There is a balm that soothes the troubled mind,
a cool blanket of fog that brings relief
anesthetizing what pain it can find;
a warm embrace that you can hide beneath.

It liberates the ear from hurtful noise,
dulls the sense of touch and blurs tired eyes -
slowing the walk and lightening the voice
so your words escape slowly, in small sighs.

And each inch of skin and bone is mellow,
relaxed, as if soaked in an ether bath,
tensions dissipated in a cool haze.

In this state, your mind is soft, like jello;
each creeping moment is cause for a laugh -
nothing much gets done on one of these days.

27 DEC 2002

On such a tenuous and fragile thread,
the tender stuff with which mad dreams are sewn,
are woven all the notions of the head;
their pattern held by faith and will alone.

Each gentle tendril attached by a whim
and balanced with the slightest sense of touch,
upon a silver string so pale and slim,
'tis more a wisp of nothing - nothing much.

Yet with these flimsy strands the world is made,
and fastened surely to the breath of life,
connected to the source of each new day;

and in the folds are found both light and shade,
in equal parts are hidden joy and strife -
the gossamer thin fabric of today.

26 DEC 2002

In the early hours of morning, the dawn
barely come upon the still sleeping world,
there is a quiet peace that lays upon
the earth; and before its axis has hurled

the sleeping planet into warm sunlight,
when the last remnants of night still linger,
its cold darkened grip of frost grasping tight
(you can see the mark left by its fingers)

before even the first sparrows arise
to greet the new day with their voices in song,
the balance of things shows itself to me.

Filled yet with sleep, I look with tired eyes
and see each thing in its place; I belong
in this space, and I can hear harmony.

25 DEC 2002

Sunday, about two in the afternoon, I was walking out of the bedroom after assisting Star with some of the Yule dinner preparations, and I was struck with a strange pain from the middle of my lower back to just above my knees. It was as if my spine and hips had been put in traction - I was unable to bend, turn at the waist, or stand completely upright. I was in severe pain whenever I tried to sit in a chair (and even moreso in the fifteen minutes it took me to get OUT of a chair. I convinced Star that I didn't need to go to the hospital, and told her to go on and do the shopping/visiting/present deliveries she needed to do. While she was gone, I proceeded to cook the Yule feast, interrupted by watching TV and being in and out of pain. As the evening progressed, the immobilization got progressively worse - I was having to walk up and down the porch steps sideways, one hand on the wall, and finally I decided to lay down. After the first attempt to get out of bed later that took me twenty minutes, things got progressively worse. Still, I assumed that the situation would improve if I just relaxed, took some aspirin and slept. To no avail. So yesterday we went to the emergency room, me still in pain, and after waiting 4-1/2 hours there were told it was a muscle spasm. They gave me a pain-killer shot and prescriptions for painkillers and muscle relaxers. Things have definitely improved - where the pain was about the size of two basketballs it is now about the size of a softball after the meds kick in.

If I lay still, and try not to breathe deep,
let go of any thought of jig dancing
and do not dwell on bending at the waist,
the situation is not all that bad.

But a lingering fear plays fast and loose
with my calmness, jacks up my blood pressure
and tends to greatly exacerbate things:
like a recurring dream of Osiris,

laid stiff and motionless in his coffin,
I see myself immobile, able to speak
only with the subtle shift of my eyes.

And that limited vocabulary
cannot express the soft Music I hear
in each frozen moment of longing dance.

24 DEC 2002

Even when I was living there, entrenched
in the bustle of its chaotic skirts,
finding not much hope - mostly evidence
that the entire world had gone mad, or worse -

the west coast seemed a little bit surreal;
And the dreams I held so tight as a child
never seemed to once gel or congeal
there. Like a desert, it was strange and wild.

Now, the prospect of a long visit out there
fills my soul with vexing trepidation;
I am not of that place now - I have grown.

And the things from my youth I used to care
about - old friends and past situations?
From that arid clime, my heart has long flown.

22 DEC 2002

Sometimes it seems that the brittle clay
vessel used to carry the clear water
from inspiration's well is so fragile,
flawed and useless, such an ill-suited thing;
the priceless, sacred fluid it transports
accents each error, highlights weaknesses
that the shadows hide; in its clarified
light, such a carrier seems unworthy.

Such is the poet - from strands of nothing
weaving a tenuous basket of thought
to hold the spirit of the universe;
and once the spark of creation is freed,
they return, bitter and worn, to plain lives,
that seem so uninspiring and normal.

Sometimes it seems that the poet should
be able to fashion the world they see
(in flashing dreams and moments of vision)
from their own lulling, ordinary life,
and at times, when the morning light is good,
to wake and find the universe alive,
vibrant to the touch, pulsing with meaning
in every small flicker of dawn breeze.

For me, that does happen now and again.
But more regularly, it takes a lot
of looking to see what is really there,
of seeking beyond old and broken pots,
where the language of whole universe
hides. And there I find a poem, sometimes.
Most of the time, however, it finds me;
and I try to not spill too much of it.

21 DEC 2002

To see a world in a grain of sand And a heaven in a wild flower, Hold infinity in the palm of your hand And eternity in an hour -- William Blake, Auguries of Innocence

I sing a song for the day that is,
that is, the day today;
although the hours and minutes fly
and quickly slip away,

approaching and departing with
the constant speed of now,
the day that is remains, it stays
always right here, somehow.

I sing a song for the world that is,
that is, the world right here;
although the tides and times roll in
and out, I have no fear.

There is no other place for me,
no farther shore I seek -
for this world is a part of me
and I can hear it speak.

I sing a song for the ones I love
who live their lives with mine,
and through their constant and true natures
grow, like root and vine

to fill the world with hope and grace
and my heart with their song,
and give to me the greatest gift -
the chance to sing along.

I sing a song for the day that is,
that is, the day today;
and all my thoughts of past and future
start to pass away.

For I have seen eternity
in just a moment's span,
and held the entire universe
inside a grateful hand.

21 DEC 2002

As the days wane short to midwinter's night
and the Holly King, crowned at Samhain, rules
a darkened world in shadows without light,
the cold earth hibernates, waiting for Yule.

In the deep fetid sleep of seeming death
the spirit of the land is gray and slow;
and the Holly King, with his every breath
hides root and leaf, the living world, with snow.

His reign is filled with sorrow, lost in dreams,
as through the bitter, stagnant months he reigns;
There is no joy within his heart, it seems,
as mists and fog shut out what light remains.

Yet in these bleak and desolate, dark days
the child of Oak is born, whose time is come;
He is the future prince, whose sunlit ways
will strike a blow to turn the old king dumb.

There in the fires of Yule, his eye is bright,
and 'gainst the Holly King he sets his lance;
the wizened old dark lord attempts to fight,
but soon must yield to Oak and summer's dance.

