A Song to the Unsung

These are the ones who dare,
these gloved old men with plastic bags
who roam the lanes on foot
while I drive by,
for they are more aware
of the adorning, aleatoric splendor
of the flashing crinkled cans,
the cups and wrappings
scorning those who prized them
for the moment, flying
to their rest, behind.

But now the countryside stripped bare
in naked challenge to the passers by
invites its heroes, still unsure
who they may be,the revellers who flee
before their minds take rest
upon their artifice, or those
who prize the green and see the art
of the pristine.
~

My Doppelganger

I've seen him only once
and then but feet away
outside the streetcar window;
whether he saw me,
or fled my sight deliberately
I cannot say, however

I still sense him near,
and might it be
that I shall meet him only
on the day I die--
some kind of irony in store?
Yet how I wish
there might be more,

that I might probe his psyche
as he brushes mine.
And does he pine
for yet another glimpse of me
confirming that October day
some fifty years ago
when I was borne away?
~

Is this the America we want?

http://www.bushflash.com/14.html

A challenge

to English teachers, poets, and linguists:

The language is in great need of a genderless, neutral pronoun. Poets must always compromise when referring to the deity, or when identifying anyone in the third person, and not wishing to confine that identification to gender. It is a limitation for which the time has come to be resolved.

The advent of the internet is that opportunity. Through lists, academicians from everywhere may confer together, make suggestions, have them analyzed, and eventually reach a concensus. What a boon to writers and thinkers that would be! I believe that this impediment to consistency and precision can easily be overcome without rancor, and virtually without prejudice. Yes, I have a few suggestions of my own, if anyone cares, but this is not the time to get into that. Ladies and gentlemen, heroines and heros. distinguished minds everywhere, may we begin? It is in our power to get this done. If there are obstacles, they are insignificant. Let us be consumed with the opportunity, not the obstacles. We can do it. Why wait? What better time?

Dialogue with a ghost

To the unseen and unknown presence that I made
I pour out all the doubt, the hopeless pemutations
of my thought, the dark intangibles, ideas strong enough
to tie the hours together and make of them pretenders
to a faded throne...a magisterium that everyone ignores.

My will is for some flesh upon these spirit bones,
an argument out loud, a sounding board
would near suffice, and I could carry you along
within a small attractive case, and bring you out
when no one else would care to pay attention.

Name your price!
And I will pay it joyfully.
Insulting, you may be; I do not need to win,
but only hammer at a patient ear
the inspiration of a simian mind
on impulse leaping out before remembering
the bars...and leaping...leaping.

Howl at me! I am your god.
How dare you fade
like those more proper shades
who first conspire with fame
before they take their places
in the heroes' books. and dignified
by fear. Speak now, or you shall have
no name at all.

I must conclude
that gods don't have much fun
with their creations.
Mine is such a disappointment.
Were he real, then all my thoughts
themselves might be more shy
and less inclined to play,
or fantasize,
or fight for me alone,

but merely drone inside my head
like stubborn bees
until the frosts descend
and by the winter fire
begin again.
~

Mind over Matter

His body sat there, in its chair, unmoved,
but for the whims of those who care an hour
or so, until the time clock sets them free,
yet he has left them long ago, his stare
misleading lesser travelers who stand
in elevators and in trains and are
quite unaware of their imprisonment
in other chairs less mobile, but much more
confining to the mind.

It is a question, truly, who may claim
to pity whom, and where the markers are
along the way. of when the watchers are
the watched, of how ideas play upon
the screens before or just behind their eyes.

And do we patronize a liberty
we may not know? Are there true, wondrous lands
to which the tiny particles within
alone may go? The Steven Hawkings of
the universe depart at will aboard
these spirit ships, invisible in port,
and then upon returning will report
the finding of an India that we
had never seen, or never ever dreamed
~

Corcovado

The plane approaching Rio sights
The God-man on the mountain
in the sunlight-- that cold tremor
just between the shoulders strikes;
we see the arms borne up by love
and reaching to the traveler,
the city, and the earth.

Then from below, the pilgrims mount
the heights to see the features
of the Cristo...first, the railway,
then the stairs climb higher
in the quest--
anticipation, breath and blood
now pounding in their hearts--
there comes the turning at the parapet
to watch the mists brush by his face,
gauze curtains breaking to reveal
that intermittent, scowling
countenance of stone,
once emerging in austerity
beneath the mallet, now
beyond the shadow of Elijah's peak
is seen again, and lost,
else one would need to look away--
before this stern,and re- transfigured God.

The city plays beneath his watch
just as the drama of
an immanent, transcendent deity
erupts in silent declamation, then to part
in a reprise of his ascension
in the cloud.
~

The Celery Fields

Madre de Dios! Morning already?
The mud, still damp upon my pantalones--
how can I face another day?
My niña is so thin.
Two little oranges are not enough for her,
before she rides the bus to the escuela.
I must work harder, still--
hacer algunos dollars more
hacer su vida para el mejor,
si puedo.

I remember
when like my niña, I was young..
We did not work so hard,
y sobre las alturas
every breeze was cool...
not like this steaming
California campo
by the sea.

I remember, as we worked,
how we were singing,
'De la sierra morena, Cieli...'
Now there is no heart, no time to sing.
El jefe blanco will be angry
if I make him late.

The sun is high upon this field.
My back hurts me so much
from bending. Ay!
En muchas horas I can sleep again
and stop remembering.
Jesús amado, en mi sueño
solamente, take me home
............................................
to my brown mountain.
~

Voices

Cautious spirits test the waters of my world
and call to me....then go away.
Perhaps they are perfecting inter-mind
devices, just like psychic Edisons,
Marconi's revenant in breakthrough just
for me, or else perhaps
celestial wallflowers, much too diffident
to follow up my name with headlines
from beyond the grave.

Am I their snuffling guinea pig?---
their crude receptor in this mass of flesh
that yearns for finely-tuned antennae
(please God, invisible,)
and color pictures if I may,
upon my mental screen?
No, I shall stay the course,
though I know not the hazards of its path,
the travelers,or the design,
nor may I fine
their metaphysical intent.

