Isaac Bonewits, Scott Cunningham, Eminem and me,
all born in the same general vicinity:
the suburbs of Detroit, 'round Royal Oak;
which of the four of us is the bigger joke?

28 FEB 2003

In the halls the people come and go,
wishing I were Michelangelo;
but things are not always as perfect
as his David would lead you to believe.

Some days, after too much cheap wine
and dreadful harp Music
even the most beautiful man
can be a real asshole;

and art is artificial, it is not real life...
it is a representation of reality
based solely upon the interpretation
of the artist;
it probably has nothing to do with you

(does that offend you?)

Just like yours, sometimes,
the artist's world can be a me-o-centric place;
even the most universal of messengers
can take a private call now and then,
turn their back on the masses
and say
"Heal yourselves."

28 FEB 2003

I guess you know that you are getting old
when the quieter the time, the better,
and it's not quite as much fun being bold;
you'd rather wake quietly to let her

sleep in for a change. To just be relaxed:
no grumpy before-school lectures to give,
no running out late for things the child lacks,
no last minute change of plans - we can live

as if we are the only two on earth,
if we choose. We do not need to leave town,
because our house has everything we need.

These rare times are precious, and can be worth
even weeks of "I need this" and runaround.
Child gone for the weekend? Fun guaranteed.

28 FEB 2003

Lack of money is no obstacle. Lack of an idea is an obstacle. -- Ken Hakuta

for Johnny Cash

So I guess it would be something complex,
with a different perspective and view,
more than just a reaction or reflex,
some knee-jerk response that simply brings you

back to the same old emotional edge,
feeding on yesterday's angst and stale pain,
standing stupidly on the window ledge
and wondering how to turn off your brain

(in case the lyrics get a little real);
trying be alternative to that
would take rejecting any of the praise,
and that meaningless "you're the next big deal".

If you want to truly be your own cat,
you'll never be what the radio plays.

Well, you are going to grow up someday,
so there are a few things you need to learn:

why free love has a price most cannot pay,
why it is more work to plant than to burn,
why the world thinks that kindness is crazy,
why good deeds are regarded with scorn,
why to never let your brain grow lazy,
why to treasure each moment that's born.

As for people, remember this teaching:

there are some who are worth the seeking out,
who will help you as you help them, to find
the difference between doing and preaching,
the huge importance of both faith and doubt,
and the great rewards kindness leaves behind.

27 FEB 2003

in memory of Fred "Mister" Rogers

There used to be a family-owned store
right there, on the corner where the bus stops;
and when I was a kid, they sold much more
than bubble-gum, candy and lollipops.

It was like stepping into a dreamscape
each time you passed slowly through the front door.

Unlike my house, where you could not escape
and the "you" that they expected got more
attention than the real "you" in progress,
in this place I felt good about myself,
and knew it was okay to be just me.

Even some parents knew the store's address,
and helped the owners restock the toy shelves
so their kids (and others) could shop for free.

But the neighborhood is different now,
and they have torn down that wonderful store,
built up arcades filled with games that go "pow";
it's not a peaceful, calm street anymore.

And there's no one on our block who's older
that treats kids like they will grow up someday,
and that offers a supportive shoulder
for those times when the world seems cold and gray.

It's not all that hard to be nice, you know,
Or actually care how the world's gone wrong
enough to try to help, and comprehend
that neighborhoods, like people, also grow,
and sometimes it takes just a simple song
to convert a stranger into a friend.

27 FEB 2003

The gutters are filled and the streets overflowing
The raindrops keep falling, the winds keep on blowing
And just when it will stop, there's no way of knowing
So batten the hatches, and prepare for rowing

The skies are dark grayish, and no light is shining
For warm winds and sunshine we all are a-pining
But there's no use whimpering or in complaining
As long as the levee walls keep on retaining

And what of parades, and the Mardi Gras Krewing?
In this type of weather, what can they be doing?
Well, most of them are stuck inside and are brewing
Just watching the sky with its endless wet spewing

This year, Mother Nature is throwing her beads
And thinking what plants, not what drunken fools need
Her parade a raincloud that cold water bleeds
Refreshing the green world that hungrily feeds

So think not the fun is spoiled by this downpour
(though most of the tourists, I'm sure, are quite sore)
It's not like no one's seen flashed titties before
And the world can live without a year's worth, I'm sure

Besides, the forecast says the rain will die down
enough to enable all jesters and clowns
to cram themselves into a few miles, uptown
and leave their wet trash lying there on the ground.

26 FEB 2003

Where have the dancing ladies gone,
those fair and merry maids,
that once so sweetly filled the air?
Too soon, their laughter fades.

(It must be spring that bids them go
and seek for other haunts;
once winter's grip has loosened on them,
they have other wants)

And so, the tavern echoes now
with silent, mirthless men
who sit and sip their bitter brews
and think of shady glens.

(It must be spring, but if it be,
this place should feel it, too,
Instead of fading with the night
like stars are wont to do)

The bard is set to sing anew,
but needs attentive ears;
for when the place is bright and gay,
then inspiration nears.

(It must be spring, the waking world,
that brings on such a need
for dancing, song and tender smiles -
Pan plays upon this reed)

Oh, ladies, come ye back again
and share your warmth and grace;
and I'll endeavor by and by
to liven up this place.

2000

For some reason, this morning thinking about Ian Anderson and Cat Stevens (did they ever collaborate>)

On the road to find out,
did you stop to lose your way
and play upon your fiddle
for the breaking of the day
In the midst of the confusion,
stepping back from the melee?
Was a merry song upon your lips
as you slipped softly away?

There on the wind,
the beginning of the world
Will you miss the grand production
of the play?
Beyond the map,
where the edge is bent and curled
lies the ramble bramble essence of today

Do you smell the pretty pansies
growing there along the quay
and dance a jig of pleasure
in the leisure of mid-day,
as the world around you fumbles,
tumbling onward, come what may?
Are you building dreams although it seems
your feet are made of clay?

On the road to find out,
where the songs of life still play,
do you listen to the gentle music,
learning more each day?

There on the breeze,
in the fragrance of the trees
Will you sense the world
is changed from yesterday?
Beyond the map,
you can grow just as you please,
find the ramble bramble essence of today

25 FEB 2003

I can clearly remember the first time:
there it was, in the back of the closet,
the case a little dusty. Not too sure
exactly what it was, I carefully

lifted it free of the stored winter clothes
(breathing in that sour faint lingering scent
of mothballs and dry cleaning plastic wrap)
and set it carefully down on the floor.

At the moment my fingers hit the strings
and that big sound came out, filling the room,
vibrating down and through my whole body,

I knew I would spend the rest of my life
hearing things I just had to learn to play,
and wanting all my friends to sing along.

25 FEB 2003

I suppose it should be quite obvious
at least to a pompous erudite snob
that spending one's whole life oblivious
can turn into a full-time, all day job.

But still, some profess and philosophize
non-stop, bent on proving that a theorem
can whittle the universe down to size
or be distilled as big picture serum.