Upon the field of snow, they raise their arms -
the fledging Oak Prince and the aging King;
and with a blow that strikes a deadly harm,
the younger seeks the crown, and wins the thing.

He mourns the elder's death; then offers song
to waken the still sleeping, darkened world.
And with his voice, that grows and soon is strong,
the seed and root rejoice, and are unfurled.

The light of life now shines; the world awakes
and shakes the winter's slumber from its eyes.
The throne the mighty Oak King then retakes
and sends his song to earth, and sea and skies.

20 DEC 2002

The eve of the Yule holidays, the winter solstice, and a full moon tonight to boot (the Oak moon, if you gather that type of information). This evening I am thinking about the presence and absence of light in the world. Perhaps that's an appropriate train of thought for this time of year, when the first day of winter implies the rebirth of the sun in the darkest and shortest days. The seeds of summer are germinated here in the shadow half of the year, and the Holly King holds sway. The great Earth Mother births the sun-child and the world rejoices. It is a time of new beginnings, a time of great thankfulness and a time for understanding the cycle of life and death, of birth and rebirth. For so many, the import of this time has been over-arched by commercialism, by stolen and usurped religious traditions, by plastic smiles and forced gift giving. I try not to wax cynical at this time of year. But it is difficult at times. As Camus once wrote, no matter what we think, the sun still warms our bones. And so I like to dwell on the promise that is winter - that the cold, dark and windy storm-filled times are necessary, that the batteries of the world are recharged so that in the spring, there is water for new growth, and the fallow land has been rested and is ready for germination.

As the earth cools, its prime axis slanted
away from the sun for its winter turn,
as the hearth fires are stoked and brightly burn,
the seeds of the coming year are planted.

This dark season teaches us of balance;
it is the time for the silver moon,
the hour of midnight that negates the noon
and in reflected glow gives us challenge:

to build in darkness new sources for light,
that feed not on angry, bitter fuel
but burn away our misery and doubt.

In this time of joy, we celebrate the night
that holds the day like a rare, precious jewel
and will, each new year at spring, let it out.

19 DEC 2002

As a preface, I would like to say that my family has fought in every conflict this country has ever engaged in, from the French-and-Indian War to the Operation Desert Storm. We are among the Daughters of the American Revolution, an ancestor of mine was married to General McClellan (Civil War), a cousin was a Brigadier General in charge of Marine forces in Korea. The Revolutionary War, War of 1812, Civil War, Spanish-American War, World War I, World War II, Korea, Vietnam ... I am the descendant of a long line of pro-Americans. Both sides of my family came to this country seeking opportunity, equality and freedom. Some to escape the feudal hierarchy (from Germany in 1741), some to find relief from starvation (from Ireland in 1886), some for religious freedom (from Switzerland in 1891). This is MY country, in other words. And some of the things that we are doing, as a nation, right now, piss me off.

Like THIS (thanks to for the link): Mass Arrests of Muslims in LA

Can you say "Japanese Internment Camps"? Can you say "Indian Reservations"? Can you say "McCarthyism"? I thought you could. FUCK our perceived "manifest destiny". We are a STUPID people, sometimes not worthy of our concept.

"Keep ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries she
with silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,
Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,
The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.
Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,
I lift my lamp beside the golden door!"
-- from The New Colossus (Emma Lazarus [1849-1887])

That sad September in Two Thousand One
when from our eyes a veil of sleep was torn,
we in this land of truth and freedom born
were drawn to battle; now, it seems they've won.

For that day gave free reign the iron fist
that slumbered in the dark rooms of this land;
and in protection's name, this evil planned
to blur the code by which this place exists.

We cannot be a true and equal shore
at which the huddled masses seek succor
if upon liberty we close the door;

If we discriminate because of faith,
or ask of others what we will not do,
we are them; America is no more.

19 DEC 2002

The walls may rot, collapse, be crushed or fall,
but new dimensions are formed at each fold;
while these temporal illusions may pall,
our grasp will always far exceed our hold.

Brick and bone and flesh may turn to dust,
but from such chaff arises life anew;
the oxidizing properties of rust
serve to remind us payment must come due.

But is that molecule of payment lost?
Or does it simply seek another form?
Why mourn a thing that truly never dies,

but trusting evolution, pays the cost?
A tree that burns to ash, to keep us warm,
transfers energy to another guise.

19 DEC 2002

In the shadow realm of the practical,
a foolish notion often seems so grand:
and every errant knight that takes a stand
against the wind, not so intractable

that their quest for simple truth comes to nil,
believes in the reconciliation
of opposites, in true revelation
that results from trusting your own free will.

In the bright lit realm of dreams, however,
these impetuous jousts become holy,
and the poor fool's armor, a fiery shield;

There, battle is not won by the clever,
but by the soul whose purpose is wholly
alive, and despite all, will not yield.

OK, so perhaps its a bit morbid. But reading the poem "from the deceased" in the funeral program this afternoon made me think that it would be better to write it down beforehand, so that nobody else would usurp my general frame of mind and use it to their own evangelical purposes. Of course, I don't think that's likely to happen. I trust my loved ones and friends better than that. And it's NOT gonna happen any time soon, but when it does, this is what I'd like to say. Oh, and while we're at it, the Music should be Pink Floyd - "The Great Gig in the Sky". But enough dwelling on that. There's a lot of living left to do, for all of us here.

It reminds me of reading Edgar Lee Masters' Spoon River Anthology, a book that was required in high school English (and one of the few reading assignments that left a profound impact upon my brooding, morbid teenage angst-ridden mind).

There's nothing in this life that I despair
of doing, or look back and wish to do,
save laugh once more in mirth, or perhaps share
with those I love one more sunrise or two.

The earth has been a friend for many years,
and shared with me its bounty and great joy;
I've had the best of two or three careers
and been immersed in Music since a boy.

With what I've had, I truly have been blessed;
I've traveled long with true love and friends, who
have helped me be a man, a friend, a fool.

And now, this incarnation takes its rest,
another turn upon the wheel is due;
until then, to the earth, give back this fuel.

... so now, after seven years of bad luck -
after that sudden crippling twist of fate,
when all the shit he threw just turned to muck,
just when you thought things weren't going so great

in a second or two it is resolved,
and most certainly life will change from this point;
after all this time, sins have been absolved -
so sit back, relax and smoke a big joint.

think about the broken mirror you used
to see yourself in (his accusing, stoned eyes),
and cast it, like that wreath, in the fresh dirt.

think hard about the power he abused,
and your struggle to live on, to survive;
cry a little, then laugh, free - it won't hurt ...

18 DEC 2002

To live is the rarest thing in the world. Most people exist, that is all. - Oscar Wilde

Under the subcutaneous layer,
like the plasma-filled pulsing artery,
its subtle rhythm barely visible
to the non-discriminating viewer

life flows, filling the space between moments
in steady, subconscious affirmation
of possibility and cosmic change.
So few notice its subtle beckoning.