The reader knows, I speak with some regret,
for there are those who will decide that I
bear watching, lest my touch upon their world
begin to fade too much, that I be too
entranced of waves they cannot, will not see.
Though I may fear the world
beyond white doors, I still invite
my curtained friends to part the night
with energy no instrument
that science met may sense just yet,
I iterate...just yet
~

Regime Change

How like a child to know that being free
to taste the wind, is the unbidden source
of art, of what life means, that joy is there.
How fair, a thousand wheels above the earth
that sing upon the hills, that gifted from
the air, relay its strength and redirect its power.

How much of truth that trees may breathe again,
that fish may frolic in the ripples that
the stones create in flashing mountain streams,
that caribou will graze upon a plain
though far away, still undefiled.

How deep the melancholy of the earth
to learn the incarnation went awry
and it was man who rose up from the sod,
a metamorph, a true sardonic sire,
an avaricious god.
~

The Doll House (revised)

Behind the scaled-down images there lurk
the scaled down dreams of future lives-- perhaps
of incarnations silently recalled
by little girls with vision far less blind
than little boys, who would forsake the gate
and scarcely see the whitewashed picket fence
along Peace Lane.

We walked together, she and I, and gained
or lost a century without a care,
then pausing there untouched by age or time,
were suddenly at home, and though it was
too much inclined to the postiche and far
too lovely, she and I could then perform
a step into dimensions that
I only thought I knew.

Of course it was a given, she would lead
me to another view, though I protest
a movie-set facade so much a part
of someone else's dreams, for it spoke more
of me than comfort would allow. I saw
a book of life in which the pages mocked
my own somnambulistic journey home,
my own defense against reality.

And then we saw the open side, and there
the little rooms cut out.showed little beds
and chairs that may be moved about, but strange...
the tiny people always stayed away
as if the president would come to call,
and they are suddenly unworthy.

There the little souls might sleep
or sip at tea with giants watching, if
they dared, but no, the house is empty, much
too quiet, too pristine, and even presidents
would presidentially demur.

She took my hand, and asked me if
I like it. I, too, broke the silence, "Yes.
I think it's grand. Might it be one that you
would live in?" "No, it's beautiful
but never home enough,
for me."
~

Isn't it time we learned from "the troops?"

http://oldamericancentury.org/dalt1052.htm

Meet.......and help, the Bendermans!

http://www.bendermandefense.org/

(if this link doesn't open for you when you click it, please
try copying it, and pasting it into your address bar. Then
it seems to work for sure)

And we are the good guys?

Click here

Sonnet to a Lifetime

They laughed at one another as they threw
their mortar boards aloft, and dared to kiss
the girl goodbye, though she had spurned them in
the dry years underneath the towers, high
above their academic rounds. Now boys
no more, and war much brighter than their lust
for adolescent loveliness, the bus
and train will take them to a new domain
where pleasure girls will lie for them, compressed
in six short weekends hence, until possessed
with skill to kill, men pack their gear to fly
across the globe and die in puzzlement,
identified, and boxed and neatly laid
to rest beneath a cool and restless shade.
~

Tribute to Gertrude Stein

Three in a tree agree
to visualize a life of strife,
to realize
the hour of power
within
The Foshay Tower*
at noon
on Sunday
noon on Sunday
noon.

*This building, modeled on an obelisk similar to the Washington Monument, is in Minneapolis, a city that claims to be situated on the northern tundra, in a state called Minnesota. While this territory is too isolated to be verified, the name is said to be of Indian origin, although some residents claim that their Viking ancestors who crossed the area several hundred years ago in a drunken stupor, probably first enunciated the word as an oath, when they kept running into lakes filled with bathing Moose and slippery fish called "pickerel." They boiled the fish in a solution of lye and stagnant lake water, and called the results "ludefisk" after a delicacy first obtained from cod. When no one could eat it without retching, they cried out "man-eh soda!" and were not heard from again until spring. Minnesotans are still perceived as curious creatures who have their parades in January, drink nothing but Hamm's beer, and get very angry when someone expresses the opinion that Sauk Center ought really to have been built down in Illinois with the rest of the Sauks. It is still little known that "Sauk sucks" emerged from this controversy.

The Stranger

The train was gone, and then inside, I saw
the old one standing, looking back at me
and out of pity I returned his gaze--
there was an urgency that held me fast.
It seemed that I could hear his thoughts that day,

"Come, stand with me beside the well of years
that I may bear to look at them. They feed
off memories and wisdom second-hand;
their refuse lies upon my aged mind,
and they are all I have."

We stood inside that station sealed from time,
and then I looked for madness in his eyes
and he in mine, until I realized
it was a full-length mirror that I viewed.

"Come look with me, into the well of tears, "
he said...
and turned,
and walked away.
~

How can Democrats ever have a successful future election?

It is very simple:
(1) Insist that all electoral fraud is eliminated (publicize it widely and demand that it be fool-proof)
(2) Build a platform of distinctive issues
(3) Proclaim it loudly, passionately, and repeatedly in every community, at every opportunity, until the voter makes it his own.

Oh yes, a real challenge for sleepy Democrats....but it worked for the Republicans, except that they did it by the reverse of Number 1--encouraging and manufacturing the fraud. In the end, representative government disappears.

My own personal comment is that I think they will not take my advice. Consequently, if we survive until another election, they will lose again. It is a prediction I make with considerable confidence.

Finally: A Republican who asks the right questions

www.truthout.org/docs_05/012905B.shtml

This article

places our current situation in excellent perspective:

www.thedeprogrammer.com/
democracyisflatlined.html

(copy and paste it into your browser)

Mother at 99

It was the prison of her body that
I saw beneath her downward gaze, but more.
Her mind lay in a quiet turbulence,
still knowing something I did not, and still
content to hide it from my probe. Yet my
humanity looked in and saw saturnine
shadows roiling.

I wished that I could cleave them, rearrange
their mad procession, but I knew there was
a reason of its own that drove them on,
defining shapes and setting courses for
a dance of death, perhaps, a mystery
that gifted her alone.

My mother, quite unknowing, peerless, left
me there, amazed by all the wisdom she
alone could understand...that one so near
and still eons away could bear to set
upon a course that left her rolling chair
and every soul she ever knew, behind.
~

Namaste

Here is the yeast of thought that like the dough,
though it become suppressed, is rising still
within two souls whose vision is just one,
then beaten once again becomes the bread,
the mounting God, the sinews shared, the death
of self, the breath of life.
~

You still doubt electoral fraud?