Me, I'm not quite at that level, I guess;
all my time is taken up with scribbling
random notes for lectures I'm not giving.

The great fishpond of my thoughts is a mess,
and the bait I'm using, few are nibbling;
Still, there are worse ways to go on living.

24 FEB 2003

It did not start with a single matchstrike,
or bonfires blazing brightly in the night;
it began with thinking they did not like
the fact that they might not be in the right

about everything; and so found kindling
that could easily burn (at least catch fire);
once the ready supply began dwindling
they had to begin to plot, to transpire

against perceptions, to find illusions
that could ignite the passion of the crowd
to step beyond thought and discount reason.
In this chaos, amidst such confusion,

can any call themselves brave or be proud
if they are not currently in season?
When we say, "never again," do we mean
"not to us", or never to anyone?

Because we have been burned, are our hands clean
when the call for blood has again begun?
Or is it this: that we truly believe
one man in prison means no one is free;

that one widow or one orphan that grieves
is too many? Are we too blind to see,
despite our claim of universal kin,
that the warm safety of our little den

is fueled by our dissident neighbor's pyre?
How long will we continue to buy in -
until the flames come just for us again?
Who will be left to put out that great fire?

23 FEB 2003

How many, when they think

of right-wing strong-arm tactics
of national emergencies requiring increased security
of leaders not elected by the vote
of opposition candidates denounced as non-patriotic
of speeches that appeal to the lowest common denominator
of the discouragement of public criticisms of policy
of rounding up minority nationals for arrest
of increased eavesdropping, wiretapping, listening in
of failing domestic economy
of the crippling of an international ruling body
of finding an enemy outside to divert our attention
of a leader who believes themselves directed by God
of the Reichstag Fire

think of Hitler?

Wrong answer.

I'll bet the French and Germans know.
I wonder why they are so hesitant to offer their support.

23 FEB 2003

Inspired by a section of Daniel Quinn's Ishmael

An animal in a cage does not spend its time
rehashing how it got to be in that sad place,
reliving the moments from its glorious prime;
but often a puzzled look is upon its face.

Unlike man, it does not spend its time in dreams,
spinning its wheels in wasted thoughts of liberty;
it does not look upon the world and say, it seems
a cursed existence, no more than a travesty.

And yet, a question stirs, a mad recurring thought,
that occupies its pacing up and down its cage;
and like its human fellow prisoners, now caught,
it looks out at the world in misery and rage.

The query that it forms is not to wonder how,
nor think about the birds that float free in the sky;
it does not ponder much beyond the here and now,
but slowly, just repeats over and over - "Why?"

22 FEB 2003

For two days now non-stop the rain flows,
while the world waits patient for the sun;
and still the wind against the window blows.

No one is out at parades or picture shows;
In this dreadful weather, no Mardi Gras fun.
for two days now non-stop the rain flows.

It may make flowers and plants quickly grow,
but down the streets and 'cross the lawns it runs;
and still the wind against the window blows.

The weathermen make statements, but who knows
how long these raging squalls last, once begun;
for two now days non-stop the rain flows.

The parks and playgrounds, soaked, are forced to close,
and outdoor games the children must all shun;
and still, the wind against the window blows.

We huddle to stay warm and dry in winter clothes,
and to stay content, not lose reason;
for two days now non-stop the rain flows,
and still the wind against the window blows.

22 FEB 2003

Did you ever notice something very strange about Disney's (OK, so maybe it's not Disney's, but it's the classic one starring Gene Wilder as Wonka) version of Charlie and the Chocolate Factory? You know, of course, that the whole idea for getting kids to watch the movie is so that they think "I should be more like Charlie Bucket, huh..." and the world somehow becomes a better place (with equal rights for little people, too). However, it seems like most of the kids my daughter's age (15) picked Veruca Salt as their role model rather than Charlie Bucket. Granted, it could be worse ... I don't think I could afford to feed Augustus Gloop, all of Violet's gum-chewing would drive me crazy, and the cable bill for Mike Teevee ... astronomical. But I was thinking ... why Veruca? Why all of the I WANT IT NOW, and I'm so deprived and I deserve everything and you're no good if you don't get it for me and I shall whine and whinge and cry and cajole and beg and in general make your life a living hell if I don't get my way?

Walt Disney has done this to us, folks. Veruca is the only child in the ENTIRE movie that gets a song-and-dance number to herself. She's the only one who's physically fit, not covered with dirt, and dressed to reflect any kind of fashion trend. Charlie has to sing covered with dirt, with either his mother or his grandfather. Both Violet and Augustus would have to sing with their mouths full. And Mike? He's too wrapped up in a world that no longer exists (who plays cowboys and colored people nowadays). So Veruca it is.

Disney has made all of us parents think we should be Willie Wonka, and has given us a grain of Salt to take with that dream-tonic.

The mind is a muscle, and not a gland
that simply filters things inward and out;
each conscious movement of a writing hand
flexes more than the arm's tendons; No doubt

with each new thought a synapse finds action,
and the software is ready for upgrade,
while hardware, purring with satisfaction,
settles into the new groove ideas made.

Sometimes it is difficult to evolve
on such a regular schedule, however;
and the words don't come without pain and strife.

On these days, the gears just seem to revolve
without meshing; and what seems so clever
to the hand, the mind rejects. Such is life.

22 FEB 2003

There are some that make you feel guilt and shame
about those few extra hours in your bed
on a stray Saturday morning, eyes red
after a late night and work-week; they blame

you for the world not being up to speed,
or for nothing getting done around here;
but if you want a little time to clear
away negative energy, you need

to close your ears along with your tired eyes
and hit the snooze button; the world will wait
at least that long to require your input.

Besides, it's not like there aren't other guys
who manic, wake at dawn to test their fate;
revved that damn high, they will soon go kaput.

22 FEB 2003

A recent discussion in a friend's journal made me think of a poem I wrote a few years back in response to a thread on a pagan discussion board related to "why doesn't someone teach me NOW what I want to know" posted by some Veruca Silverwing Salt young newbie.

As far as "Pagan community" is concerned, I am often concerned that some people who claim the name of "Pagan" seem to think that there should be some artificial construct (of course, it does not seem artificial to them) that connects us all at the level of our common beliefs, that there is some kind of "brotherhood" which all pagans should acknowledge and respect. I have a fundamental question regarding this "brotherhood", however ... is this a "brotherhood" of those who CLAIM to be at one with each other, or of those whose deeds prove it to be the case? As was said once earlier in the last century (if may have been FDR who said it), if you are a "Harvard Man", you don't need a class ring to prove it - your actions will make it obvious to all that you are of that caliber. For myself, I know my brethren (that are not tied by blood) by their deeds, and not their words. And if a brother (or sister, for in fact 'brotherhood' implies something that smacks of patriarchy and hierarchy, of closed rooms and inequality) makes what I feel to be an error, it is my obligation to discuss it with them privately, "on the way to the church" so to speak, rather than standing up and impugning them before the entire congregation. For if we are in fact ALL siblings, then any action that affects the well-being of one affects the well-being of all. All of which goes to show that one cannot choose one's "brothers" lightly. Yes, we are all related, we all share this plane in which to find our paths, we are all different shafts of the same light. But our "unity" is quite a different matter. The fact is that we are NOT a pagan community because we call ourselves Pagan, but are only a community if we act as a community.
-- My response to an on-line discussion on closing ranks behind ill-behaved pagan "leaders" for the sake of the "community", which I thought was appalling

Why look outside yourself for guidance?
Why claim there is a "community" when none exists?
Why insist that some be leaders and others followers?