Most, recognizing only the echo,
their reactions delayed, must dance off-beat
to an unheard Music, not at all sure
that the choreography even fits.
Only a rare few dare to change the steps
to follow the rhythm in their own veins.

17 DEC 2002

The search for intelligent life on earth,
for purpose and meaning behind the veils,
to find out what each hour of breath is worth,
and learn something from each of my travails,

To want what I have, not have what I choose -
the quest that keeps leading me in and on,
it is an addiction, a thirst for truth
that leaves me randomly fool, king and pawn.

A preoccupation, that finds me thrust
out into the whole world, ever seeking
an answer, or perhaps, some new questions.

It has filled my lifespan, from dust to dust,
the soft sound of the universe speaking,
and seeing in it my own reflection.

17 DEC 2002

There are some who write endless streams of words,
describing the minutiae with detail
that just boggles the imagination;
and every so often, epiphanies

result, for me, just from reading the stuff.
But the writer shows no visible sign
of having grown or changed from the event -
as if it hadn't happened in their life.

Then there are others, who in one small word
show signs of positive evolution,
and actually learn from their experience.

It takes both kinds to make a world, I guess;
but if own your life does not involve you,
what is the point of writing it all down?

This is journal entry based on a prompt from Random Acts of Journaling.

The Doors of Perception

There is a door of aged and splintered oak,
its paint is faded, old and worn by rain;
the battered lock still grips, but shows the signs
of many a crowbar tried against it.

It stands against the elements and time,
a portal to a sacred, hidden place -
and there beyond its green and peeling frame
exists a world unseen from the outside.

Upon its surface, many carve their names
or failing entry, simply scratch a sign;
For though it seems a frail and rotted shell,
its core is solid wood too strong to force.

The key? A test of mettle and of will,
a silver shard cut from the seeker's heart;
To find it is to sacrifice one's hold
on old perceptions of reality.

There is a door of aged and splintered oak,
its paint is faded, old and worn by time;
and those who dare to open it may find
a place to live, a room to call their own.

16 DEC 2002

Out of the clear blue, a telephone call
sent my mind wandering off in free fall;
an old friend, from high school, a long time gone,
whose voice I had oft reflected upon

got my number, it seems; called to say hi,
and connect with old mem'ries and things gone by.
It was strange, and my words awkward and spare,
for it seemed like another world from there.

I'd like to imagine there is some link -
that we could meet for lunch and just one drink,
but the universe shifts, and moves its pawns
in diff'rent directions to sing new songs.

When the sep'rate pieces then meet by chance,
There's not much to do, save falter and dance.

16 DEC 2002

Just thinking of nothing, and all that leaves
between the empty spaces of being;
for it is the nothing that one believes
that oft separates knowing from seeing.

And in that great nothing exist all things,
the small and the mighty are found there;
For each ripple leaves behind fading rings
As it finds its way back to the nowhere.

There in the great void, where the world is made
and finds its definition in the space
through the sound of its soft echo in time,
I find things in sunlight formed by shade

and the endless spirit of each filled place
etched softly in an absence most sublime.

16 DEC 2002

or why that stupid song gets stuck in your head...a very interesting bit of new research from Dartmouth College: Music, Memory and the Brain

In other news, we have a wonderful little (5-1/2') Scotch Pine tree now nestled in the corner of the living room. It is filling the house with its piney good scent, and tomorrow will be festively decorated for the impeding Yule celebration. In addition, many wonderful gifties were purchased at Barnes & Noble, including a reprint of the 1865 first edition of Walt Whitman's "Leaves of Grass" ... which unfortunately, I have to wait a week to peruse. Digital pictures, I am sure, will be forthcoming either here or in Starlight Dances' journal.

a mall haiku

bustling crowded mall
filled with last minute shoppers:
retail paradise

milling, frantic souls
accumulate more receipts
and shopping bags

is it insanity
that drives them here to visit
these over-priced stores?

why did we come here?
we should have purchased stuff on-line,
and had it gift-wrapped.

in the parking lot
it is easier to breathe;
finally finished.

15 DEC 2002

Heru Horus, Heru Horus
Welcome Isis' Child of Light
Heru Horus, Heru Horus
Born into dark winter's night
Welcome Horus, Heru Heru
Celebrate the sun's rebirth
Heru Horus, Heru Horus
Born to give light to the earth

Our across the street neighbor has erected his gaudy display of ever-blinking lights - to the dismay of all those whose significant others are epileptics. He is quite proud of his achievement, and says he just isn't filled with the spirit of the season without this external manifestation and its subsequent drain upon his wallet thanks to the spike in the electric bill.

In other news, we are out shopping for a Norford Pine today to fill the lonesome corner of the house and fill it with aromatic goodness. Ah, so the decorations slough off their mothballs and rejoice for a season of dust-free interaction :) Lydia, the ever-vigilant tape, photo and shiny object hunting cat, will be quite pleased with the increase in her potential prey. Our Yuletime shopping is almost complete, believe it or not. With a mere six days of shopping remaining :)

a haiku

Cough sneeze sniffle cough
Must bad colds always mar the
holiday season?

In other other news, we are mere weeks away from a long distance voyage to Kalifornica. There is much trepidation in the Dances household about meeting with the relatives (mine) and spending a week in a foreign country. As we are New Orleanians, we have our cross-cultural visas in order, but there is much worry about how to co-exist peacefully with these "Othercoasters". It will be interesting, at the very least; I hope, enjoyable.

a blues sonnet

Oh, how the winter wind does howl and moan
The winter wind, I hear it howl and moan
And turn the warm sunshine as cold as stone

The morning sky is clouded up with rain
Covered over with clouds all full of rain
And any hope for sunshine is in vain

Oh, feel the chill, it creeps along your spine
A bitter chill that crawls into your spine
That makes you miss the warmth of the sunshine

The world outside is gray and filled with frost
Yes, turned to somber hues of gray and frost
And memory of the summer sun is lost

Oh, to be where the weather suits my clothes
and feel the sun beat down upon my nose.

14 DEC 2002

I

As winter extends its grip on the land,
clutching with long alabaster fingers
and leaving remnants of a leprous hand
where its frigid probing touch still lingers,

deep in the cold soil, where the dormant root,
its life spark quiet but not void of light,
bides its time, holding back a probing shoot
while the surface world shimmers deathly white,

the soul of Osiris breathes deep and slow,
with soft gentle rhythm - a murmured sigh.
As the ice slowly thickens, and winds bring

sheets of freezing rain and flurries of snow,
it lazily twitches a sleep-closed eye
and dreams of its birth in the coming spring.

II

The parched land cries against this time of drought
like an old man beset by dusty dreams,
who finds his virile youth faded in doubt
and his best suit frayed at the seams.

