Sunday, May 13, 2012

Haphazard People

Mostly pretty ugly, pretty useless, pretty ignorant,
not pretty at all.
But how can I discount them when unexpectedly
somebody kind, unreasonably wise, a vision of grace,
unbearably lovely.
How could we account for miracles, unlikely odds
coming through?
Random chaos is enough for human ingenuity
to engineer you or me, or any soldier joe
or social geek.
Who's to say which or any of us is the freak?
I like my women half-crazed, strong, and vulnerable.
I like someone to cry with.
I like someone who laughs me out of my blues.
I like that she could choose,
and freely cleaves to me.
Haphazard people.
Unplanned lives.
What are the chances we might get it right?

September 4, 2011

in the rhythm

Shell the peanuts.
Scrub and cut up the potatoes.
Knead the dough.
Pluck and chop the herbs.
Music in the fixing, in the mixing,
each practiced movement.
Music of each meeting,
each handing on, a dance.

Caught up in cogent vibration,
safe in sound, lightly bound,
guides to construe sense from sensation,
turns tasks into merry play.
Easy to commune with tune, tonality, glee.
Such fun these school days can be!

Back in the forests, the caves,
the glades,
elemental chemistries exchange,
sonic waves call wanderers home;
soothing night fears with lullaby,
comradely cheer.
Know us by our song --
music we've carried through
long brave trails, travailed years.
If the Word is our binding charm,
our song is our vow,
ever renaming our power.
Engaging, blending, restorative potion;
energy, purpose, pleasure of motion
enthused by
humanity's muse.

The people united
hanging together to avoid
being hung
one by one.
Growing their rhythm, get carried along in a
strengthening hum
tuned to common cause.
Shouting poetic, wrapped
together, in a banner of furious sound.
The people, excited, spring in their step,
clear on their ground, can not be kept down.

Entrapped, entranced
Who is to be gained
by loosening the ties?
What you remains
released into surprise?
Feel, beneath your eyes.
Ease into the rhythm.
Blessed familiarity --
heartbeat through pulsing memory.
Breathe, connect with the real --
the gift of air, of skin,
of night, of chance encounters,
of ringing melodies
strong enough
to call to potency
your most precious name.

There's always a child
to play
loved and protected
through chilling curiosity,
worries over being too big or
clashing to fit in.
Little one, listen:
Condensed to soft-voiced
loving companion
on treacherous icy walks
in winter rain
embraces from within.
Play and be heard, protected,
assured of unsuspected glory.
Song imagines your story.

Surging through heart,
our ineffable beauty

September 2011


It's not that God is dead:
God is irrelevant.
Some ancient ancestor who dated
your ancestress for a day;
then off, sailing the cosmic stream.
Even if that gleam in your eye,
the quirky way you smile,
were His,
they're yours now.

sept. 17, 2011

the media is the message

Drunk on koolaid.
Sputter junkie cultural jargon --
a separate, unequal, reality
you choose.
Soggy comfort of misery.
Slobby, whiney;
lobbing fouled barbs to amuse.
Cheap deterioration,
failure explained:
Not mine!  The way of the world.
Ascertain blame by direction
in which orator's stones are hurled.
Can't look back, or around
to track the blood on the ground.
Life seeps in pain.
Drunk in a pool of despair.
Left to sleep, unaware,
drowning in caustic rain.

The Revolution will not be televised
The Revolution will be online
Because The Times They Are A'Changin'