No elder, no true teacher seeks
to become the center of a cult of personality;
quite the contrary, they avoid it,
knowing that there are many who would seek their path
(wanting a shortcut, wanting to skip their own wandering search)
and who will find the teacher's advice --
the solitary, aloneness of true self --
not to their liking,
and therefore fit for derision.

A true teacher knows that each path is unique;
My telling you what works for me is pointless,
unless you can appreciate its application
in your own action.

A right to be disrespectful may not be a given,
and titles and honorary degrees are often bandied right and left;
Who dares to say that another's path is wrong for them?

Perhaps no one has a right to judge,
but then again, no one has a right to be taught,
either.

As to your assumption that "we are all kin here" --
I do not know you well enough to say if we are related,
but I know my brethren by their deeds,
not words.

21 FEB 2003

I seem to be fascinated, as of late, by the myth of Odysseus, particularly with his interaction (or adamant lack thereof) with the Sirens. In the book The Third Ear: On Listening to the World, one of the ideas put forward is that the Sirens, having no audience for their song, simply gave up singing (and since their singing was their purpose, they then retreated under their rocks and died). This is advanced as the plight of those who would appeal to the ear, a much more honest organ of interpretation than the eye. In our vision-based culture, where we seek to penetrate outward into the world, rather than listen, and bring the world into us, the hypertrophy of the sense of hearing in favor of seeing causes all sorts of maladjustments and (to use a vision-based word) misperceptions.

"I see," said the blind; "I hear," said the deaf; "You're a liar," said the dumb -- punchline from a joke my grandmother used to tell

Heart strings be stilled, and bring on the noise
that dulls into senseless, hard men hopeful boys;
Just pound on the floor, if you must have a beat,
and perhaps you'll vibrate the tips of your feet.

We must find other, quiet joys
To fill up the void where the Music once played,
for our audience fidgets and acts quite dismayed
if we take up their space with a moment in time
of anything that might be unique, or sublime,
suggesting the beauty arrayed
In a brief pause of breath, when the talking has ceased,
and like seeds from a flower, our thoughts are released
in the atmosphere, freed from these cages of sound
that we build to protect us from life, all around
(it seems like that to me, at least)
Yet praise of the average demeans genius in man;
we crave mediocre sounds, all we can stand
are the songs that we know, ones we all know by rote
so that even the tonedeaf can find all the notes,
and our Music sounds hollow and canned.
What good is it to sing out from deep in your soul,
if the listener's ears are beyond your control?

If you must shake the walls, and the floors, and the chair,
soon there will be only a harsh rhythm there,
while the soft melodies that roll
Gently off the tongue, on the faintest of sighs
will be carried off; and then, we'll all act surprised
when our lives have no meaning, and seem flat and dull,
empty of beauty, and no longer full
of anything apathy has not compromised.

21 FEB 2003

When I was going to school in Boston, one of the adventures I experienced was rehearsing and then playing a gig with the Bloodfarmers in NYC (actually, it was an "Acid Core Festival" held in October of 1991 at the Coney Island Freak Museum). I was just thinking about it today, and came up with this poem.

I've never been to Coney Island in the summer,
only just after the season ended, early October,
after the buskers and merchants have boarded
up their windows, or wandered off to warmer climes.

It must be much different there in June or July,
the boardwalk crowded with noise and life,
sun shining off the fine grained beach sand
and the smell of hot dogs wafting on the breeze.

At three in the morning, though, it's probably the same
as how I saw it, playing a gig at the Freak Museum
for a crowd of no more than fifteen hardy souls
who risked the five dollar admission to experience

four bands who almost were Black Sabbath:
paint peeling from gaudy, clownish decorations,
the smell of grease and old wood and salt air,
a lingering feeling of emptiness, of desolation,

of sad despair; it might be different before Labor Day,
but there are some times when the sea
is a lonely place, and all the tinsel and light
along the shore cannot change its somber mood.

20 FEB 2003

I want to tell you there is whole new world
beyond the concrete labyrinth that walls
in what you know; the snaking paths that curl
you so tightly in their grip as night falls,

keeping you safe and secure in your home,
where you can isolate your life from strange
sights, from mystic visions, and never roam
more than a few steps out of your warm cage.

Yes, there is life past the Holland tunnel
(no, the world doesn't stop with the city),
but you must brave a few steps in the dark

and force your grand notions through this funnel,
learn to appreciate the rubes you pity,
and trade in your bright lights for lonely sparks.

20 FEB 2003

There is a Mary every few doors down
the block; in a small creche under the trees
or tight up against the house, overgrown
with wire grass or chicory to her knees
of cheap cast plaster, whiter than bleached bone.

Each looks so forlorn and abandoned there,
with great sorrow on her beseeching face,
watching the seasons pass under her stare
and silently yearning to leave her place,
to speak out, to travel again, somewhere.

20 FEB 2003

an acrostic, of sorts

Population perpetrates
paranormal piecemeal
poppycock pollution pornography.
Posterior politics
police pollen poltergeists,
producing portable priest polygraphs
pushing Plato purity.

Extremist existential elephantiasis egos
elevate egrarian elation,
eclipsing elliptical ergonomic energy.
Exception ends ecclesiastical evolution,
exacerbating eternal eventide.

Alarmist action attitude arms adam atom
around antiquated asinine archaic anomaly and anarchy.
All above attempts are aggravated.

Cessation corporation cremates corporeal capital.
Crazies, cops, collegians, Cistercians, cliques corrupt congress.
Central common clarity, clouded, cannot continue.

Egalitary earth extends euphoric embraces,
ends exceptions.
Each edge evens,
establishes essential essence,
escapes escalating ethnocentric etiquette,
exists expansively.
Evil, ejected, exploded, expatriate,
ends everywhere.

1993

Exercise: take a line from an existing poem and write a new poem based on that line. The line I chose was from Robert Frost's The Road Not Taken.

Two roads converged in a yellow wood
(and neither of them looked too good),
one leading off to some small town,
and the other wandering all around
like a less-beaten path I think should.

This forced duality for life struck me
with the limits of its possibility;
if only two ways seem to lead
from each new spot, then 'tis indeed
not much a choice, it seemed to me.

For why an old path, not a new one
blazed through underbrush, for fun,
to see what else is in the world;
beyond the map-edge, torn and curled,
the journey's often just begun.

And so I stepped off the concrete,
finding just grass under my feet,
and made a path from where I stood,
leaving both roads for that wood;
and the journey so far has been sweet.

