser
that's all she wrote.
Woman Of The Sea
Dawn, and I open my arms wide
creating a vision of you dancing,
O beautiful woman of the sea:
of your love sweeter than the finest wine
to fill the hunger of my heart.
Noon: your soft hands caress my skin
lighting the fires of desire
and now, on these golden sands
the whole of me consumed
pants and sweats - the sun smiles.
Evening: by the gentle flame of our fire
I touch your perfect body
feeling the feeling that gives life to life;
the feeling that defies all languages;
the feeling which on
ly you
could ever kindle in my soul.
No other has cared, even less dared
share the sacred place, the sacred space,
with one like me between land and sea;
or soared among the stars to love one such
as I but you: wonder not why fittingly
I dedicate this day to you.
Wisdom Speak
Roaring oceans
call surrender
from selfish goals.
Raging mountain storms
chastise hunger
for mundane thrills.
In the tossing chaos
that is my mind
I hear a peaceful voice
speak this wisdom:
"When darkness
pervades your soul;
when anger and fear
grasp your heart;
when selfishness
rules your desires;
reach for yourself
and you will see
you are not the things you own
nor the beliefs you were given.
You were never
unclean or sinful,
but a being of light
hidden in a coffin.
You can open the lid
and walk out
...anytime you choose.
Prayer Of The Innocent
Old man in broken shoes, stinking rags;
back bent by harsh, cold years:
What are you telling me,
when you shiver on cold nights
barely kept at bay by dirty damp blankets;
your exposed skin stung by drifting pebbles
in drafty spaces under a railway bridge?
Old man, why do you pray? You say:
Please, all I need today is enough money
for a warm meal and a smoke.
Who do you talk to, Old man?
What sort of crazy are you?
Was it a mother who taught you such foolishness?
Like a hunchback of old, he walks away
and a gang of kids eye the raggedy shelter.
Their laughter is harsh: they speak of thrashing
the meagre belongings; burning the blankets,
destroying the collected treasures
carefully packed in Safeway shopping bags
when unexpectedly, one of authority says,
“Wait! Could be one of us some day, huh?
leave him some spare change
instead.” And curious,
they hang around for the old man’s return
but what they hear and see
shocks even these wingless pavement angels
for the old man, childlike kneels down with tears,
and thanks his God so naturally.
And I wonder at this miracle, this foolishness
of a man and his God...
Who is this God? Who answers such prayer?
Is each one of us “God”?
Each capable of stunningly amazing things
just not aware, too scared to dare?
To be that which we always were?
Ah, soul! I pray you be re-made
in the image of a real God of love:
dare I believe such a prayer? Can it be answered?
Worn-Out Coat
Years of taking, years of greed unchecked
leave a rich man's coat threadbare,
with open seams and little warmth.
Faced with bitter winter winds,
vulnerable, fearful, apprehensive,
the rich man does not part easily
with outmoded ways and worn-out rags.
He hugs himself in tattered remains
of pride and prejudice.
He shivers in bitterness,
knows the inevitable is nigh:
the cold winds of his dying ways
end his money-powered life:
the worn-out coat disintegrates
as a new sun unleashes it's warmth.
Survivors of his downfall,
who struggled; who did it with so little;
those denied the warmth and comfort
of the old winter coat in its prime
are thankful now they were not taken in
by false claims of earthly wealth
for now, in peace and comfort
they walk the shining new earth:
The rich man’s grave sprouts flowers
which children pick for their mothers.
You Took My Money, Where's My Cure, Doc?
I say, will they ever find a cure
for that dreaded thing we call cancer?
Think for a moment what would happen
to all those fancy establishments,
research facilities and accoutrements;
specialists and their bevy of helpers?
It would certainly mean more
than a few jaguars repossessed, wouldn't it!
A few multi-million dollar mansions
in the hills, on the seashore, on some island,
would also be up for grabs...
Patients: oh well, why not call a spade a spade:
I mean, managed human pain and suffering
is the price we must be willing to go on paying
to keep the money rollin' up those golden streets.
Well, at least it's the price the selected few
who lied, cheated and kicked their way to the top
are certainly quite willing to charge -
The question is, how much we are willing to bear
while we watch our children die?
So, you will be tempted to say:
do you have a better way? A certain cure?
Well, let me say, at least I know this:
that whatever “they” are up to in their white coats
certainly isn't working, so nothing to lose here -
everyone of us possesses any cure for anything
for there's no such thing as a disease,
just a great collective lack of understanding
coupled with a great collective fear.
Didn't a man of his day once claim,
(after curing a man blind from birth)
that greater things than that we would do?
Isn't it about time we got serious about it
and stopped putting our lives in the gaping mouths
of little white sharks with drugs and scalpels?
I'm willing to think about it - seriously!