In the dark months of weak and distant sun,
an ancient mist lies heavy on the earth -
unloosing thoughts that plague the mind, and shun
the knowledge of the coming spring rebirth.

The voice of Osiris speaks through dreams then,
to reassure the world it will awake,
and whisper secret words of life and power;

Like a sure promise of dawn coming when
the dank tendrils of night loosen and break,
he announces the coming of his hour.

III

Like a silver bullet against the night,
its potent magic cast in powdered mist
as the autumn warmth slips away in flight
and leaves only the memory of her kiss,

deep in the bowels of the hard frozen earth
where each buried fragment denies the whole
and hides itself from sunlight's glowing mirth
seeking only the dark shade of the soul

the cold seed of Osiris is brought alive
by the earth mother's fervent, warm embrace
and grows into new life in her womb's void.

Now from that union the son will survive,
and in the heart of winter show his face;
the sacrifice shall not be destroyed.

13 DEC 2002

A couple of days ago, someone on my friends list posted an article about our current president that suggested that his "simple country boy" schtick was an act, that he was not a witless rube, but something a bit more sinister. This idea has rolled around in my head since then, and resulted in this poem. Be warned ... if you do not appreciate political satire, proceed no further. Also, if you represent any type of government agency that seeks to limit free speech that certainly is not threatening anyone (except by challenging them to think about a couple of things), please be informed in advance that I support our government and its leaders, and wish them no harm of any kind. That being said ...

They call King George a simple man, one prone to verbal gaffe,
and when he trips upon his words, his sworn opponents laugh.
In all the papers of the day, his speeches are displayed;
the pundits pounce and quick, renounce the mistakes he has made.

A checkered past, our sovereign's life, one filled with up and down,
but those would be the fools who think there's nothing 'neath the crown;
For in his head, there is a plan, a grand "strategerie",
That fills his life with hopes and dreams - the world he'd like to see

It shows when he speaks eloquent on ground attacks and war;
his stammer only shows itself when he speaks of the poor,
or when he makes a statement on the rights of common man -
'tis then he stumbles on his words, and seems to pale and wan.

He has no trouble giving thanks for privilege of the strong,
but when asked to define a course, is when his words flow wrong.
Upon the grim and bloody battle, he can wax sublime;
but let him voice his thoughts on peace - he falters, every time.

His motto, surely, must be this: I am, therefore I rule;
To underestimate this portent, one would be a fool.
A vain pretender to the throne built by his father's trust,
he leads his great republic down a path that ends in dust.

They call King George a dull buffoon, and think his mind a blank;
but think of it as focused, like the gun end of a tank.
His madness has its purpose, for it misleads those who hear -
and do not see the dark and sinister in his career.

And so it is with leaders with whom subjects are well pleased;
they pull the wool over our eyes, and bring us to our knees -
while citing our security and freedom as their goal,
they seek to weaken our resolve to save a nation's soul.

In nineteen twenty seven, there was such a valued king
Who gave his subjects hope, and pride, and promised them this thing:
That none would laugh or ridicule them, or stand in their way;
The price for them was higher than they had the strength to pay.

The leader of the thinking world, he claimed their land to be,
and so invaded Poland, France and joined with Italy
to spread their message 'round the world, to build a Fatherland;
instead, they left a legacy too weak to even stand.

But George, they say, is different - he truly wants the best;
Despite his dark proclivities when hard put to the test,
he seeks to unify the world, not with great bombs and guns,
but for the benefit of mankind's daughters and its sons.

They call King George a witless cretin, but I think they lie;
I only hope that I can be disproved ere by and by.
For in this brave new world, we do not need another king -
And only by seeking the truth, can we avoid the thing.

12 DEC 2002

A Twelve Step Program for Decreasing Spiritual Density

Note: probably the hardest part of this journey is the point at which you realize there is no Big Book. Once you have reached that epiphany, you can start working the Steps.

Step One

We admitted that we had total and full responsibility for our thoughts, actions and lives, whether we perceived them as good, bad or indifferent.

Step Two

We ceased to believe that a third party, seen or unseen, could be blamed for our situation, or could restore us to sanity.

Step Three

We made a decision to seek a balance with the divine energies that exist in all life, as we understand them, accepting and cherishing the both male and female nature of these energies, and at the same time, recognizing that each individual's perception of the divine is unique to themselves.

Step Four

We made a searching and fearless inventory of our fears, social conditioning, religious/mythological worldview and educational limitations, identifying those areas of our thinking that did not accurately reflect reality, as we understood it.

Step Five

We admitted to ourselves and to another living creature the exact nature of our interdependence and co-creative responsibilities, as fully functioning egalitarian participants in the Universe.

Step Six

We became entirely ready to seek a balance between the "light" and "dark", realizing that duality is a function of perception.

Step Seven

We humbly accepted our shortcomings and sought to overcome them, and in doing so, came to an understanding, acceptance and appreciation of the shortcomings of others.

Step Eight

We made a list of all persons we had harmed and accepted full responsibility in this life and the next for the consequences of our harmful actions.

Step Nine

We made direct amends to those we had harmed who would accept those amends, except when to do so would interfere with operation of another's will, and accepted the loss in our lives of those who would not either accept amends, or make them to us.

Step Ten

We continued to consciously examine our motives for thought and action, and to seek positive change in ourselves through the application of internally embraced ethics, rather than externally imposed morality.

Step Eleven

We sought through personal and meaningful ritual, meditation and communion with nature to improve our conscious awareness of the Life Force inhabiting all things, seeking to realign ourselves with the Universal Current and resolving to Know, to Will, to Dare and to Keep Silent.

Step Twelve

Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these steps, we shared our path with others when those paths coincided with our own, but realized that each must find their own way, their own path, and did not attempt to convince anyone of the suitability of our own path for any but ourselves.

Although this page is intended as a parody, it may also be taken seriously. Results in the program, however, will vary depending on how seriously you take yourself.

Ah, to be Ezra Pound for a day; to compose an intensely complex and almost unintelligible series of poems fueled by an unwavering desire to be misunderstood, misinterpreted and misled.

Ah, for the Cantos, those bright shining things,
that late in my life, subtle madness may bring,
so I may excuse any ill-thought out words
and spend my late afternoons feeding the birds.
To fund an asylum, and check myself in
and thereby escape the world's deafening din
I shall write until blinded by weak light and gin
and collect random royalties, raking it in.

To defraud all the poseurs, shall be my great feat,
and while they sit watching, their theses I'll eat
with a helping of hand-me-down bastardized verse,
or maybe their own poems, which would be worse.
I'll call myself Ezra, though not of that name
and herald the coming of poets of fame
whilst threading new words on the needle of time
and once in a great while, I may even rhyme.