Then please do me, and your country, the laudable service of pointing out the inaccuracies and false assumptions of ALL the points in the following article--and may God bless you for doing so:

http://globalresearch.ca/articles/KEE501A.html

Revision: "Apostrophe to Martin"

(this poem appears farther below, but this version is an update
with assistance from Professor Michael Bennet)

Apostrophe to Martin

Two lifetimes I have seen since yours began
and still I am not free, though haunted by
your words, blood-coated with your passion, seeped
into a history of marching feet.
The cadence of the years still cannot stand
their purity, and you, baton still high,
drum major for a righteousness you saw
that lived in dreams, still march...and I cannot.

It's best you died, perhaps, for you would not
abide another line of voters kept
out in the rain, their voices slain by fraud
and perfidy, their backs still open to
the lash of scorn, and scarce remembering
the wounds that you received when all you asked
was but to love.

That loving didn't get much easier
around this shrinking ball, disfigured from
a restless floor beneath the sea, and for
a while the human heart was stirred, but more
had died from restless greed and naked power
when love was set aside.

There's not much zeal for marching now along
the streets of Washington, and bigotry
is steeped inside. We need to hear your dream
again, to have you sing with us once more,
to pledge anew that we shall overcome

someday.
~

Let flesh retire

Upon reflection
there is something to this business
of a resurrection;
there is space within us set aside
to see the dead alive...to see

the Lord, and yes the least of these,
my sisters, brothers, now no more
imprisoned in their tombs,
nor subject to
that useless yeast
of faith dispensed on sawdust trails
and in the artless tents--the drums
and hoarse evangelists will plead no more,
no more.

"I am the resurrection and the life."
Though slender is the living bond
it is not cut
and what is manifested, too is artless,
though it seemed to die.
A love to imitate the Christ exceeds
the power to crucify.

"Not from the grave, my body
or my blood.
Discover in my words,
the realm of God,
and when you are together
eating,
drinking,
and remembering,
then you will touch,
and see,
and know
that it is I."
~

Our hero Barack Obama---NOT!

voted to confirm Rice today. :-(

All of our pre-election excitement was in vain, my friends. We have us another political hack.

Something you can do

Will you help Senator Boxer get the truth from Condoleeza Rice?
She says:
http://www.pacforachange.com/

and here is where you can sign:
http://ga4.org/campaign/ricehearings

Is Social Security in trouble? See this!

www.eriposte.com/policy/socialsecurity.htm

Apostrophe to Martin

Two lifetimes I have seen since yours began
and still I am not free, though haunted by
your words, blood-coated with your passion, seeped
into a history of marching feet.
The cadence of the years still cannot stand
their purity, and you, baton still high,
drum major for a righteousness you saw
that lived in dreams, still march...and I cannot.

Best that you died
for you would not abide
another line of voters in the rain,
their voices slain by perfidy and fraud
their backs still open to the lash of scorn,
scarce remembering

the wounds that you received
when all you wanted
was to love somebody.

No, it didn't get much easier.
The love around this shrinking ball
got stretched from that one
restless floor beneath the sea,
but many more died
from the restless greed
and lust for naked power
when love was set aside.

Right now there's not much zeal
for marching, Martin.
We need your voice again
to sing with us,
though I am one who still believes
that "We shall overcome

someday."
~

A Dream for Everyman

www.truthout.org/docs_05/011805Z.shtml

Denial

Too much the rapture of an earthbound spring
prevails, surpassing lovers' agony,
too many willows full of glory stream
like fountains there along the path
while history may languish free of art.
The queen of seasons is a harlot blessed
by her eternal youth, a tart redeemed.
Come forth, my muse of airy head and heart,
and dance for me, dissolve my crusted mind
with your inane delight where content flies
away like skittish dreams when darkness dies
and color sweeps away the night.

It is my right to thus betray
a January day.
~

The Doll House (there is a later revision of this poem later on in the blog)

They seem to be for little girls
with scaled-down dreams
of future lives behind
the scaled-down images,
perhaps of incarnations
silently remembered.

There we walked together
down Peace Lane,
skipping back a century
and pausing at a picket fence,
'So this was home,or might have been.'
...a karma touchable
and still untouched
by interrupted time...its colors fresh,
the giveaway too lovely,
too inclined to the postiche,
and yet for little girls,
a step into dimensions
that I only thought I knew.

I knew of course, that she would lead me
to another view, though I would leave
reluctantly, the movie-set facade
entrenched in homemade dreams
for it spoke more of me
than comfort might allow.
For me, no bathos smeared my vision,
rather ghosts of my old friends
were lurking just beyond those walls
and I was one to see
a habitat (though strange to me)
was theirs, perhaps,
a life creating them,
a life, a book, in which the pages called
...one that I hadn't known.
'Wait......just a little more.'

And then the open side
with little rooms cut out.
Little beds and chairs
are moved about...
and tiny people stay away
as if the president
would come to call, and they
are suddenly unworthy.

There they might sleep
or sip at tea
with giants watching,
if they dared, but no,
the house is empty,
much too quiet,
too pristine,
and even presidents
would presidentially demur.

Now she takes my hand,
"Do you like it?"
"Oh, it is grand.
Might it be one you'd live in
someday?"
We agree. "No."
'It's beautiful, but never home enough,
for me.'
~

Là où le temps n'est pas

C'est un voyage
quand je médite,
et avec sa crête je trouve
que je peux atteindre dans la perfection
bien que je ne puisse pas me retourner avec elle,
ni dans ma perception changée
Je jamais suis ainsi disposé
pour changer le monde,
ou même toi, jusqu'au moment
je me rends compte
que tu, aussi, atteignent
... pour me changer.
~

A madman in the White House?

Here's what a psychiatrist has to say:

www.awakeninthedream.com/georgew.html

Fraud?.............What fraud?

If this is your attitude....and if you get your news from
the corporate media.....you need to read this:

www.truthout.org/docs_05/010405Y.shtml

Jane Stillwater's Web Log

Jane Stillwater's Web Log

Want a kick?