19 FEB 2003

My last poem of the day reminded me, in its rallying cry to the world's poets and singers, of a piece that I wrote shortly after the 9/11 tragedy. I am a Druid by religion, a Musician by vocation, a Philosopher by inclination, and a Bard by sheer determination.

After the tragedy of September 11, I thought it was high time that the bards began to assert their rightful place in helping the healing process, in directing our future evolution, and in guiding those who sought after truth and wisdom. I composed a poem of twenty-four stanzas, with each stanza using a different one of the twenty four "official" Welsh bardic meters, that I hoped would offer some small start in that process. It certainly has focused my attention. I hope that it finds you, singers of songs, and dreamers of dreams, well and in good spirits.

Cyhydedd Fer

Oh Bard, release your sacred song
to heal these hurts and ways gone wrong

Englyn Penfyr

Let loose thy harp strings, filled with untamed woe,
Go deeply, cut to the heart;
For it is there our wounds start.

Englyn Milwr

Release from our lost stronghold
the strength of our hidden soul -
Let it our hearts console.

Englyn Unodl Union

With words forged of the land and sea and sky,
let fly at disbelief;
Give to us no pause for grief,
Without giving, too, relief -

Englyn Unodl Crwca

Cleanse our souls with balanced hand,
so we may form a true land;
Purge our unspoken fears and mingled hate
That we may understand

Englyn Proest Dalgron

Our place in this living world,
the grain of sand, and the pearl
that connects us true and sure
to wisdom's pure, hidden pool.

Englyn Lledfbroest

Bard, give us light, burn us through,
until we each have had enough;
for in great darkness we have trod,
and now must seek the morning.

Englyn Proest Gadwynog

Give rise to winds and change this weather,
teach us hope, that we can never
let loose of this life's bright tether -
tell us this gloom won't last forever.

Aydl Gywydd

Softly, let your song uncoil
and fill our eyes with salt tears;
anoint our heroes with oil,
and give them praise through the years.

Cywydd Deuair Hirion

Gently, play your harp anon,
and give us dreams to build on;
Let there be Music and song
to give us back what is gone:

Cywydd Deuair Fyrion

A rousing tune,
of earth and moon,
to guide us all
from this great fall
and with its song
help us belong.

Cywydd Llosgyrnog

If we are young, or aged with years,
if simple, elegant or wise,
far or near, to each one sing -
of peace and harmony give voice,
that our life's spirit may rejoice,
and see beauty in all things

Rhupunt

For dark the night
that finds us here,
and none too clear
the path ahead -
Our rage now builds
against cruel fate
and will not wait
for dawn's bright tread.

Byr a thoddiad

Teach us of patience through this gloom,
our minds are filled with pending doom;
with no compass we cannot steer,
so dark fear rules our broken hearts.

Clogyrnach

Remind us of our human need,
to reach out, healing those that bleed;
and our gifts divine,
let us intertwine -
pour your wine;
our souls, feed.

Cyhydedd Naw Ban

For in these dark days, we must all think
that together, we shall stand or sink;
and in these hours, here upon the brink,
there is not time to guess, or to blink -
we must find a well and share this drink,
reach out in brotherhood and relink.

Cyhydedd Hir

So Bard, speak out strong
your healing in song,
correct us if wrong,
and give us aid.

Sing us your refrain
of joy and of pain
and help us contain
what fear has made.

Toddaid

For we must not hide from the coming day,
locked away, far from the living earth;
The whole of humanity must be joined,
and each value the coin of rebirth.

Gwawdodyn

So in your song, Bard, let us be cleansed;
Let us see truth anew through your lens.
Help us to seek balance among new friends,
and work as a whole to make amends.

Gwaydodyn Hir

For each is to blame for this darkness -
each sees in themselves not a weakness,
but thinks they are chosen, blessed and more,
and justice is left out by the door.
Each border and boundary marks us,
and gives us each excuses for war.

Hir a Thoddaid

So comfort us not with worn, false pretense,
but send us our disenfranchised ones hence,
let us hear their voiced rebel dissent,
and remind us of truths, self-evident.
For we have come too far along this path
using ignorance as our sole defense.

Cyrch a chwta

Then sing ye, Bard, hold back naught -
show us what our seed hath wrought;
this silence will inform us not
of the heart's cause we forgot.
Show mercy to those who fought;
Give thanks to those who peace brought.
We listen! We who are now caught
and lost in this evil plot.

Tawddgyrch cadwynog

We need to hear
where we have strayed;
We are afraid -
you must be strong.

Now, from our fear,
where dreams die hard,
we beg thee, Bard,
release thy song.

16 SEP 2001

Like Odysseus, our great commander in chief
(who likes his reports and his facts just in brief)
has ordered himself lashed and tied to the mast,
and in the ears of his councilors, wax plugs made fast

so he can go forth and destroy his named foe
without hearing anti-war Sirens scream "no!"
(at least, though he'll hear them, he will not be swayed,
for his eyes are trained on fortunes to be made)

And the millions of Sirens, deprived thus of voice
will be faced with a terrible, depressing choice:
to admit defeat, and crawl under their stones,
or watch as the war machine destroys their homes.

For me, though I know that my song goes unheard
by those who hang on our brave leader's each word,
and often gets noticed as "bleeding heart" stuff
(which can make those brown-shirt boys act pretty rough)

I shall sing it out loudly and hope that out there
are enough others who do not say "laissez faire"
but seek for the truth without question or pause
and only want war for a more noble cause

And as for Odysseus, let him go lame
There strapped to the mast in his imbecile game
I did not elect him my hero in chief
Nor do I think his acts reflect my belief

In a nation's nobility, part of the whole
where although a great people, we do not control
the fate of the planet with missiles and threat,
but work hard for world peace, and do not forget

that absolute power corrupts absolute
and turns politicians into lying suits
that make long careers out of power and greed,
but should be but servants, who seek what we need.

Odysseus, hero? This Siren thinks not,
and sings to avert him and his evil plot;
And though he ain't listenin', perhaps someone will
and sink his foul ship before he does more ill.

I'm not saying kill him, or any such dreck,
nor sabotage his machine, causing a wreck;
Just sing, all you Sirens, as loud as you can
until perhaps we can stun sense in the man.

18 FEB 2003

At the volta of the delta
stuck in indecision's swelter
I released the muse and felt her
slip away

Though I thought my words would melt her
as they tumbled, helter-skelter,
she instead preferred a shelter
from the fray

And in silence there she knelt, her
bright eyes burning like a smelter,
while I played my ace, and dealt her
two and treys.

18 FEB 2003

This week's assignment at the LJ community "Writing 101" was to use at least 7 of the following 10 words (alphabetical, chaos, tool belt, bloviate, crux, sinner, marshmallow, dramatic, tissue, sympathetic) in a piece of writing. Seems like a very strange set of words, but here's what I came up with:

I can bloviate with the best of them,
strike a sympathetic chord now and then
by appealing to the soul's great chaos
with dramatic gusts of clever wordplay;

but the poet's tool belt also includes
a set of pruning shears, for brevity
often leads much more quickly to the crux,
cutting through the soft marshmallow tissue

of the sinner's world (burnt and hard outside,
but jellied and spineless on the inside)
with the turn of an alphabetical
blade; and this small incision can make all

the difference. Sometimes, even a small fragment
is the most dangerous part of a storm.