Tears In The Wind
Tears in the wind
from life seen and tasted
in eternity
past the boundaries of earth
past the last signpost
of this universe,
I saw
(but what did I perceive?)
little
that I could understand
alone
walking this vale of storms
in restless winds
--time's Autumn
weighs heavily on my heart -
a tumble weed
blown about
shifting sands
disheveled, naked, hungry
lifting scarred hands
to unsmiling copper skies
I cried to faded stars
out of my pain
"Tell Me Why?"
--I heard my voice carried off
in raucous laughter
the wind's laughter
then
through tears in the wind
I caught a glimpse of something,
unusual, fleeting, intriguing
and I called it compassion.
No More Secrets
It's no secret
secrets are the parents of gossip:
a secret that cannot be told
chokes the mind
and puts a fire on the tongue
until someone is found
to impart the secret to:
but don't tell anyone!
Hah!
The fastest way to spread a rumor
is to call it a secret!
So perhaps we should do away
with the concept of secrets:
hold everything in the open,
everything public knowledge.
No more secrets!
(And an amazing side effect:
No more gossip and of course
No more politicians!)
Speak To Me Or Do Not
Speak to me of compassion
if you would speak at all
and do not speak of love
for love (as has been said)
covers a multitude of sins,
or should I say, hides them well.
Many terrible acts are committed
in the name of love,
but never out of compassion
for compassion cannot lie.
If you are to speak to me
of compassion,
yet know nothing of sorrow
then waste not my time
with your drivel
for compassion is found
deep within the well of sorrow.
Such knowledge is not
a popular flavor in the dish
of written new age spirituality
where uninspired corn
meets its twin flakes!
Future Child
Difficult,
loud,
energetic,
challenger
of authority,
confused,
often angry,
wanting everything,
and equally,
nothing,
that I can give:
already bored
with life barely tasted,
creative:
knowing
beyond inquisitive:
what are you, child?
Why can’t I recognize you?
I look into a mirror
and there I am!
The Sacrifice
"It's mine to think on, mine to decide, mine to know --
mine to act upon" - so she thinks alone in the dark
as the day wears on the snow, the sea, the city of noise;
as she conceives it all -- the torrential flow of despoliation
to fill every valley, level every mountain, dry every river.
"It is mine to do as I please in this respect," invisible
she stumbles through her thoughts alone in the crowd,
jumbling the words that will not form the conclusion
she is looking for in her mind -- "mine, not theirs"
she repeats endlessly as the winds suck her breath dry.
"However acceptable, however deformed, however strange,
my life belongs to me and me alone. It is mine.
Thus am I empowered to keep it, or give it away:
who shall gainsay me in this? The gods?
Those who had me killed for my healing hands?
Those who said the Devil empowered me?"
"Perhaps the Devil rules this planet of the damned --
his works are plain enough for all with eyes to see --
but if that's so, the God who craves humanity's love
most certainly is drunkenly asleep on His golden throne
with no one daring enough to wake him from his stupor."
"So, earth, I ask you: if those in whom you trusted
have abandoned you to the ravages of predation;
forced you to serve them as a bawdy, denuded whore,
will you accept my help this time around?
Will you speak to me if I bring you the wisdom you lost?
Will you turn your heart to me for the compassion I carry?"
"Will you this time accept the alien cast down upon your shores
and agree 'tis time you should humble yourself
before the one who would pardon your waywardness
and teach you the one sure way to save your innocents?
Will you reject your false lovers, your handsome Powers
your predators whose hearts carry the stench of death;
your oppressors whose mouths are filled with carrion?"
"Will you settle in my cupped hands as a wounded bird,
seeking refuge from your emptiness and loneliness?
Will you draw close to my open arms under the moon
when I offer you my life to heal your boils and open sores?
There is coming upon you and I the day prophesied
when the sun shall not rise as expected and the stars will fall;
when a poison of darkness will seep into your very marrow
and death will proclaim his victory over you and yours."
"In your pride you said: "This shall never be."
for the people said you were a goddess of power:
Gaia, they called you, and you accepted this false honour
though it never was yours to accept - and you knew it.
I just wanted you to know that I know - for it was said
that all things would be laid bare, even the deepest secrets
and they would belong to those who sought for truth."
"Here's my olive branch, wrought from my heart, my very life,
offered to you without strings attached: will you take it?"
And without waiting for an answer she continues her walk
whether to hall of fame or scaffold, she no longer cares
for now she sees it all and all makes perfect sense.
"Yes," she sighs, not in weakness but in renewed strength:
"I will do what I determined, what I set out, what I came, to do."
Too Early Spring
She brushed past my heart
in too early Spring,
her love's fragrance briefly
filled the empty space
around my life.
I have seen flowers bloom
impossibly in lingering snows;
eager to cover earth's nakedness:
I should have believed her,
put aside my doubts.
