I can get food for this man and his family?
Oh no, we preach the gospel (They said)
It's not our job to look after the destitute
There'd be no money for the ministry.
Ah, I see, of course (I said)
I let the anger in my heart flow out silently
no worse off for blessing than for cursing.
Ixioca-Li
"Rage, O winds!
Thunder mighty seas!
Crash upon the rocks of time;
defeat them, grain by grain;
each a memory
scattered with purpose
upon the vast expanse
of my watery world
where lie the remnants
of golden Atlantis."
Long ago, but in this past;
in pouring rains and pounding surf
a Mermaid clung tightly
to cold, dark granite rocks
for days seemingly without end,
her fingers dug painfully
upon the cutting edges
of Earth's young stone.
The rains lessened with time:
she felt the changes
in the swollen tides;
she tasted the winds
full of the rot of exposed death.
But the air became clear--
Earth's mighty thirst
quenched by the deluge
and she knew then
life would once again
drape in emerald hues
the alien lands of Earth.
Her time had come:
she dreamt a soft sandy shore
under a protective cliff
of soft white stone
and there brought forth
her first born from the sea
while a Mer-Lin watched
in deep amazement.
In My Search
Out late at night, walking the streets
searching for pocket change
in aluminum cans, plastic, glass bottles.
In my search I see the police,
I was taught are heartless, uncaring people:
but tonight one policewoman chose
to show me where I could find
lots of empty beer cans...
Such a simple gesture,
yet leaving me glowing with joy.
Police officers are what they are,
the product of a society living in fear;
sometimes they get a bad rap.
They enforce a law; they play the system=s game;
they hired on to referee, make sure the game
is played by the rules, and that
is what they get paid for.
If we don’t like it this way, there is a better one.
We don’t need rules, referees or a System,
to make us get along:
may I suggest what the policewoman demonstrated?
Unconditional love, no judgment?
Or... is that too simple? Too frightening?
Losing Sight
As steel filings on a magnet
are overwhelmed by its power,
so are we drawn into the currents
of other people's forces;
draining our strength,
feeding their hunger for control,
causing us to lose sight
of our sense of direction.
We must find the strength
to contain this hunger for power
--this lust for control--
so stifling to creativity:
We cannot long survive
being thrust in strange rivers:
to do nothing
is to become flotsam
on the sea of time.
Asters
I walked
(barefoot)
a soft field of
dancing purple asters
under an afternoon
waning summer sun
in moss
still damp with dew
purple
turning white light
to gold
the royal color
preferred of those
who like to rule
but
powerless and
(barefoot still)
I walked a gentle field
of purple asters
in my child’s mind
ruler
of
the
universe
Sand To Sand
Dust to dust, ashes to ashes,
so it was, so it is, so all must go.
But that is all so wrong—it's
dirt to dirt, isn't it? Wait, no: more accurately,
sand to sand. Each death, a grain of sand;
each grain of sand, another death.
Sand! Sand that blows in the winds;
collects at the bottom of the seas;
piles up in dunes on endless shores
and the deserts grow apace
from baked ground gaping blindly
as each day another garden dries
and brings more death, creates more
sand: such a healthy, deadly growth.
A desert was made of a world
and not from movement,
but from death—from billions of deaths;
uncounted deaths spanning endless time
and the sands whisper and slither
through sun-baked cracks, worm holes;
fill beetle tracks and crickets' holes.
never needing to ask permission.
A proper home for those destroyed,
are the sands of planet Earth
hissing out awaited revenge
upon the quasi-living knowing naught,
devoid of understanding remaining.
It's as if it was written in a Book
that so it must be, and that, forever.
The Potter's Hands
He moves the wooden paddle
that spins the wheel
that the clay rests on:
clay he extracted with care
from the bosom of mother earth.
Hands move gently;
fingers probe and push,
shaping a piece suitable
to honour the imperfect
which fills his world
within creation's love.
This new piece is not just an object
of visual beauty,
but a burst of spiritual energy
reflecting an image
revealed from spirit.
Once it is complete
it will forge new thoughts,
give birth to new experiences;
fill life's soul with compassion;
its wild heart with love.
Emerging from the wheel,
it truly is a rare sight to behold,
strong and firm, perfect
in every way, flowing
from the potter's devoted hands
the ultimate gift
to a heart longing for bliss.
The potter gives the breath of life
and she runs from his hands
to laugh among the daisies...
Release!
Fading
my outer light
becomes
the soil of earth
birthing new life
flourishing
in nature's gentle
hands.
Free
my spirit
becomes
the sun's radiance
the wind's breath
over earth and sea
I journey
I am
and
death
thank you!
It Was At That Time And Long, Long Ago
A black sky reluctantly reflects faded lights:
it could be harbinger of an icy Prairie drizzle
or maybe a blizzard of snow, who’s to say
all he knows for certain is
it’s all the colder because
this is the city
and it’s only been a month since he left the country
when the leaves were turning red and yellow
and through denuded hedgerows one could see
the combines hungrily searching for late harvests.
Without plan he walks along a poorly lit street,
unsure, thinking perhaps he shouldn’t be there at all
thinking also that not being there would mean
not hearing, or seeing; not observing
and remaining ignorant of a way of life
billions experience, endure and he knows nothing of.
He passes a bar, a drunk staggers past him,
he dances out of his swaying path
to be rewarded with a round of curses,
Get used to it he thinks to himself under an uncertain light,
‘it’s the city, don’t let it intimidate,
and forget the ‘always ready to offer help’
for although they need it, they don’t want it
for they are afraid, and their fear has turned to anger:
a black, involuntary anger cultured in blind hatred.
He passes an apartment, a man is yelling at a door,
pacing the wet cement walk on the ground floor.
A woman shouts obscenities and a child wails.
Lewd swearing accompanies verbal threats;
a door slams and the man backs away,
turning slowly back toward the bar—his second home
and in that moment he becomes a leaning shadow
beside a creosoted power pole—the unseen watcher
hands clenched tightly, heart full of tears
watching the drunk going to keep faith with his bottle.
He walks on into sprawling suburbs of row houses
that all look the same silhouetted in the dark,
stunted trees and shrubs creating ambiguous shadows
on dried-grassed lawns waiting to hide under snow.
A dog barks behind a fence, a cat hisses and snarls,
and on the far side of the river a whistle blows
a shift change at the brewery.
Further along the broken sidewalk
and frost heaved pavements of un-kept streets
a row of slum-lord housing outfaces him,
dark phantoms protecting their sleeping ghosts
for another night—if no one comes by, if no one shoots.
A light smell of garbage endures the cold,
mixed with spilled gasoline fumes from a wreck
without front wheels or doors—a sad old Buick
that has already told a story no one remembers
until now—for he listens and it tells him
of the drugged up teens in the back seat
and the engendered child—now dead.
It was at that time and long, long ago
that the stranger walked a city’s cold-shouldered streets
and sought to see into the heart of the people,
but found only fear and rejection.
It was at that time and long, long ago
that the stranger turned from the city’s unfriendly streets,
looking for other places where the people lived
but everywhere he went he found the people
busy building another part of the city,
buying and selling shares in corporate misery.
It was at that time and long, long ago
that the stranger left the city with a sad sigh,
returning to the country where he died quietly
just before the people came with another section of the city
to establish themselves in