18 FEB 2003

Evil, if it is, lives behind the walls
in a murky shadow world of self-doubt
(who, after all, cannot truthfully make
at least a good guess about what is right?)

and waits for those who ask 'Why shouldn't I?'
but do not pause too long for the response,
acting without thinking, without caring
about the balance of the world they share,

without acknowledging the source power
that fuels all things - the neutral force of life
feeding both light, and the pale specter that
asks 'what evil lurks in the hearts of men?'

The most correct answer of course is none,
it exists and breeds mostly in their minds.

14 MAR 2003

Ok, so maybe it's a VERY strange question...but does anyone but me think that a re-interpretation of George Orwell's 1984, as a play written in entirely in iambic pentameter (much like Shakespeare's retelling of the Tragedie of Hamlett King of Demarke) sounds REALLY cool? Any thoughts?

Thirteen o'clock and all the world is well;
beyond the reach of the tempest makers,
where thought and reason still may sway the mind
and the conscience of a nation feeds not
on unfounded rumors of threat and fear,
but seeks for truth behind innuendo
and shadow agendas for armed conflict,
recognizing that in the doublespeak
asserting the need to take firm action,
to rail against an unseen enemy
is but a diversion to cloak from view
the clandestine interests of the few,
so that they may be pursued without pause
and bankrupt the soul of a proud country.

Of course, it's a good bit of work; and you might want further proof that I could do such a thing. Well, I have written another play in iambic pentameter, and here's a small sample.

From The Trial of Nesorna, Nesorna's Monologue, Act I, Scene 4

I can not say I feel as if reborn -
and yet, there is a newness about me;
a cleanliness of spirit that springs forth
from a new source, unknown and without name.

What words I choose can only dent the veil
of this deliverer that spawns such hope -
mere words cannot define this flash of light
that now illuminates my sorrowed pain.

Yes, pain, that wracking, scream of agony
which celebrates itself in birth and life,
I feel it not, but in its place I find
An agony of quite a deeper sort.

The pangs of transformation I now bear
bring me aware to planes of solid thought,
and in that heightened state they bid me stay,
to question of my place and of my fate.

'Tis true, that once I sought an early death,
as a small child might, innocent, seek change
in this too often monstrous, hateful world;
my simple wish to end all pain for good.

I offered prayer and harkened to the Gods,
beseeching them to show themselves to me -
and wished that to their presence I could fly
or that they soon would take me from this place.

But whimpering days of longing are no more,
and with its cloak of cold and glorious bliss
this night has brought with it a wind of change,
and I am more resolved to live than die.

This wind, more like a gale, has brought me life,
and set me on a pinnacle of hope -
here, tempest-swept, I stand, my spirit strong
and am renewed and ready for this day.

But where to start in this great future land,
this new discovered world of strength and truth?
The starting is the easy part, I know -
as for the finish, therein lies the test.

The glow of reason may not light this quest,
this enterprise that, virgin, waits untried;
and treachery is sure to find me, too,
yet I must follow out into this wind.

For be it so, or perhaps not to be,
it is not mine to yea, or nay, command;
It matters not if heaven is the goal,
nor if to hell's doorway the breezes blow.

If strength or folly, whether good or ill,
this changeling spirit offers more to me,
more promise to my dark-encumbered soul
than any specter from my past has done.

Therefore, I must now gird myself anew,
and into time's wide chasm throw my lot -
not backward, where my spirit found its root,
but into the un-named and unknown now.

I am resolved to hesitate no more,
but follow that which beckons from beyond;
and move into what learned men have called
the history and quest of all mankind.

But quiet now, the dawn approaches soon,
and it will prove me wise man, or buffoon.

This piece is called "Your Television Will Not Be Revolutionized" because despite what our so-called leaders of technology and communications may tell you, the chances are slim that your quality of life will be enhanced by further dependence on a device which has throughout its history been referred to as the "idiot box" or "boob tube." After Gil Scott-Heron's "The Revolution Will Not Be Televised."

You will not be able to site back in your recliner and experience
the sights and smells of an actual African safari with Marlon Perkins
because your television will not be revolutionized.

You will not have the option to view programming that reflects
actual facts, opinions and situations of real people in real jobs doing real work
because your television will not be revolutionized.

You will not have more information at your disposal,
but a great deal more disposable information;
you will not experience a reduction in the amount of subliminal messaging
or an increased exposure to the fully explored viewpoints
of persons with alternative outlooks on the world and ways of life;
nor will you have the ability to selectively choose shows and entertainment
that will best equip you to face other human beings
who may have differing and conflicting methods of dealing with everyday existence
because, despite your ability to earn a Ph.D.
by absorbing the litany of T & A, S & M, B & D and R & R
on CBS, NBC, ABC and CNN,
people who have important things to say
regarding the fragility of relying on modern convenience
will not be able to set up independent broadcast towers
because the FCC, FBI and CIA will make sure
that you do not find these programs included as part of "Must See TV,"
and they will certainly not be sponsored
by Mobil Oil Corporation and the Fortune 500.
You will not be able to immediately gain access
to the viewing public without waiting nine months
on a list for new programs, waiting only to be passed over
by a Committee for Fairness in Television
because your views are not deemed interesting enough
to command a favorable Nielson share.

Nor will you be able to select features for your viewing pleasure
that have not been hand-picked by the owners of the airwaves
and their supporting advertisers.

Your television will not be revolutionized.
Your television will not be revolutionized.
Your television will not be revolutionized.

You will continue to experience a decrease in rapid eye movement,
increasing cases of attention deficit disorder among your babies and children,
and on-going, invasive modifications to your DNA
caused by the barrage of an electron machine gun
you have invited into your home to expose "viewers like you"
to a thousand points of artificial light.

You will continue to form images subconsciously inside your physical brain
without the benefit of seeing them outside your head,
and without the ability to blink and shut them out or slow them down
so as to maintain the facility to selectively choose
the sound bytes and sound tracks and sound effects and
hypnotic waves of electricity that will influence
your spending patterns, your methods of recreation, your opinions on procreation,
your impression of reality and
your overall sense of physical health and well-being.

Your television will not be revolutionized.

Your retention of information will continue to decrease,
while the available percentage of brain cells at your disposal
will continued to be used up by phrases from sitcom theme songs,
by deductive meanderings on who shot J.R., and
by images of politicians wrapped in flags and kissing babies,
eating chitterlings, slicing pizza and
spreading lox on bagels.

You will not be able to take your message to the streets
or distribute pamphlets questioning the party line
at union meetings or city council sessions,
because your fellow citizens will be safe at home,
unified only in the respect that they are all watching re-runs
of the same shows so it can be assured there will be a topic of conversation
when we are all turned loose to exercise
our First Amendment rights
assisted by a new and improved level of communication
brought to you by the Association for the Preservation of Technological Megalomaniacs.