A poet, a prophet, a seer of truth,
That often when dining requests their own booth,
and sups on the bitter, bold fruit of the vine
while reading reviews on this project of mine:
The rebirth of Poetry, strange and unheard
That strangles definitives with the absurd
and coughs forth, like hairballs, the torrent of words
from some unseen spring, and then retails the merde.

Of course, it's just nonsense, as you and I know -
but never the prize went to simple and slow;
For art is a servant, and works for a price
(and as Dali proved, it oft can be sold twice).
So off to the writing desk, raven in hand,
I shall shuffle to sit, for no more I can stand;
And dear friends, remember, it could be much worse -
for the muses have landed and are parched with thirst.

A drink to the poet, although there's no ale,
and hats off to Ezra, whose verse never pales;
For workers in prosody, un-sung or -cheered
Who struggle with meter, whose minds never clear
But seek for the vision inside of us all
And reach ever onward, and oft trip and fall;
Their hands on the empty space, eyes on the goal -
The illumination of mystery's soul.

12 DEC 2002

When I was in Switzerland in 1994, I attended a number of lectures (it was learning abroad thingie through Ohio State University). One of those lectures was from the second in command of the Swiss Army, who said something very interesting. He said that women in the Swiss military could attain any rank that a man could, that all non-combat positions were not determined based on the sex of the applicant. However, women were NOT permitted to participate in combat. Not because the women were not capable, determined, qualified or willing to participate. But because they found that the men in combat were psychologically unable, by and large, to withstand the thought of a woman under torture, or in harm's way. They restricted women's activities in combat solely on that basis - that their male soldiers could not be relied upon to withstand the pressures of combat if they were concerned about the well-being and safety of their female counterparts.

BTW, women in Switzerland got the right to vote in 1974. Women in America got the vote in 1929. And today, the place of women in society in both countries is very similar.

Any thoughts on this from anyone?

I just watched a special on PBS that featured a lot of old folk singers from the late 50's and 60's, and I was struck by a very peculiar notion. That notion started to bubble through my brain a trickle at a time, and finally, when Barry McGuire came on and sang "Eve of Destruction" it found its way to the surface. What I started wondering was this: it has been said that we as a society have changed our focus over the last fifty years, and that focus shift is mirrored in the names of major trade magazines that are widely read. In the fifties, there was "Look". In the sixties, "Life". In the seventies, "People". In the eighties, "Us". In the nineties, "Self".

As Barry McGuire sang the words to his poignant, troubling and magnificent anti-war, anti-apathy, anti-hate anthem, I looked as the camera swept around the auditorium, and I saw a lot of people, now aging and respectable, singing along. And I wondered ... how many of them voted Republican in this last election? How many send their children to private schools? How many look back at their troubled youth and say, "Well, it was just a phase we were going through. We had to grow up, you know."

I realize that in actual numbers, the percentage of the American public that opposed the war in Vietnam, at least publicly, was a miniscule number. Granted, they were a very vocal, colorful, and persistent minority, but they were definitely a minority. This country has not been about the underdog, the underprivileged, the dignity of mankind, or representation prior to taxation for a LONG time. This country is about the status quo. It is about comfort. It is about a place where revolution is against the law.

Where have all the flowers gone? Is it true, as Dennis Hopper quipped in the movie Flashback, that the nineties were gonna make the sixties look like the fifties?

You don't need a Weatherman to know which way the wind blows. That sentiment is just as true now as it was in 1965.

When Stevie Wonder, at the Bob Dylan tribute concert a few years back, came out to do "Blowin' in the Wind", he said that the most troubling thing about the song was that it was still necessary to sing it. That people apparently didn't get the message.

I felt the same way tonight watching Barry McGuire. And you could tell by watching him sing that he was asking some of the same questions. When will they ever learn? How can you not believe we're on the eve of destruction? Does anybody really know what time it is? Does anybody REALLY care?

I still think, occasionally, that Musicians, poets, artists, writers, etc. serve society as its conscience. But does anyone REALLY listen to that conscience? Can the songs that I write make a difference, when a song has to be POPULAR to even get airplay in this country anymore?

Abbie Hoffman is burnt out. Lenny Bruce is dead. Timothy Leary, too. And so many others. Who is picking up the torch, and more importantly, who thinks that light is necessary, when you can flip on a switch and see "revival" and "reunion" and "comeback" tours of people who somehow, in a freak stroke of luck, by chance, convinced some other people, oh, so many years ago, that it was worth any price to give a damn?

Or has modern convenience progressed so far that the milk of human kindness, the bonds of brotherhood, are now available in a water-soluble form, easily washed off when you want to conceal the fact that you went to the meeting last night and had your hand stamped?

Eve of Destruction by P. F. Sloan

The Eastern world, it is explodin',
Violence flarin', bullets loadin'.
You're old enough to kill, but not for votin',
You don't believe in war -- but what's that gun you're totin'?
An' even the Jordan river has bodies floatin'.
But you tell me, over and over and over again, my friend,
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

Don't you understand what I'm tryin' to say,
An' can't you feel the fears I'm feelin' today?
If the button is pushed, there's no runnin' away,
There'll be no one to save, will the world in a grave.
Take a look around you, boy, it's bound to scare you, boy.
An' you tell me, over and over and over again, my friend,
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

Yeah, my blood's so mad feels like coagulatin',
I'm sittin' here just contemplatin'.
I can't twist the truth, it knows no regulation,
Handful of senators don't pass legislation,
An' marches alone can't bring integration
When human respect is disintegratin',
This whole crazy world is just too frustratin'.
An' you tell me, over and over and over again, my friend,
Ah, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

Think of all the hate there is in Red China,
Then take a look around to Selma, Alabama.
Ah, you may leave here for four days in space,
But when you return it's the same ol' place,
The poundin' of the drums, the pride an' disgrace.
You can bury your dead, but don't leave a trace.
Hate your next-door neighbor, but don't forget to say grace,
An' tell me, over and over and over again, my friend,
You don't believe we're on the eve of destruction,
No, no, you don't believe we're on the eve of destruction.

How Much More Time? -- John Litzenberg, 1985

Time? How much more time?
Til we reach the point of no return
Must history's sad lessons be re-learned?

War? What good is war?
When you reach the point of no return
And you can't go back, because the only bridge
You had is burned?

Love, where is the love?
Have we come along so fast, so far
Have we forgotten who our friends and neighbors are?

You can call on your gods, feast and pray
That you can live to fight another day
And kill because your god says its OK.

Run, nowhere to run
When two opposing worlds collide
There is no where that you can hide your face

Cry, just sit and cry
For all your kings, police, and czars
Have signed away the humans and their race.
So send out your bombs and boys to the fray
Till the world is only a nuclear haze
And life on earth is a long forgotten phase.