Poem: "New World Order" by Meredith Holmes, from Shubad's Crown. © Pond Road Press. Reprinted with permission. (from today's "Writers Almanac with Garrison Keillor)

New World Order

At dusk on January 2nd
we close the curtains,
eat bread and potatoes by candlelight
and burrow to sleep like marmots.
Pulse and respiration slow
not quickening until April.
Driveways go unshoveled
streets unplowed. Snow fills
doorways, sifts into mail slots.
No traffic, no church, no bowling.
Phones are still, offices unlit
and cities as dark as Nebraska cornfields.
All the interstates are deserted
the truckstops silent.
No steak and egg breakfasts
no Johnny Cash
By February, stars are visible
in the night sky over Manhattan and Detroit.
TV stations on the Gulf Coastand in Southern California
report only local weather.
The Industrial North, the Midwest
the Great Plains, the Great Lakes
are all but forgotten.
The continent is a closed door
with a narrow band
of light around the edge.
Everybody is dreaming:
fire, skin, cave, snow.

You still do not think the election was a fraud?

Did you know....?1. 80% of all votes in America
are counted
by only two companies: Diebold and ES&S.http://www.onlinejournal.com/
evoting/042804
Landes/042804landes.htmlhttp://en.
wikipedia.org/wiki/
Dieboldhttp://www.essvote.com/
HTML/about/about.
html2. There is no federal agency with
regulatory authority or
oversight of the U.S. voting machine industry.http://www.commondreams.
org/views02/0916-04.htmhttp://www.
onlinejournal.com/
evoting/042804
Landes/042804landes.html3. The
vice-president of Diebold
and the president of ES&S are brothers.
http://www.americanfreepress.
net/html/
private_company.htmlhttp://www.
onlinejournal.com/
evoting/042804Landes/042804landes.
html4. The
chairman and CEO of Diebold is a major
Bush campaign
organizer and donor who wrote in 2003
that he was "
committed to helping Ohio deliver its
electoral votes to
the president next year."http://www.
cbsnews.com/stories/
2004/07/28/
sunday/main632436.shtmlhttp://
www.wishtv.com/
Global/story.asp?S=16478865.Republican
Senator
Chuck Hagel used to be chairman of ES&S.
He became
Senator in a surprise upset, with votes
counted by ES&S machines.http://www.
motherjones.com/
commentary/
columns/2004/03/03_200.htmlhttp://
www.online
journal.com/evoting/031004Fitrakis/
031004fitrakis.
html6.Republican Senator Chuck Hagel,
long-connected
with the Bush family, was recently caught
lying about his
ownership of ES&S by the Senate Ethics Committee.http://www.blackboxvoting.
com/modules.php?name=News&file=article
&sid=26http://
www.hillnews.com/
news/012903/hagel.aspxhttp://www.
onlisareinsradar.com/
archives/000896.php7. Senator Chuck
Hagel was on a
short list of George W. Bush's
vice-presidential candidates.http://
www.businessweek.com/
2000/00_28/
b3689130.htmhttp://theindependent.
com/stories/052700/
new_hagel27.html8.Kenneth Blackwell
co-chaired George
Bush's Ohio election campaign. As
Ohio secretary of state,
he left no stone unturned to surpress
the democratic vote.http://www.truthout.
org/docs_04
/113004Y.shtml#1
http://www.freepress.org/departments/
display/19/2004/
894http://67.15.90.110/article.pl?sid=
04/10/29/14142199.
Diebold's new touch screen voting
machines have no paper
trail of any votes. In other words,
there is no way to verify that
the data coming out of the machine
is the same as what was
legitimately put in by voters.http://
www.commondreams.
org/views04/0225-05.htmhttp://
www.itworld.com/
Tech/2987/041020evote
states/pfindex.html10.Diebold also
makes ATMs, checkout
scanners, and ticket machines,all of
which log each transaction
and can generate a paper trail.http:
//www.commondreams.
org/views04/0225-05.htmhttp://
www.diebold.com/
solutions/default.htm11.
Exit polls are usually excellent predictors
of election results.
Reputable analyses could not find and
explanation of the
discrepancy between exit polls and
results of the 2004
presidential election.http://ucdata.
berkeley.edu/http://
www.buzzflash.

com/alerts/04/11/Unexplained_exit_
poll_discrep_v00l.
pdfhttp://wwwnytimes.com/2004/
11/23/international/
europe/23ukraine.html?ex=1102245800&
amp;amp;ei=1&en=
3a3c24b7e64fe4912. A Diebold
subsidiary employed 5 convicted felons
as senior managers
and developers. These people helped
write the central compiler computer code
that counted 50% of the votes in 30 states.http://www.wired.com/news/evote/
0,2645,61640,00.
htmlhttp://portland.indymedia.org/en/
2004/10/301469.
shtml13. Jeff Dean, senior programmer
on Diebold's central
compiler code, was convicted of 23 counts
of felony theft in
the first degree.http://www.chuckherrin.com
/Hackthevote
FAQ.
htm#howhttp://www.blackboxvoting.org/
bbv_chapter-8.
pdf14. Jeff Dean was served jail time for
planting back
doors in his client's accounting software and
using a "high
degree of sophistication" to evade detection
over a period of 2 years.http://www.chuckherrin.
com/
HackthevoteFAQ.htm#
howhttp://www.blackboxvoting.org/bbv_
chapter-8.pdf15.
None of the international election observers
were allowed in t
he polls in Ohio.http://www.globalexchange.
org/update/
press/2638.
htmlhttp://www.enquirer.com/editions/2004
/10/26/
loc_elexoh.html16. California banned the use
of Diebold
machines because the security was so bad.
Despite Diebold's
claims that the audit logs could not be hacked,
a chimpanzee
was able to do it!

License

White dove and battlefield
concelebrate
a poet's madness;
there beneath the sun,
her beating, dessicated wing,
a final tribute to the day of glory.

She dies.
No more upon the air
that soaring sign of hope
that peace will come. Instead
harsh echoes of the laughter
from the victors...caring not
for messengers who journeyed
through the light. Now the sun
itself becomes the coup,
a place of rest beneath a searing glare
much like a Friday afternoon
2000 years ago.

Would it be grace, or gratitude
with which the dove
would lift its head
beneath the cooliing shadow
of the upraised boot,
for one last offering of love
and loveliness?