You will not be able to tell the difference between an embrace
offered by a virtual reality image of your dead father
and the gentle purring of a live kitten grasping your shoulder;
but you will continue to be able to anesthetize your sense of boredom
vicariously, whether through the war game simulation of professional sports,
or candid interviews with starvation victims
in a country of which you were not even aware "prior to this newscast,"
and may be convinced exists
only thanks to the believability score of the on-the-scene commentator,
or by gripping the edge of your seat while watching
carnage and bloodshed and laying on of hands
resulting in cures for leprosy, AIDS, infantile paralysis,
sickle cell anemia, and that awful bloated feeling,
all of which may or not be created using special effects.

Your television will not be revolutionized.

You will continue to trust in a world that has been edited for television,
in situations that will be re-enacted based on circumstantial evidence
and the imagination of financial advisors to the producers during "sweeps" week,
and in actors who are paid to tell you their headache disappeared in minutes
or that they actually spent time at their last dinner party discussing yeast infections
or wash-and-go shampoos.

You will be able to see inside the minds and hear the thoughts
of Richard Nixon, of Jeffrey Dahmer, of Charles Manson and Mother Theresa,
but you will see them being asked the same questions, things like,
"When did you first realize that you were different from other children?"
and you will see the same one-liners being used to promote their causes
in between paid advertisement programs
showcasing the efficiency and pleasure provided by shopping at home,
and they will be given equal air-time,
and each will be gently disclaimed:
"The opinions expressed by guests on this program
do not necessarily reflect the views of this network,
do not support the philosophy or political leanings of the majority of our viewers,
and are not intended to stimulate, educate or otherwise affect anyone at all."

You will continue to find yourself in a world
that has an increasing number of methods for communication,
and alarmingly less and less to say.

You will find it true, as Marshall McLuhan once said, that
"the medium is the message,"
and that its sweet velvet voice is crooning,
"Learn to consume as you have taught me to consume,"
and reminding us in the words of Jello Biafra
that the conveniences we have requested are now mandatory.

Your television will not be revolutionized.

1995

Out there at the end of a modem wire
we are traveling at the speed of now,
and despite our differences, still somehow
we can make connections, if we desire.

There are so many voices in this world
that one must carefully choose which to hear,
and select those whose message is most clear
(those who treasure both the oyster and pearl).

If even one considers you a friend,
and finds your small perspective worth knowing
it is a gift to be highly treasured.

Because, after all is done, in the end,
your friends are gems that the world is showing
you; and their price can never be measured.

Songs don't promote activity by their content. Violence in Music doesn't necessarily increase violence in society. In the history of the world, there have been more love songs written than any other kind combined. If songs could have changed the world, everyone would love each other at this point. -- Frank Zappa, testifying before Congress

So I can put a pen to paper
Talk about the times
Still, it's just a scrap of scribbles
Isn't worth a dime

It may change my own perspective
And touch one or two
But it doesn't have much power
Beyond me and you

Outside those who listen
Does a song mean anything?
Is a poem all that useful
Outside bardic rings?

It may help to heal a soul
So it can prep for war
But it is just a weak illusion
Really, nothing more..

Why then do the poets write,
why do the songsmiths craft?
Do they speak of peace and love,
while the war-mongers laugh?

Or do they, in their subtle way
reach deep into the soul
and without guns or bombs or knives
exert some small control?

It may be a scrap of paper
floating in the air
But it carries energy
that bridges here to there

If we can imagine it,
the world can be reformed
and the song of hope we sing
will weather any storm.

15 FEB 2003

I had a dream our president
(a former Texas resident)
unleashed an unseen precedent
and canceled his world war.

Although it was much criticized,
he woke one day and realized
that bombs exploding in the skies
were not what he stood for.

His views become benevolent,
his policies more relevant
and funds for war were raised and spent
empowering the poor.

And all the world cheered when he spoke,
and ceased to call his reign a joke
(and on TV, he had a toke,
not lying anymore).

He made friends of our enemies
and sought not profits overseas,
and listened to our humble pleas
against destruction's roar.

Perhaps it was a crazy dream,
that he would be instead of seem,
and cease to chase disaster's gleam
and study war no more.

But I'd rather imagine it,
than deal with all his real bullshit
(because I know he'll never quit
until he goes to war)

And many good lives will be lost,
while simple folk pay for the cost
and the bill of rights gets tossed
and trampled on the floor.

There ought to be a law ag'in
such simple-minded, foolish men
who think a war involves a win
and sit there, keeping score

But so long as we praise great might,
our leaders will assume it's right,
and send our poor boys off to fight
another stupid war.

14 FEB 2003

So, I'm un-American?
Maybe it's true.
I'm un-American,
how about you?

I believe in progress,
and free speech, too;
In equal rights
for strangers - you?

I will not support war
red, white or blue -
but will defend my home
against untruth.

I believe in justice
delivered upon proof;
and I consider friends
those who share my roof.

I will not be silent
in the face of might;
but will stand for freedom
and seek what's right.

I believe in honesty,
and trust not words -
action without thought
I find absurd.

I will not vote your way
just because you're strong;
nor will I fund your
cause, if wrong.

I believe in freedom,
and equal rights -
for the one who protests,
and the one who fights.

I will not stand down
or in silence, wait,
while your war agenda
decides our fate.

I'm un-American?
Maybe that's true.
But I see America
much different than you.

I'm un-American?
How can that be true?
If I'm un-American,
Then so are you.

14 FEB 2003

here's one specifically for Valentine's Day, for Starlight Dances:

When you walk into a room, my head turns
to watch as you approach; I never grow
tired of seeing your face, and I know
each one of your expressions. My heart burns

with fire for your touch, my ear yearns to hear
your voice, my hand seems empty without yours
in it. Our love grows each day, and endures
all troubles, finding joy year after year.

I could compare you to a summer's day,
but you are more than one small set of hours;
in your eyes, I see the span of all time.

All the moments we spend along the way
are beautiful and fragrant as flowers,
and the wonder of this world, most sublime.

14 FEB 2003

Night will tend to fall at the end of each day -
Only a few see such a thing as a threat.

Men with something to hide direct your attention
Overseas, where the enemy is an easy target, flailing
Rhetoric like an endless river of abuse, hoping that
Emotion will overcome reason and good sense.

Why is it necessary to take arms against
An alleged sea of troubles (that will never be ended as long as
Rich white men must get what they want)?