Now rain drips from leaf to leaf,
nature weeping, hushed in mist
and ever-present low-lying clouds-
or so it seems to me-
should I too, give in to tears?
What impressions do I retain
of my heart's sudden encounter
with a love unexpected, unrequited?
My sorrow has replaced
my so foolish fears and doubts
and I wonder: will she ever return?
What Does God Mean?
There's a question about the Bible
in Christian circles, maybe others!
What does the Bible really say?
Seems it all depends:
if what I read is what I like
(then it means just what it says)
but if what I read I don't like
then it's obvious
the text needs interpretation.
Seems pretty simple:
I think the way to take the Bible,
not being of Christian persuasion,
is like any other political speech:
read my lips,
never mind what you think you heard.
Or...
I can look at biblical text this way:
I imagine God looking down
in perfect seriousness saying:
"I know you believe you understand
what you think I said
but I'm not sure you realize
that what you just read
is not what I mean."
See? Now it all makes sense
doesn't it?
Still, I have another question:
How will I know the interpreter
has figured out what God really means,
if God himself doesn't seem to know?
By the monetary value
of his divine blessings?
By my health and happiness?
Well, by what?
Who Cares?
(re-touched when the war against Iraq began - March, 2003)
How much pain,
How much suffering
How many deaths
will we continue to accept
(in the name of corporate greed)
before we develop the courage
before we realize our power
before we say “Enough!”
and change the course
of our history?
What’s too horrible to contemplate?
The alternative.
And what would that be?
How about sharing
all of earth's resources?
How about acceptance:
me of you,
you of me?
How about respect and honor
for one-another?
Is there some great ancient law
that forbids us from loving one another?
Surely
if we get the guidelines right
the details will take care of themselves!
“Some are guilty -
all are responsible.”
(Abraham Joshua Heschel)
Before All Ends
I see those who rape the earth,
and rob the sea of its life;
who hunger to condemn the innocent
and lust to enslave the weak,
unmindful even of the dying.
While the over-abused world
hovers on the brink of death,
but before all ends in darkness
I stand at the edge of the sea
and beseech Gaia, the Earth Mother
to remember the day in eons past
she brought life to the planet.
To Gaia, goddess of earth
giver of life.
Two Storms
I hear the wild ocean pounding
upon a very ancient shore,
its waves crashing and thundering
shaking rocks and rattling stones,
dragging the earth back into itself:
I hear the thunder as lightning
whips unruly clouds wildly driven
by swirling winds.
Yet, upon that shore I can stand
Alone, naked and unafraid – touch
that wild ocean's back with fingertips,
'til it lays purring at my feet,
caressing the shore gently;
'til the sun comes out,
‘til the clouds turn white,
‘til the breeze whispers softly through my hair.
In that storm, there is great strength:
A movement of shaping, creation in toil,
majestic, wondrous changes being wrought.
Did it destroy? No, only a creative spasm,
Birth pang of mother earth, evolution,
A way of continuance, endless change:
Not power, nor death, but eternal life –
in eternal motion!
Daily I witness another storm
Full of brute power, savagery, unstoppable:
imprinting deepening scars upon the earth,
fueled by wild unreason and demented minds,
darkened by lure of greed, by lust, by ego gone mad.
I try to tame this one with love also
but it lunges madly at my extended empty hands,
attacks, tears and leaves me to die
among its legacy of dread and death,
to rot amidst shards, shreds, shatterings
of expiring life it sends flowing
down a polluted river Styx:
The power storm whose epicenter
holds so deathly still, so confident
in every boardroom of every land.
Love
Who has experienced love
as a dance in the morning sun?
Who has realized
that love is never found
cringing in doubt;
clinging to old fears
or crying in loss and abandonment?
Who knows how love reveals
its depth and warmth,
its wisdom and life?
Who are those who,
in good times or bad
have offered her their hand
and walked her uncharted paths
with an open heart
filled with understanding?
Wistful
Wistful golden waters
flow, twist and wind
deliberately westward:
an inviting amber path
to the setting summer sun
where skies burn crimson
and lovers make promises
they cannot hope to keep;
where my soul is drawn
by earth's magnetic pulse
as a shaft of light pierces
burning scarlet clouds.
Wind Dancer
I saw her dance in autumn leaves
of misty vales;
I saw her run with wild horses
over wind-swept plains
passing through
her fading untamed world.
I don't know why I saw her
as I was following the trail
of other hungry, greedy men
stripping her land of riches
long dead in the madness
called trading centres.
Perhaps it was just
a sudden warming breath
of the Chinook wind
which brought me a fragment
of her song from the wilds
causing me to stop and listen:
"Your soul will never be content
with riches sought from greed:
they bring but pain and misery
true riches are found only here--
in a garden planted with dreams
watered in celestial love..."
The sound of her voice,
the measure of her words
will haunt me forever,
the wandering poet
no longer able to believe
the world's version of riches.