Nevermind.
The dove is dead
~

To my childhood self

Where were you going--
on your bike that warm October day
in your little midwest town?
You sought adventure on a whim;
it could be anywhere.
Off to the fields where kites were flying?
...past the pretty teacher's house,
and then to climb the vacant stockyards' fence.
Or pooling pennies with your friends
like little communists
who knew the candy from the corner store
would treat us all.

You lay upon your bed
remembering post office games--
the hurried kiss
within that darkened office
in the basement of the church,
while adults pondered ponderous things
above our heads.

Where did she go?
...the girl who signed
that fourth-grade valentine
you kept within your drawer for years
to read,
and smile,
and read again, and know
that sadness is a treasure, sometimes.

I learned from you
to savor all things new.
Free of guile, you molded me
with hope and qualm in counterpoint
and then too willingly, were still.
I hear you calling now, "Remember."

Come across the years to me;
I would not leave you.
Come with me, to open once again
that treasure box of smiles and tears.
We'll meet, and touch our own eternity
as I did once before
when life began.
~

New Food for thought

Christmas Day, 1914

My dear sister Janet,It is 2:00 in the morning and most of our men are asleep in theirdugouts -- yet I could not sleep myself before writing to you of thewonderful events of Christmas Eve. In truth, what happened seemsalmost like a fairy tale, and if I hadn't been through it myself, Iwould scarce believe it. Just imagine: While you and the family sangcarols before the fire there in London, I did the same with enemysoldiers here on the battlefields of France!As I wrote before, there has been little serious fighting of late. Thefirst battles of the war left so many dead that both sides have heldback until replacements could come from home. So we have mostly stayed in our trenches and waited.But what a terrible waiting it has been! Knowing that any moment anartillery shell might land and explode beside us in the trench,killing or maiming several men. And in daylight not daring to lift ourheads above ground, for fear of a sniper's bullet.And the rain -- it has fallen almost daily. Of course, it collectsright in our trenches, where we must bail it out with pots and pans.And with the rain has come mud -- a good foot or more deep. Itsplatters and cakes everything, and constantly sucks at our boots. Onenew recruit got his feet stuck in it, and then his hands too when hetried to get out -- just like in that American story of the tar baby!Through all this, we couldn't help feeling curious about the Germansoldiers across the way. After all, they faced the same dangers wedid, and slogged about in the same muck. What's more, their firsttrench was only 50 yards from ours. Between us lay No Man's Land,bordered on both sides by barbed wire -- yet they were close enough wesometimes heard their voices.Of course, we hated them when they killed our friends. But othertimes, we joked about them and almost felt we had something in common.And now it seems they felt the same.Just yesterday morning -- Christmas Eve Day -- we had our first goodfreeze. Cold as we were, we welcomed it, because at least the mudfroze solid. Everything was tinged white with frost, while a brightsun shone over all. Perfect Christmas weather.During the day, there was little shelling or rifle fire from eitherside. And as darkness fell on our Christmas Eve, the shooting stoppedentirely. Our first complete silence in months! We hoped it mightpromise a peaceful holiday, but we didn't count on it. We'd been toldthe Germans might attack and try to catch us off guard.I went to the dugout to rest, and lying on my cot, I must have driftedasleep. All at once my friend John was shaking me awake, saying, "Comeand see! See what the Germans are doing!" I grabbed my rifle, stumbledout into the trench, and stuck my head cautiously above the sandbags.I never hope to see a stranger and more lovely sight. Clusters of tinylights were shining all along the German line, left and right as faras the eye could see."What is it?" I asked in bewilderment, and John answered, "Christmastrees!"And so it was. The Germans had placed Christmas trees in front oftheir trenches, lit by candle or lantern like beacons of good will.And then we heard their voices raised in song. "Stille nacht, heilige nacht...."This carol may not yet be familiar to us in Britain, but John knew itand translated: "Silent night, holy night." I've never heard onelovelier -- or more meaningful, in that quiet, clear night, its darksoftened by a first-quarter moon.When the song finished, the men in our trenches applauded. Yes,British soldiers applauding Germans! Then one of our own men startedsinging, and we all joined in. "The first Nowell, the angel did say...."In truth, we sounded not nearly as good as the Germans, with theirfine harmonies. But they responded with enthusiastic applause of theirown and then began another. "O Tannenbaum, o Tannenbaum...."Then we replied. "O come all ye faithful...."But this time they joined in, singing the same words in Latin. "Adeste fideles...."British and German harmonizing across No Man's Land! I would havethought nothing could be more amazing -- but what came next was moreso."English, come over!" we heard one of them shout. "You no shoot, we noshoot."There in the trenches, we looked at each other in bewilderment. Thenone of us shouted jokingly, "You come over here."To our astonishment, we saw two figures rise from the trench, climbover their barbed wire, and advance unprotected across No Man's Land.One of them called, "Send officer to talk."I saw one of our men lift his rifle to the ready, and no doubt othersdid the same -- but our captain called out, "Hold your fire." Then heclimbed out and went to meet the Germans halfway. We heard themtalking, and a few minutes later, the captain came back with a Germancigar in his mouth!"We've agreed there will be no shooting before midnight tomorrow," heannounced. "But sentries are to remain on duty, and the rest of you,stay alert."Across the way, we could make out groups of two or three men startingout of trenches and coming toward us. Then some of us were climbingout too, and in minutes more, there we were in No Man's Land, over ahundred soldiers and officers of each side, shaking hands with menwe'd been trying to kill just hours earlier!Before long a bonfire was built, and around it we mingled -- Britishkhaki and German grey. I must say, the Germans were the betterdressed, with fresh uniforms for the holiday.Only a couple of our men knew German, but more of the Germans knewEnglish. I asked one of them why that was."Because many have worked in England!" he said. "Before all this, Iwas a waiter at the Hotel Cecil. Perhaps I waited on your table!""Perhaps you did!" I said, laughing.He told me he had a girlfriend in London and that the war hadinterrupted their plans for marriage. I told him, "Don't worry. We'llhave you beat by Easter, then you can come back and marry the girl."He laughed at that. Then he asked if I'd send her a postcard he'd giveme later, and I promised I would.Another German had been a porter at Victoria Station. He showed me apicture of his family back in Munich. His eldest sister was so lovely,I said I should like to meet her someday. He beamed and said he wouldlike that very much and gave me his family's address.Even those who could not converse could still exchange gifts -- ourcigarettes for their cigars, our tea for their coffee, our corned beeffor their sausage. Badges and buttons from uniforms changed owners,and one of our lads walked off with the infamous spiked helmet! Imyself traded a jackknife for a leather equipment belt -- a finesouvenir to show when I get home.Newspapers too changed hands, and the Germans howled with laughter atours. They assured us that France was finished and Russia nearlybeaten too. We told them that was nonsense, and one of them said,"Well, you believe your newspapers and we'll believe ours."Clearly they are lied to -- yet after meeting these men, I wonder howtruthful our own newspapers have been. These are not the "savagebarbarians" we've read so much about. They are men with homes andfamilies, hopes and fears, principles and, yes, love of country. Inother words, men like ourselves. Why are we led to believe otherwise?As it grew late, a few more songs were traded around the fire, andthen all joined in for -- I am not lying to you -- "Auld Lang Syne."Then we parted with promises to meet again tomorrow, and even sometalk of a football match.I was just starting back to the trenches when an older German clutchedmy arm. "My God," he said, "why cannot we have peace and all go home?"I told him gently, "That you must ask your emperor."He looked at me then, searchingly. "Perhaps, my friend. But also wemust ask our hearts."And so, dear sister, tell me, has there ever been such a Christmas Evein all history? And what does it all mean, this impossible befriendingof enemies?For the fighting here, of course, it means regrettably little. Decentfellows those soldiers may be, but they follow orders and we do thesame. Besides, we are here to stop their army and send it home, andnever could we shirk that duty.Still, one cannot help imagine what would happen if the spirit shownhere were caught by the nations of the world. Of course, disputes mustalways arise. But what if our leaders were to offer well wishes inplace of warnings? Songs in place of slurs? Presents in place ofreprisals? Would not all war end at once?All nations say they want peace. Yet on this Christmas morning, Iwonder if we want it quite enough.Your loving brother, Tom