14 FEB 2003

Gimme an F...
Gimme a U...
Gimme a C...
Gimme a K...
What's that spell?
What's that spell?
What's that spell?
What's that spell?
What's that spell?
yeah, c'mon on all you big strong men
Uncle Sam needs your help again
he's got himself in a terrible jam
way down yonder with Saddam
so put down your books and pick up a gun
we're gonna have a whole lot of fun
and it's 1, 2, 3, what're we fighting for?
don't ask me, I don't give a damn
next stop is Baghdad, man
and it's 5, 6, 7, open up the pearly gates
well there ain't no time to wonder why
whoopee! we're all gonna die
well c'mon generals, let's move fast
your big chance has come at last
gotta go out and quash those threats
the only good terrorist is one who's dead
and you know that peace can only be won
when we've blown 'em all to kingdom come
chorus
well c'mon on Wall Street
don't be slow
why this is war a-go-go
there's plenty good money to be made
by supplin' the Army with the tools of the trade
just hope and pray that if we drop the bomb
they drop it on the doers of wrong
chorus
well c'mon mothers throughout this land
pack your boys off to fight Saddam
c'mon pops, don't hesitate
send 'em off before it's too late
be the first one on your block to have your boy come home in a box
and it's 1, 2, 3, what're we fighting for?
don't ask me, I don't give a damn.
...
(originally by Country Joe & the Fish)

Put something out there, it comes back threefold
(at least that's the lesson that Wiccans are told),
but that's not quite physics, and ain't karma, neither,
at least as defined by most Hindu believers

For karma is action, like physics is too,
and the theory of multiples does not seem true;
it's more like an equal return for a thing
(which has a more obvious, logical ring)

But there is also trinity in this bounceback law
(but not simply more of the same, that is flawed)
for karma is measured in three different ways,
interpreted wrongly in the Rede's early days ...

When you perform something, a good or a bad,
first, you are affected, made happy or glad,
and then, you have also revised the whole world
(because we're connected, like oyster and pearl)

And lastly, you've altered the future world, too -
your reincarnations will pay what they're due;
and your line of descendants will live with the change,
so the law of three perhaps does not seem so strange.

If you pollute a lake, you don't have drinking water,
neither does your neighbor nor your unborn daughter;
That, my friends, is the truth behind the three -
and that is the basis of my own belief.

13 FEB 2003

It is so fragile
our tenuous grip on life,
this vision we use

this vision we use:
we see only the surface
with our eyes open

with our eyes open
there is so much beyond sight
that remains unseen

that remains unseen
which fills the sense of wonder
without touching us

without touching us
the whole world is illusion,
without our presence

without our presence
the universe continues
not missing a thing

not missing a thing,
just simply being aware;
that is true living.

12 FEB 2003

Why IS a raven like a writing desk?

Perhaps it is because like the raven, who mythologically represents a messenger of sorts, not the gatekeeper like the blackbird, but a courier carrying secret letters of transit that enable his passage beyond the borders of this brightly lit world, into the misty mountainous regions of the Otherworld, the writing desk symbolizes a conduit to another place and time, where hours and miles have different meanings, and where illusions become real and the real becomes mere wisps of ephemera.

The raven is a deliverer of news of great portend, that is conveyed simply to change one's current agenda by preempting one's standard broadcast with some bulletin of import. The writing desk too is about change - for the moment you have begun to examine something in enough detail to actually trouble with transcription of the experience you have already changed that something. The experiment has been altered, as the process of observation becomes part of the observed world.

Too, both raven and writing desk are scavengers, capable and willing of devouring almost anything. Both will indiscriminately use any substance for sustenance.

Work on the soul is busy work - it is unstructured, free-for-all work, meaning long stretches of silence, staring at ceilings, talking nonsense syllables to listening walls and trees; it is caterwauling at unseen demons, driving all night to the Devil's radio, running and stomping and stretching and rolling in a ball in the corner of the bathroom weeping.

It is about space and time precisely because it has no space and time. It is finding that quiet place despite the intrusion of the outside world, beyond the realm of the noise, of the clutter, of the trains and automobiles that ceaselessly interrupt the silence of humming lights and appliances and blood forced through stretching veins and arteries.

It is hard and laborious effort that requires concentration, yet not that concentration of mind locked onto a single idea (at least not our definition of single signifying one small isolated incident on a palette of far more colorful and homogenous choices).

The work of the soul is to encompass and devour the cacophonous interruptions of space and time and yet let them live on, unaffected by our presence. When we search to find that secret, dark, silent place, we find that it is not secret, for it is populated by strangers we greet by name - our illusions of self, of others, of the two intertwined and the two in distant mirrors; not dark, for it is bathed in light - not a light directed outward so the faces of our "oppressors" are brought into view, or so the flaws of our acquaintances and lovers can be more closely examined, but a searchlight, microscopic in its laser-like precision, where we are brought face to face with our own illusions, preconceived notions, and false and hasty impressions of our belief system, a system which compared to the new view we have encountered of the universe may be reduced to babbling, meaningless chaos; nor is it silent, for with our outer eyes closed, we hear the tick and clanging of the universal clock of time, the rasping of the hinges of space, which we can only eradicate with our own song - which we can scream or whimper, call or challenge, whistle, hum or orate, knowing that our voice is but a pin drop in the giant chorus of our existence singing from before our birth beyond time until now.

from The Secret Undertown Ministry, Pseudographic Xenophoria, 1994

For those who are interested in this sort of thing, here's what is currently on my reading list (we just got Barnes & Noble gift cards for birthday presents, and I couldn't resist running out and purchasing new things)...

Perfume (Patrick Suskind) - translated from German, this is a very strange psychological murder mystery about a man born with no scent, who interprets the world by smell, and ends up becoming a master perfumer and a distiller of human essence (yep, that's where the murder comes in). A fascinating book, until recently out of print but now available again.

The Story of my Experiments with Truth: The Autobiography of Mohandas K. Gandhi - a very humble retelling of Gandhi's early life (basically up to his return to India from South Africa and the beginning of the Indian Independence struggle). He was very honest about his own faults, and this book was the inspiration for most of the world's civil rights struggles since its publication.

I, Claudius (Robert Graves): I had a friend in high school who was always carrying this book around, but I never read it. I saw the PBS version (I think Derek Jacobi was Claudius?). It's an interesting counterpoint to Gibbon's Decline and Fall, which I'm also reading. And ever since I read the White Goddess, I have loved Graves' writing style and point of view. Trivia: Robert Graves was the first cousin of Lady Olivia Robertson, the founder of the Fellowship of Isis.

On a cold morning, like this one has turned out to be,
it crunches lightly underfoot, the crisp grass tines
bending to earth with each soft step,
wetting shoes with a coating of earth-cloud-moisture.
It glazes the car's windshield, seeming so permanent
at first glance.

Yet with the sweep of a sleeve, it is gone;
In a few moments of first rising sun, it is dissipated.
The world is made of moisture such as this appears to be,
it quenches the thirst of genius and madmen
in the early hours of dawn; the veneer of parched desert
can be peeled away, and the sweet, cool wet marrow
of life can be trickled on the tongue,
a tempting treat to feed the mind's desiccated spaces.
Yet with the raising of a fist, it is gone;
In a few moments of burning books, it is destroyed.

On a cold morning, like so many in the past have been,
there are those who fail to embrace the waking world
that waits, patient, for our tentative acknowledgment,
offering nourishment for our ravenous souls.

They see only thoroughfares to transport human need,
a path to wear down.

Yet with the touch of a breeze, it is gone;
In a few moments of senseless violence, it is desolated.