What rough beast...slouches towards Bethlehem, waiting to be born? - W.B. Yeats, from The Second Coming

There is a piece of writing sitting inside me now, fermenting and growing.

I am pregnant with it - it fills me, making it difficult to walk sometimes; it makes my bones ache and has affected my body chemistry.

It wakes me in the dead of the night, pressing against my side like a spear or a set of unseen fingers.

It wants to come out, it says, kicking against my diaphragm with no small level of impatience. Why are you keeping me in here, in this dark and fetid underworld?

My stomach is often in knots, thanks to its incessant yammering and its proclivity to loose bile from its being into my system. Sometimes, I feel as if I get flashes of what it will look like - like an ultrasound scan, some of these daily poems give fitful glimpses of what is to be. Sometimes, there is too much movement to make out its morphology clearly, and other times, when the camera is poised just right, there is almost a view of its future state.

Figuring out whether it is to be a poem, a song, a symphony, a novel, a play, a musical; and trying to do it in advance, so as to prepare for the accessorizing that will be required, seems very much like deciding beforehand, in advance of any real knowledge of their gifts and inclinations, what career an unborn child will be geared towards in its first years of schooling.

Truly, all that I can do at this point is paint the nursery, swab down the walls in some neutral color that will not offend, limit or otherwise predispose the young thing once it has been finally birthed. For now, I can but traipse around the edges.

You may ask, when is it due?

To which all I can truthfully answer is this: I do not know; but it feels as if the pressure is building. It is about to drop into position for delivery. I fear the labor pangs already, with a mixture of dread and anticipation. It will occupy my thoughts until it is safely in its cradle.

Somewhat of a work in progress, that is based on a idea I had a few weeks ago when I dreamed up the title.

For Milton and Dante

Quotes from odd and esoteric pamphlets,
a sarcastic quip on theology,
blurred random notes from the wild underground,
scattered reference to deep philosophy -
my poetic idols throw devices
such as these, seeming oh so non-chalant,
off the ink-stained cuff, in the dry vacuum
of intellectual thought, to impress
each other and the rare occasional
reader, whose grand erudite ambitions
can be manipulated into praise
for completely meaningless poppycock.

Oh, with what symbols did these legends form
and secure their own place in language's myth!

To prove mastery of a classic form,
curbing an ancient tongue with strange meter,
they will offer lavish experiments
in mixed metaphor and masked allusion,
citing the elders of their profession
(now too far advanced in their hoary graves
to refute proud, false interpretations)
who, they wisely claim, were guilty likewise
of some deliberate obfuscation
designed to wean the more clever reader
from the weak, average pulp-bound dullard,
and thus clearly demarcate those worthy
to even discuss the best Poetry.

Oh, with what patterns do the great ones weave
and defend their own skill with written words!

Perhaps that means I am a fool, or worse,
that my own mad delusions are fickle;
for in this dark chasm, this sad vortex
I have often found myself set adrift.
But I have no bulwark, no set anchor,
or touchstone against which to rest and gloat.

Against the literate precedent tide,
I have no formal credential to wield;
and surely, the educated wordsmiths
of the world laugh securely at their desks,
seeing my small craft approach in the night
and attempt to scale their high fortress walls.

Oh, with what gestures will the mighty make
their defense against the coming challenge?

11 DEC 2002

It's not so cold as in Montana,
the winter in Louisiana;
but if the humid heat of June
boils thin your blood, you change you tune
when icy rain clouds fill the sky
and it drops below fifty five.

I've lived up north, and shoveled snow
and I don't miss 18 below;
it's warmer here down in the south,
but there's no heat near Hades' mouth,
just blust'ry winds and sheets of cold -
to tell the truth, it's getting old.

I moved to N'awlins for the heat,
to save my frozen hands and feet
but in this season there's no bliss;
it shouldn't be as cold as this.

I've no complaint, but still I moan,
in this supposed tropic zone.

10 DEC 2002

My country, our freedom, our way of life -
A gift from the gods, or a two-edged knife?
Our neighborhood, to be patrolled from within;
not defined by what we take out, but what we put in.

True ownership lies in accepting the charge
Of nurturing a thing, and so, by and large
We only possess what we put ourselves in,
and so those things own us as well.

And what of those things that we get as a gift?
Like family, or friends or a nation of birth?
If you put nothing in, and for life, merely get,
Then you use, but you never own.

The law says possession defines who owns,
yet what does it take to possess?
And if your religion states you possess by right,
that's a little too convenient.

09 DEC 2002

Well, perhaps it's a trick question, but I don't think so...has anyone actually read (all the way through) Gurdjieff's Beezelbub's Tales to His Grandson? I have to admit it - I am a voracious reader that has plowed through a great number of difficult books - but I find myself unable to make through more than the first 100 pages or so without losing momentum. I know he uses patterned language and specific words/phrases to disrupt conventional/run-of-the-mill thinking, but still ... and the book is in paperback about 3-1/2" inches thick. It seems so daunting, and I appreciate what I can get through, and it is extremely intriguing and fascinating reading...but like I said, only about 100 pages and I'm exhausted.

Anyone else have the same experience? If you have read it all the way through, howja do it? Any helpful suggestions would be greatly appreciated. I must say, it's a damn good thing I don't HAVE to read it for some college course or something. I'd be up the creek.

It is no measure of health to be well adjusted to a profoundly sick society. -- Krishnamurti

Stop.

I cannot imagine too much more of this:
in dreams in waking moments in between
the breaths and along-side the twelve steps
and the five stages of anger, denial, bargaining
the flipped coin depression or acceptance;
none of the sons were to be found
but did the holy ghost's wry banter

Stop

When you found the father dead
among the roses and the avocados,
looking like he'd rip van winkled to the land of nod;
knowing that at best, the east side
of eden, because it had better schools
would have been his preference anyway;
and that after sixty years or so of constant
on the go and in your face, the vitriolic rage for life would

Stop

And in the silence, you could breathe
take in your own dreams with the quiet air;
surround yourself with life support
that didn't offer side effects:
and all the comparisons, the undercuts,
the constant stream of in your shadow
footsteps could just

Stop

and wave goodbye, Dad.
It's been ten years now; my sister still
gets crazy this time of year.
We've got our own lives now, grown up
and tired of being yelled at,
even if the voice we hear is not
really there. Please

Stop

and wave goodbye.