A Christmas of convenience?

www.guardian.co.uk/christmas2004

/story/0,15386,1379471,00.html

...............................................................

Copy and paste ALL of the above link

into your address bar, rather than

clicking on the top half. It was too long

to place all in one line. The article is

worth it. Thanks.

More than 2000 years

since the birth of the "Prince of Peace." I don't see any progress in the world toward peace...do you? Believers in the "second coming" have obviously given up. "We can't do it, Jesus. Your way? Nah. It's not even worth trying."

Macaronics

I deliberately left comment off my poem submission yesterday because I did not wish to insult the reader. Two things occur to me, however, one that some readers may not understand why I used this element of poetry, and might appreciate a discussion of it. Like all poets who use this particular device, I had what I perceived to be good reason for doing so. Also for the apostrophic reference to the Frenchman in the poem. Now, most certainly, I welcome the inquiry of anyone who might wonder about it enough to ask. So if you like, please do, either at the end of the poem, or in your own private post to me.

The second thing I have in mind this morning, is to invite a discussion on macaronics itself. Perhaps our visiting prof might give us the benefit of his wisdom on the use of macaronics and its justification in certain cases. I certainly could use more educating on that score. It is my hope that my own occasional use of it is never thought to be for the purpse of ostentation. If I am going to fulfill my own stated desire to find truth in all things, I must be on guard against any kind of falsity on my own part. Please join us in this discussion!

Toujours...jamais...

Your tongue embraces paradox, Monsieur,
in its perpetual romance,
and most condign the dancing words
that fall upon my psyche, as
the Siren that I seek would not do well
beneath the moonlight--
wet and tender, laughing.
Her illumining is from within, and her faint call
may not be heard at all--for like
the drifting ship with all hands lost at sea--
or yet the Voyager that dies among the stars,
her presence is a question, not a creed--
as when a wave would deliquesce
upon an island somewhere,
leaving only echoes
susurrus within the winds
along the shore.

Might there be more, Monsieur?
C'est impossible; c'est vrai.
C'est la musique, decouler de mon coeur.
Toujours...jamais...
toujours.
~

"Lighten up" time

Limericks are easy to write, and always fun. During dry periods, they do help keep the poetic juices going. Usually best if risque, they do not have to be. A "twist" or surprise is very helpful to make it fun for the reader... lets him or her know that you have a sense of humor. One thing about limericks, though...don't be content with a sloppy job. There is no excuse for not giving them perfect meter:

The spectre of rich Uncle Si
was enough for his nephew to cry,
"Though I see you in spirit,
I really don't fear it.
It took you forever to die!"

At the Zoo

Here is the festival of science
in reverse parade--an acreage
compressing continents
to make a panoply of life.

Irony prevails; endangered species
take their hope in handfuls.
Notebooks unfold, as if recording insights
from an urban jungle.
Here the realm of ego is no more
and eyes flash signals back and forth
across the bars, a message
never lost among young visitors
who see reflected, mirth and pain--
a fountainhead of furry hearts
that drum as ours
in threnody for home.

Truth is there, this plot
a tribute to the family
of man and beast united for an hour
of contemplation and delight--
a time of silent eucharist--
a quiet dialogue of joy.
Here too, forboding truth
within the posted hours,
and gates will close too readily.

The laughter fades as leaves blow cold
against the fences.
Winter takes away the children
for a final time.
Sadness rules the pathways
worn a little more
by ghosted footprints these poor animals
will never see again.
~

Gloria in Profundis

I sensed it in the rock
compressed a thousand feet below.
I saw it in the cardboard box
where some humanity
must breathe the stench of garbage
that was once inside.
I heard it flung across the aisle in antiphon
to angel choirs who tend to chant
from pinnacles I cannot touch.

It sang in winds that moan
around the corners of the bar
where dead men go to stare at life again,
or hope to...
glowed in execution chambers as the light dimmed
one last time.
It showed in the exuberance of little men in trees—
then within the fires of Hiroshima
when they took away the sun.

I think resplendence is not privy to the heavenly hosts
who woke the shepherds one dark night.
I'm told it bursts out unannounced
among the handicapped,
the hopeless,
and the one who understands their plight.