11 FEB 2003

A simple set of fourteen locking lines,
so deceptively easy to flesh out,
like an arrangement of flowering vines
carefully ordered and then pruned; no doubt

like any small thing, limited in scope,
providing only a distillation
of an image, a strand of the whole rope,
a Polaroid of a situation:

that is the sonnet cast in a nutshell -
a delicate song that lasts so briefly;
for the poet, an exercise of skills,

to encapsulate time, and do it well,
so the tiny picture is framed neatly,
hinting at the whole world in focused stills.

10 FEB 2003

If you let it up from your tiptoes,
vibrating, tingling there along your spine,
and wait patiently as it slowly grows
gathering strength from your soul, like a vine

drinking in the marrow of your being,
not letting your mind confuse your fingers,
but finding that inner voice, and freeing
it into that empty space that lingers

behind and inside your deep inner core,
a single held note, left to resonate,
can explain more than fast scales and "cool" shit.
Done right, there is no need for any more;

if it is the truth, never hesitate.
Some can only play circles around it.

08 FEB 2003

What happens to the forming butterfly
stuck fast inside its cage of flesh and bone
when the long months and years go slowly by,
and unlike its siblings, who have all grown

wings and completely left those old cocoons
behind, instead is forced to fit beneath
a cracked, damaged shell that was cast too soon?
Does the crippled one live with disbelief,

or instead create a magical world
where other small creatures may find some joy?
Do its fellow flower-birds know this one,

if it becomes an adult, will surely
die? It must always stay a freakish boy,
or its suffocating mask will have won.

In reality, we all stand naked
and alone on the dark edge of a cliff;
if sometimes, fearlessness cannot be faked,
that is not shameful. It is not as if

we are the only fools who shiver
when faced with the specter of some unseen
fate, or hesitate at a great river
not knowing just what lies waiting downstream.

Any time you cut beneath the surface,
there will be a wound, and you will draw blood
(and some will flinch and turn their faces from you,
not understanding the surgeon's purpose,
nor seeing their own cold flesh caked with mud);
those with their own pale scars will see you through.

06 FEB 2003

It is never quite what you expected
(after all, there are no maps or guidebooks)
in that place inside where resurrected
illusions are hiding in each dark nook;

What they taught you regarding self-knowledge
(the meaning of a man, our true nature),
those endless books and long years of college,
convincing you that you were so mature

is often just a load of worthless crap.
When you really do start finding yourself,
what you first see is not easy to take -

it's not Nirvana that falls in your lap,
but the shattered fragments of something else -
the spent cocoon each caterpillar makes.

06 FEB 2003

It was bitter cold there along the shore
as we took our exercise this morning,
the icy wind making our half hour seem more
than endless. As rainclouds began forming

we kept our steady pace while turning back,
watching as crows gathered under a tree
to glean through some refuse, their coats of black
dark and dull against the green grass levee.

Fingers pulled up for warmth into our sleeves,
holding hands through the stretchy, thick cotton,
we walked quickly back to the waiting car.

But I was loath to get inside and leave;
for quiet shared times are oft forgotten,
and they give us pause to be who we are.

05 FEB 2003

Nothing holds a shape without its shadow,
that place at the edge where the lines are rough,
and sharp defined shapes blur in a limbo
made of innuendo and the small stuff

that, in shades of gray, fills up silent space,
shifting with the slightest movement of light
to redefine the angle of a face,
moving what was once unseen into sight.

Although the bright surface catches the eye,
reflecting color and initial form,
in the absence of light a thing is made;

in the dark essence, lurking there behind
those sunlit curves and corners of the norm,
the universe's palette is arrayed.

04 FEB 2003

Where we are right now is the end result
of all the choices made throughout our days;
and while we blame the universe, the fault
is mostly our own. The universe pays

in the same currency we freely spend
(often on credit without awareness
of the huge debt we will owe in the end).
It must be said, though, in all fairness,

when we ask the universe for a thing,
that we offer what we hope is a fair
trade, but don't really have any clue
of its opinion of our reckoning;
shunning our sacrifice, it looks elsewhere,
taking in its own coin balances due.

04 FEB 2003

Having What You Want

There is so much stuff out there in the world;
an endless flow of new things to acquire
can occupy one's thoughts until they swirl
in a mad jumble, or build a great spire

out of sight in the distant heights of space.
Yet, we imagine from all this rubble
that one can pick through, at a rapid pace,
finding our heart's desires with no trouble.

Surrounded by bright flashing lights selling
the latest fads and mass-produced trinkets,
insisting they know our innermost wish,

it is often so hard, simply telling
what is out there that is what we think it
appears to be, let alone is our bliss.

Wanting What You Have

If each small possession, each acquaintance
gathered in the space of a lifetime's span -
those little things often held by only chance,
not according to some master game plan,

having a sacred meaning to oneself
alone - were to be ranked and then compared
to those treasures out of reach on a shelf
(that just gather dust and cannot be shared,

like ephemeral wisps of hoarding dreams
that pale and fade, offering nothing real),
each tiny blessing would be worth much more

than the unnecessary wants that seem
so pressing. Their value is that they feel
wholly alive, and are worth living for.

03 FEB 2003

In our house, we refer to February 1st (Candlemas, Imbolc, Oimlec, etc.) as the Festival of the Seeds. It is the day when spring first begins, when the world initially begins its thaw after the long months of winter, and when the birds and insects begin their annual return to the world as it wakes from its hibernation and starts the process of germination and rebirth. In the old way of reckoning the seasons, spring began on February first and ended on May first, with March 21 (the vernal equinox) being the midpoint of the spring season rather than its beginning.

As the earth begins its slow return, shifts
beneath its heavy cloak of dreamless sleep
and starts to awaken, a dull weight lifts
from the air; and where they are buried deep

and secret in the bosom of the soil,
those tiny remnants of the season past
shake loose from their hibernating still coil
and with new green tendrils of growth, break fast.

Winter's night at last has released the dawn;
and the essence of life is newborn,
its subtle fragrance seeping through each pore

like a light, fine perfume that lingers on
the morning breeze and grows strong, its scent warmed
by the waxing sunlight of spring once more.

02 FEB 2003

There are some that say a routine is stale,
a repetition of empty action
that mimics true motion, one that pales
when compared to the instant reaction

of the soul to each moment as it comes,
fleeting and ephemeral as faint scent
on a night breeze. True, some often succumb,
wishing to distill a sacred event

into a formula that, like a false
panacea, loses it potency
so quickly, leaving only a shadow.
But routine awareness is like a waltz;

knowing the steps does not ever mean
forgetting you are dancing; even though
you have heard the same song a thousand times,
it does not grow tired or seem obscure;

and well-worn verses with familiar rhymes
when held in the mouth like an old Latour
are reinterpreted with each new taste,
their meanings deepened with each fresh use.

While to merely cite by rote is to waste
the mind's energy, to simply refuse
any framework, seeking only chaos
without the borders that define it, too,

lessens the scope of one's experience.
But a good ritual's effect is lost
unless its spirit fills each thing you do,
the sole proof of which is self-evidence.

02 FEB 2003