what if I let him kill me
without fear or threat of retaliation?
I feel the bullet rip through my flesh.
I dream:
My body lies on the pavement
a subject of much scrutiny and concern
by various members of the legal fraternity
(I never raised that much interest
in all my living days!)
The gunman is arrested and taken away.
I dream:
As he sleeps in his cell awaiting trial
the gunman dreams his own dream
and thinks beyond base survival instincts
to love, and what would that be like!
He is touched by the sacredness of life
and awakens from his life-long sleepwalk.
I conclude:
A passing that brings such a gift
is not a death but a celebration.
For he is now free to walk a new path:
fear no longer rules his thoughts;
the urge to kill no longer haunting
the shadowy corners of his life.
Was it a fair trade?
Fighting Fire With Fire
How long must we believe
that justice can really be served
by striking back, fist for fist...?
Do we really need to defend ourselves
against anything at all?
Isn't there a universal law that says:
he who inflicts pain on the innocent
must receive the same in return?
So what then should we do
when faced with uncontrolled anger,
with irrational hatred
that threatens our very life?
Fighting fire with fire
only causes anger and hate
to mould the world as its always been...
Isn't it time we began to change,
to return love for hate
compassion for anger
turning violence into gentleness
hostility into friendship,
filling all relationships with love
so all may see others as friends?
Finding Paradise
There is a place in every city
where one can get away
from the clutter, the madness;
a place where the air
smells cleaner somehow;
where birds sing songs of joy;
squirrels chatter; coyotes roam
and the sun shines
through sparkling dew-covered webs;
or stained-glass windows;
where one hears whispers
of the breeze through leaves;
or chants of monks or voices of angels;
where one finds peace, tranquillity,
and forgets the world's problems
if only for a few moments.
Each city hides such a mystery:
I know this; I have found one where I live;
a place to get away
when the system's stranglehold
would choke my life;
a place where I touch earth or heaven
and from whence, renewed
I can face the city's painful cries
without losing my spirit.
To some, it is called a park,
and to some, it's sitting on the dock
and to some, it's a candle-lit vault
in an incense filled ancient church
but it is always the same place...
Free Of Problems
Can we ever reach a point
where unexpected vicissitudes
no longer hound our days?
The ominous storm is brewing closer
and I stand alone
at the edge of time, or so it seems:
but is there salvation in time alone?
Can we ever be free in hope
of something sweet in the future?
Can I escape the rain
by wishing it away for another day?
Dark clouds erase an azure sky;
gale winds bow reeds and whip tree tops;
pounding rains ride upon the winds;
heavy showers pelt the ground:
there is no cover here for my body.
Cold and wet I come to realize
this is the truth of now:
whether the sun shone an hour ago,
whether it will shine an hour from now,
this moment is all I have:
like it or not
this 'present' is the key to life's door.
Freedom
I speak now of freedom;
the 'freedom' to be with whomever you choose,
to some is sacrilegious;
they claim that THEY are better than that,
and show their signed piece of paper, politicians
proudly shove their partner of the moment forward,
express the expected platitudes
about "the wonderful little woman
without whom I wouldn't be here"
and "Oh, I'm so proud of him!"
thus stating that because
they are living in social approval,
all's well with the world and someday, hopefully,
a government with some guts
will round up all those non-conforming
perverts and kill them, they say
so their children can grow up
without having to look upon that horror...
Of course, they don't let their children
look under their mattresses at the "Playboys,"
and they try not to talk too much of past
failed marriages...
and people casually picked up
in the hotel bar when at those conventions,
are never mentioned,
because they see themselves
as the ones that do no wrong.
Government For The People
Governments
do expensive guesswork
based solely
on
vague assumptions
and
unreliable data
of dubious accuracy
provided by
persons of questionable
intellectual capacity
called appropriately
the
bureaucracy.
We
the people
accustomed as we are
to doing everything
with so little
for so long
are now expected
to do the impossible
with nothing:
i.e.,
pay off a national debt
we neither contracted for
nor
received anything from:
baah! baah!
We
the sheep
Grandfather’s Dream
I feel Grandfather’s spirit
in the wind that moves the branches,
that flutters leaves of broad-leaved maple.
I watch the sun rise over barren land,
that was Grandfather’s farm,
a farm he struggled to keep;
by taking a job up north,
by surviving with so little, for so long.
Heavy equipment carve up the earth,
fill the tranquil air with industrial noise,
uproot the trees I once played in,
destroy precious streams I once waded
and washed my hands in.
They build a “gated community”;
a prison for the wealthy:
was this what Grandfather envisioned
when he bought this land long ago?
Ruthless developers connive
to leave the remaining family
with empty pockets and broken hearts:
was this the work of the universe
unfolding as it should?
I will remember the years
I was connected
with the life
that was this sacred place.
I will remember the simple things
that awakened me to greater knowing.
I’ll drift away from here
to dream a better, greater dream.
Humans Not Of Earth
Drillers of liquid black gold,
miners of shiny diamonds or black coal;
builders of glass penthouses above the clouds,
collectors of crucified butterflies:
Who are you who cannot feel?
You pollute your water and your air;
blow up big holes in the gentle soil;
you kill this and that at will
with a legal permit for show and tell:
who are you whose touch is death?
You destroy a living world
as if you had a home to return to,
not plundered; not abused, not diseased
somewhere in the vast universe.
Who are you to be so smug?
When this Earth lies in rack and ruin;
when you lie gasping for air and water;
will your alien parents sweep down
in shiny mother ships to rescue you?
Who are you to be so blind?
Aliens on this planet is who you are;
children of pirates, thieves and murderers:
you have not changed; you have not learned -
this world no longer abides your presence:
Pray the ships are not long coming!
And pray your ancient worlds
were not destroyed by others just like you
when they passed by...
I Want More
Why do we want a job?
Or need a job?
What is the motivation in the quest;
in staying with this labour?
Some would say "lucky"of the one
who finds and holds a job
that gives both enjoyment and satisfaction;
when positive energy flows out of the effort;
when it seems society even benefits
from such work.
And luckier, indeed, if it pays well...
But if success becomes the driving force;
when the work pays greater dividends
and possessions, prestige, power
accumulate as a result,
how quickly the motivation changes
from one of "I would give more"
to one of "I want more!"
In our society, 'tis not the labour
that's counted as valuable
but the amount of money it returns:
for success is counted in money earned,
not in satisfaction received,
much less in gratification given.
Forgotten are the lessons of the past:
that one's honor is tied directly
to one's willingness to serve.
If Only, If Only
If we could
see the sun shining
beyond the pettiness of our "happy" days.
If we could
feel the tranquillity
of a mountain day in Fall.
If we could
sense the cleansing
of a passing storm in Winter.
If we could
experience peace
near a blue-green mountain lake,
would we not come to realize
the presence of nature
always within us
despite the raucous claims
of our man-made traps?
If we could
abandon our fears, our doubts,
our reliance on
anthropomorphic "gods"
wrapped in assorted false laws.
If we could
cast off as outworn clothing
our human pride