Perhaps I too shall see it close at hand.
For there in Bethlehem's stark cave
is all the glory I can stand.
~

Wow....don't miss this one!

http://bellaciao.org/en/article.php3?id_article=4816

Here's a good site

to get on.....and get known:
http://www.nowarblog.org/

From Moyers

Frightening....but we need to face it......now:

www.commondreams.org/views04/1206-10.htmPublished on Monday, December 6, 2004 by CommonDreams.orgOn Receiving Harvard Medical School's Global Environment Citizen Awardby Bill MoyersOn Wednesday, December 1, 2004, the Center for Health and the Global Environment at Harvard Medical School presented its fourth annual Global Environment Citizen Award to Bill Moyers. In presenting the award, Meryl Streep, a member of the Center board, said, "Through resourceful, intrepid reportage and perceptive voices from the forward edge of the debate, Moyers has examined an environment under siege with the aim of engaging citizens." Here is the text of his response to Ms. Streep's presentation of the award:I accept this award on behalf of all the people behind the camera whom you never see. And for all those scientists, advocates, activists, and just plain citizens whose stories we have covered in reporting on how environmental change affects our daily lives. We journalists are simply beachcombers on the shores of other people's knowledge, other people's experience, and other people's wisdom. We tell their stories.The journalist who truly deserves this award is my friend, Bill McKibben. He enjoys the most conspicuous place in my own pantheon of journalistic heroes for his pioneer work in writing about the environment. His bestseller The End of Nature carried on where Rachel Carson's Silent Spring left off.Writing in Mother Jones recently, Bill described how the problems we journalists routinely cover - conventional, manageable programs like budget shortfalls and pollution - may be about to convert to chaotic, unpredictable, unmanageable situations. The most unmanageable of all, he writes, could be the accelerating deterioration of the environment, creating perils with huge momentum like the greenhouse effect that is causing the melt of the arctic to release so much freshwater into the North Atlantic that even the Pentagon is growing alarmed that a weakening gulf stream could yield abrupt and overwhelming changes, the kind of changes that could radically alter civilizations.That's one challenge we journalists face - how to tell such a story without coming across as Cassandras, without turning off the people we most want to understand what's happening, who must act on what they read and hear.As difficult as it is, however, for journalists to fashion a readable narrative for complex issues without depressing our readers and viewers, there is an even harder challenge - to pierce the ideology that governs official policy today. One of the biggest changes in politics in my lifetime is that the delusional is no longer marginal. It has come in from the fringe, to sit in the seat of power in the oval office and in Congress. For the first time in our history, ideology and theology hold a monopoly of power in Washington. Theology asserts propositions that cannot be proven true; ideologues hold stoutly to a world view despite being contradicted by what is generally accepted as reality. When ideology and theology couple, their offspring are not always bad but they are always blind. And there is the danger: voters and politicians alike, oblivious to the facts.Remember James Watt, President Reagan's first Secretary of the Interior? My favorite online environmental journal, the ever engaging Grist, reminded us recently of how James Watt told the U.S. Congress that protecting natural resources was unimportant in light of the imminent return of Jesus Christ. In public testimony he said, 'after the last tree is felled, Christ will come back.'Beltway elites snickered. The press corps didn't know what he was talking about. But James Watt was serious. So were his compatriots out across the country. They are the people who believe the Bible is literally true - one-third of the American electorate, if a recent Gallup poll is accurate. In this past election several million good and decent citizens went to the polls believing in the rapture index. That's right - the rapture index. Google it and you will find that the best-selling books in America today are the twelve volumes of the left-behind series written by the Christian fundamentalist and religious right warrior, Timothy LaHaye. These true believers subscribe to a fantastical theology concocted in the 19th century by a couple of immigrant preachers who took disparate passages from the Bible and wove them into a narrative that has captivated the imagination of millions of Americans.Its outline is rather simple, if bizarre (the British writer George Monbiot recently did a brilliant dissection of it and I am indebted to him for adding to my own understanding): once Israel has occupied the rest of its 'biblical lands,' legions of the anti-Christ will attack it, triggering a final showdown in the valley of Armageddon. As the Jews who have not been converted are burned, the messiah will return for the rapture. True believers will be lifted out of their clothes and transported to heaven, where, seated next to the right hand of God, they will watch their political and religious opponents suffer plagues of boils, sores, locusts, and frogs during the several years of tribulation that follow.I'm not making this up. Like Monbiot, I've read the literature. I've reported on these people, following some of them from Texas to the West Bank. They are sincere, serious, and polite as they tell you they feel called to help bring the rapture on as fulfillment of biblical prophecy. That's why they have declared solidarity with Israel and the Jewish settlements and backed up their support with money and volunteers. It's why the invasion of Iraq for them was a warm-up act, predicted in the Book of Revelation where four angels 'which are bound in the great river Euphrates will be released to slay the third part of man.' A war with Islam in the Middle East is not something to be feared but welcomed - an essential conflagration on the road to redemption. The last time I Googled it, the rapture index stood at 144-just one point below the critical threshold when the whole thing will blow, the son of God will return, the righteous will enter heaven, and sinners will be condemned to eternal hellfire.So what does this mean for public policy and the environment? Go to Grist to read a remarkable work of reporting by the journalist, Glenn Scherer - 'the road to environmental apocalypse. Read it and you will see how millions of Christian fundamentalists may believe that environmental destruction is not only to be disregarded but actually welcomed - even hastened - as a sign of the coming apocalypse.As Grist makes clear, we're not talking about a handful of fringe lawmakers who hold or are beholden to these beliefs. Nearly half the U.S. Congress before the recent election - 231 legislators in total - more since the election - are backed by the religious right. Forty-five senators and 186 members of the 108th congress earned 80 to 100 percent approval ratings from the three most influential Christian right advocacy groups. They include Senate Majority Leader Bill Frist, Assistant Majority Leader Mitch McConnell, Conference Chair Rick Santorum of Pennsylvania, Policy Chair Jon Kyl of Arizona, House Speaker Dennis Hastert, and Majority Whip Roy Blunt. The only Democrat to score 100 percent with the Christian coalition was Senator Zell Miller of Georgia, who recently quoted from the biblical book of Amos on the senate floor: "the days will come, sayeth the Lord God, that i will send a famine in the land.' He seemed to be relishing the thought.And why not? There's a constituency for it. A 2002 TIME/CNN poll found that 59 percent of Americans believe that the prophecies found in the Book of Revelation are going to come true. Nearly one-quarter think the Bible predicted the 9/11 attacks. Drive across the country with your radio tuned to the more than 1,600 Christian radio stations or in the motel turn some of the 250 Christian TV stations and you can hear some of this end-time gospel. And you will come to understand why people under the spell of such potent prophecies cannot be expected, as Grist puts it, "to worry about the environment. Why care about the earth when the droughts, floods, famine and pestilence brought by ecological collapse are signs of the apocalypse foretold in the Bible? Why care about global climate change when you and yours will be rescued in the rapture? And why care about converting from oil to solar when the same God who performed the miracle of the loaves and fishes can whip up a few billion barrels of light crude with a word?"Because these people believe that until Christ does return, the lord will provide. One of their texts is a high school history book, America's Providential History. You'll find there these words: "the secular or socialist has a limited resource mentality and views the world as a pie…that needs to be cut up so everyone can get a piece.' however, "[t]he Christian knows that the potential in God is unlimited and that there is no shortage of resources in God's earth……while many secularists view the world as overpopulated, Christians know that God has made the earth sufficiently large with plenty of resources to accommodate all of the people." No wonder Karl Rove goes around the White House whistling that militant hymn, "Onward Christian Soldiers." He turned out millions of the foot soldiers on November 2, including many who have made the apocalypse a powerful driving force in modern American politics.I can see in the look on your faces just how hard it is for the journalist to report a story like this with any credibility. So let me put it on a personal level. I myself don't know how to be in this world without expecting a confident future and getting up every morning to do what I can to bring it about. So I have always been an optimist. Now, however, I think of my friend on Wall Street whom I once asked: "What do you think of the market?" "I'm optimistic," he answered. "Then why do you look so worried?" And he answered: "Because I am not sure my optimism is justified."I'm not, either. Once upon a time I agreed with Eric Chivian and the Center for Health and the Global Environment that people will protect the natural environment when they realize its importance to their health and to the health and lives of their children. Now I am not so sure. It's not that I don't want to believe that - it's just that I read the news and connect the dots:I read that the administrator of the U.S. Environmental Protection Agency has declared the election a mandate for President Bush on the environment. This for an administration that wants to rewrite the Clean Air Act, the Clean Water Act and the Endangered Species Act protecting rare plant and animal species and their habitats, as well as the National Environmental Policy Act that requires the government to judge beforehand if actions might damage natural resources.That wants to relax pollution limits for ozone; eliminate vehicle tailpipe inspections; and ease pollution standards for cars, sports utility vehicles and diesel-powered big trucks and heavy equipment.That wants a new international audit law to allow corporations to keep certain information about environmental problems secret from the public.That wants to drop all its new-source review suits against polluting coal-fired power plans and weaken consent decrees reached earlier with coal companies.That wants to open the arctic wildlife refuge to drilling and increase drilling in Padre Island National Seashore, the longest stretch of undeveloped barrier island in the world and the last great coastal wild land in America.I read the news just this week and learned how the Environmental Protection Agency had planned to spend nine million dollars - $2 million of it from the administration's friends at the American Chemistry Council - to pay poor families to continue to use pesticides in their homes. These pesticides have been linked to neurological damage in children, but instead of ordering an end to their use, the government and the industry were going to offer the families $970 each, as well as a camcorder and children's clothing, to serve as guinea pigs for the study.I read all this in the news.I read the news just last night and learned that the administration's friends at the international policy network, which is supported by ExxonMobil and others of like mind, have issued a new report that climate change is 'a myth, sea levels are not rising, scientists who believe catastrophe is possible are 'an embarrassment.I not only read the news but the fine print of the recent appropriations bill passed by Congress, with the obscure (and obscene) riders attached to it: a clause removing all endangered species protections from pesticides; language prohibiting judicial review for a forest in Oregon; a waiver of environmental review for grazing permits on public lands; a rider pressed by developers to weaken protection for crucial habitats in California.I read all this and look up at the pictures on my desk, next to the computer - pictures of my grandchildren: Henry, age 12; of Thomas, age 10; of Nancy, 7; Jassie, 3; Sara Jane, nine months. I see the future looking back at me from those photographs and I say, 'Father, forgive us, for we know not what we do.' And then I am stopped short by the thought: 'That's not right. We do know what we are doing. We are stealing their future. Betraying their trust. Despoiling their world.'And I ask myself: Why? Is it because we don't care? Because we are greedy? Because we have lost our capacity for outrage, our ability to sustain indignation at injustice?What has happened to our moral imagination?On the heath Lear asks Gloucester: 'How do you see the world?" And Gloucester, who is blind, answers: "I see it feelingly.'"I see it feelingly.The news is not good these days. I can tell you, though, that as a journalist, I know the news is never the end of the story. The news can be the truth that sets us free - not only to feel but to fight for the future we want. And the will to fight is the antidote to despair, the cure for cynicism, and the answer to those faces looking back at me from those photographs on my desk. What we need to match the science of human health is what the ancient Israelites called 'hocma' - the science of the heart…..the capacity to see….to feel….and then to act…as if the future depended on you.Believe me, it does.