Was on the third of September That date I'll always remember, yes I will 'Cause that was the day that my daddy died. -- "Papa Was a Rolling Stone," The Temptations

08 DEC 2002

Oh my dear friend, would you like to know why genius so rarely breaks its bonds, why it so seldom bursts upon us like a raging torrent to shatter our astounded souls? My friend, it is because of the sober gentlemen who reside on either side of the river, whose precious little summerhomes, tulip beds, and vegetable gardens would be ruined by it, and who know so well how to build dams and divert all such threatening danger in good time. -- Johann Goethe, The Sorrows of Young Werther

When I have a little money, I do not buy food or other such trivialities. I buy books. - Erasmus

Ah, as Lawrence Olivier might say in one of his Nazi- or vampire-hunting roles ... "I haf enlarged ze library mit some literature of ze mittle-Europeans." Today at the bookstore, I picked up a few new volumes in a pre-Yule splurge:

The Sorrows of Young Werther and Selected Writings, Johann Wolfgang von Goethe: This is something by Goethe that I have always meant to read. I used to have Kaufmann's bilingual translation of Faust, but it has been a long time since I read anything else by one of my literary, philosophy and scientific inspirations. About 10 years ago, I was in Switzerland and saw the garrett in Lucerne where Goethe lived for a time.

Mysteries, Knut Hamsun: I was turned onto Hamsun about 15 years ago when I encountered him in the works of Henry Miller. Miller praises him constantly throughout the Tropics books. At that time, I picked up Hunger, which is probably Hamsun's most known work. I liked it a great deal, but at the time my reading was limited to what I could find at the library, so Hamsun took a back seat to other writers. I'm looking forward to this one.

Letters to a Young Poet, Rainer Maria Rilke: Also about 10 years ago, a friend of mine who fancied herself a poet was always toting around a copy of this book. I looked at it briefly, but never owned a copy myself. I really like Rilke's Poetry, and have seen various quotations from this book floating around recently - so I thought I'd do myself the favor of revisting it.

Beowulf - A New Verse Translation, Seamus Heaney: I've plowed through several different versions of Beowulf in the past 25 years. So why would I buy another one? First, I have been reading some things about Heaney as a poet and philosopher that have made me think about writing and what it means to be a poet. Second, I read a few excerpts of the text on-line at Amazon, and I liked the way the verse flowed. Third, this is bilingual edition, in both modern English and Anglo-Saxon. I like bilingual editions as a rule, and really needed no excuse to add this one to the library.

A few years ago, I bought a wonderful book by Howard Rheingold called They Have a Word For It: A Lighthearted Lexicon of Untranslatable Words and Phrases. This book examines foreign words that describe a concept rather than a single word, for which English has no single-word equivalent. It was quite fascinating to me, as a writer, philosopher and student of culture, to see exactly how Orwell's statement that "if you don't have a word for it, it doesn't exist" is absolutely true.

Anyway, today's word (which I don't think is in the book, but the words in days to come will be) is:

Namaste: An ancient Sanskrit word that means "I honor the place in you in which the entire universe dwells. I honor the place in you, which is of light and peace. When you are in that place in you and I am in that place in me, we are one."

Namaste to all :)

With the Yule season rapidly approaching, I thought it might be nice pull out a paean to the original jolly old elf, the host of yuletime present, the Green Man :) I wrote this about a year ago. May your Yule log fire never die.

Now, sit yourself down and relax for a time
And sup as the daylight begins to decline;
The weather is warm and the company's fine
For the Green Man's providing the wine

Partake of the bounty that's laid out this night
For those that are hungry, the fire's are alight
And all of your worries will be put to flight
For the Green Man is doing it right

So drink of the cider and whiskey and wine,
The scotch and lager brought in while you dine,
And toast to your unending pleasure and mine,
For the Green Man is treating you fine

Ye ladies and gentlemen, give out a cheer
For He that is born again year after year
Bringing the wildness of life ever near
Yes, the Green Man is buying the beer

So dance and be merry, and drink ye your fill
And let not tomorrow give pause to think ill
But trust in the Goddess and live for Her will,
For the Green Man is paying the bill

A toast to this company, to one and all
Your health in this summer, and on until fall
And listen to Nature's unhesitant call
For the Green Man believes in you all

So, what will you have, for to drink or to eat?
We've all nature's bounty, her fruit and her meat
Brought right to your doorstep, no don't leave your seat
For the Green Man will serve you complete

So hither ye ladies, and gentlemen too,
And sing out the merriment all the night through
And make ye a friend from a stranger or two
For the Green Man is counting on you

Yes, give him your blessing and energy bright,
Believe in the wonders of love and of light;
There's much that can happen, and most of it right,
For the Green Man is King here tonight.

01 AUG 2001

Crank up the war machine, conscript the poor
The wisest solution is we must to war
For we are insulted, and slighted, and more
We must have a cause, a wolf there at the door

We lead by example, as everyone knows,
a emperor naked, in praise of our clothes;
yet no one makes mention, and why, you suppose?
that our face is disfigured from lacking a nose.

And who are we fighting, well, we're not quite sure,
but it's doubtless an evil that threatens the pure;
a menace to freedom, and all that's demure;
and it's symptoms, not causes we're aiming to cure.

So let fly the cannon, and loose the war plane -
Let not rhetoric slow us, or try to explain;
There is no time to waste should be our proud refrain!
It is enthusiasm that conquers our pain.

Now, to those who still wonder, and question this fate,
we must sacrifice freedom for good of the state;
and give up on convenience before it's too late,
think of all those brave souls that have naught on their plate.

If were were in Rome, we would require a Nero,
A leader with vision, who lets our fire grow;
With flourish and pomp we will declare a hero;
The score?  Give us one, and give everyone zero.

05 DEC 2002

If life be a rose, those who pick it may find
both petal and thorn, sweet and the unkind;
and essence as well as the outer husk,
for each is essential, both prick and musk.

If life be negation, that null space filled
with trials and hardship and tests of will,
it is also a loud, resounding yes;
for to be true life it cannot be less.

For life to be lived fully it must contain
a mixture of sorrow, pleasure and pain;
Each one has its place in the plan of things,
we must not spurn the lessons each one brings.

Just life? Just a rose? Just a yes or no?
It is only belief that makes it so.

05 DEC 2002

Here is an old poem of mine that I rediscovered while updating my website. BTW, it is one of the poems that I wrote for Starlight Dances during our on-line courtship :)

Early morning sun
The gentle mist of green woods
Who would not choose it?

The birds coo and cry
Their songs of warm lit sunshine
Who can help but hear?

Soft breeze across my face
A quiet touch, nature's kiss
Who would not respond?

The fire in ashes
Scent of thistle, burdock root
Who does not sense it?

Warm light in my beard
The taste of honey sweet lips
Who tries resistance?

The buzz of insect life
Their diligent wings beating
Who still listens there?

Young tender grass sighs
Beneath my careful bare toes
Who does not touch earth?

The rising sky orb
Blesses each and all creature
Who does not belong?

JUN 1999

A few weeks ago Stardances and I were having a discussion, and one of the topics that came up was my perception of the similarity between Native American and Celtic spirituality. Granted, much has been made of this supposed "correlation" in a number of "new age" and so-called serious "magical" studies, but there is a point that I identified that I think many have missed. That is the predeliction that both peoples seem to have to use and in many cases abuse alcohol.

While this may seem a somewhat superficial insight, it takes on a deeper significance when you consider that the Celt and the Native American seem to have opposite reactions to alcohol. To stereotype a great deal, when the Native American is sober, their spirituality seems to be a positive interaction with the earth; but a drunk Native is likely to be bitter, mean and trouble. On the contrary, when an Celt is sober, their worldview is often bleak,dreary and negative; however, once they are drunk, they tend to wax poetic, to see the heroic and universal in a more clear light.

Maybe this is PURE speculation. Maybe not. In any event, I wrote a poem today that explores this dichotomy/parallel.

When I drink, said the Celt, the world loses its edge,
and the universe comes into view;
my sad, suicide culture steps back from the ledge,
and the words of the poets come true.

There is hope for my race, and its future is clear,
the spirits of the land speak out;
my madness is cured, and those things I hold dear,
from the shadows can find their way out.

As for me, said the Kiowa, when I abstain,
the connectedness of life shows through;
and the sacred becomes easier to explain -
it is part of each act that I do.

'Tis the whiskey, the Celt said, that loosens the mind;
and yet sober, the Kiowa said, truth I find.

When I drink, said the Kiowa, things fall apart,
and a madness consumes life and hope;
as my path winds along weary paths without heart,
chasing shadows that bind me, like rope.

There is nothing left to me, no vision or dreams,
only sadness and endless travail;
and the fabric of sanity frays at the seams,
taking my strength and leaving me frail.

As for me, said the Celt, when I put down the glass,
the ugliness seeps through my pores;
and the worst expectations soon all come to pass -
the sickness of famine and wars.

'Tis the whiskey, the Kiowa said, that brings death;
and yet sober, the Celt said, life is wasted breath.

03 DEC 2002

An envelope sonnet, actually part one of a sonnet redoubled:

for Walt Whitman

America still sings, as Whitman wrote,
but often-times the tune is fading low;
and her heartbeat, not stopped, is often slow,
causing a frequent skip, or sour note.

Her voice is cracked from shouting in the wind
of change that blows across her fertile plain;
there is a sadness, now, in her refrain,
and one can hear her weep, now and again.

But still she sings, and those who hear her voice
can never turn away and listen not;
it resonates inside the mind, and bones,

reminding each that hears it of the choice:
to yearn for truth, though others seek it not,
and hearing other's songs, to sing your own.

Her laborers still tarry in the night
To build her war machines and tools of trade,
and in the bustle, softer Music fades
while emphasis is placed on songs of might.

Her engineers and scientists, they strive
to harness new technologies for "good";
while in the alleys, some keep hope alive
by singing not of should, or ought, but could.

Across the superhighways, through the land,
The Music of the age calls out "progress",
and though the times are lean, promises bloat;

While radios repeat the program's plan,
and echo songs that we trust, more or less;
America still sings, as Whitman wrote.

And where are those whose songs are fresh and new?
Are they found in our colleges and schools?
Quite sadly, they are led astray by fools
who teach that we must sing as others do.

America is in the lead, they cry,
'tis treason now to relinquish our place;
while those who cannot keep this deadly pace
are disregarded, left to grey and die.

And so a dirge seeps through the hallowed halls,
and echoes in the souls of each young heart;
You still can hear the Music as you go

as the bright light of hope sickens and palls;
We learn to sing, and each must learn their part
but often-times, the tune is fading low.

The lifeforce of the nation still beats strong
If you can check the pulse out in the wild;
But in her urban heart, adult and child
Oft recognize the rhythm is all wrong.

The arteries still swell and pump with force
to animate the weary limbs and head;
but often circulation is misled
and energy diluted, sent off-course.

While her great doctors bicker and consult
and sing of operations yet untried
the blood of freedom varies in its flow;

while carefully avoiding blame or fault,
they sew their prejudice and taint inside,
and her heartbeat, not stopped, is often slow.

And who are the great players on her stage?
And what great works are written for her range?
Alas, they focus on the grand and strange,
for style, no longer substance, is the rage.

Her story must be told in ways that please,
in strong, heroic ballads and in jokes;
While what to be remains a mystery,
and so eludes the common, simple folk.

America's juke-box is old and worn,
and on its hit parade, its tunes unsung,
except those that are memorized by rote;

her sheet Music is faded out and torn,
and the piano often stays unstrung,
Causing a frequent skip, or sour note.

And still she sings, her song of hope and youth,
of promise for a new and better way;
Despite the danger, she will join the fray,
and fight for dignity, and peace and truth.

But her great pugilists are dead and gone,
and in their place, a vulgar selfish lot -
who enter in the ring just for the pot,
and fight to entertain the fickle throng.

Yet ringside, she applauds and cheers their cause,
still hoping that their valour will prevail,
believing that the righteous cause will win.

America sings on without a pause,
and cries her song of hope in this travail;
Her voice is cracked from shouting in the wind.

Out in the fields, she watches through the night
as ploughmen thresh the land to make her bread;
while alchemists turn this great gold to lead,
and reap their profits, scorning nature's plight.

This grand diversity of sea and earth,
is reckoned by its income, gained or lost;
while she alone can recognize its worth,
and they abandon her to pay the cost.

She sings for those who have no voice to cry,
for they among the cast-off and forlorn,
who hear the land now crying out in pain,

that form a part of her land and still defy
the song that sells the future, yet unborn,
of change that blows across her fertile plain.

Where once she sang of triumphs and ideals
that spurned a still young nation to believe,
America now knows only to grieve -
and turns a sorrowed shoulder to the wheel.

With dirges, eulogies and funeral songs
she celebrates the past and history,
in memory of destiny gone wrong,
and wallows in the dregs of misery.

While those who listen closely note the change
Her newest poets hear, but with deaf ears -
Their sallow faces melting in the rain;

And those fight this fate are called deranged,
And must abandon artistic careers;
there is a sadness, now, in her refrain.

She cries out for the lumberjack and smith,
For farmer, woodsman, sculptor and newsboy;
But they pursue another dream of joy,
And silence is the song they leave her with.

In that dark chasm where her dreams still live
They heed her voice and follow where she leads;
And in those shadows, inspiration breeds
A hearty nation, one with strength to give.

Before the dawn, her dreams still reach some fools
Who grasp at them before they blur and fade
To drink the mead that fills real vision's pen,

Who learn to live, in spite of blinded rules;
She watches others' dreams, more cheaply made
and one can hear her weep, now and again.

02 DEC 2002

A sonnet redoubled is a series of fifteen sonnets. Each of the second through fifteen sonnets takes as its last line a successive line from the first sonnet, which serves as the texte.

Obviously, this is work in progress. This portion includes only sonnets one through seven (1 - 9). The remaining sonnets are forthcoming. Stay tuned.