Northstar

By design,
the lake, the trees,
the moondance through the clouds conspired
to move me, not to pure reflection
but into the depth of my own shadow realm;
the shoreline blurred and far away, became
a silent frame to resignation
... death was warm, and intimate.

By design,
the northstar's vigil drew me
and I knew
the peace was pre-ordained
as if explaining need...and circumstance--
as if to engineer a solitude,
as if inviting me to covet a forever
just like this.
~

Their own reward

Some people tote their God around
inside a zippered leather case,
the red-lined text a sinister device
not to inspire,
but saturate the unsuspecting blotter
in a freshly-opened mind; now could it be

that they alone are blessed to see
inside their own eternity
the red-lined fires in hell?
~

Just another reason

why I am ashamed to be an American
www.truthout.org/docs_04/121304D.shtml

'Tis the Season

Another Christmas sends its stubborn ray
through Advent's violet dysphoria
to prey on mindless children of the day
who seem to need such therapy if but
to coax December's hidden sun away
from shrouded skies, and into shopworn hearts.

The carols sound a little more in tune
when Stephen stands unstoned, the Innocents
still suckle at the breast,
the Lord asleep within the womb,
and if the world lies not in solemn stillness,
dreaming of the birth that launched Epiphany
within those twelve tumultous days,
then wonder, wailing
and the restless quest of Eastern kings
evoke us all—and hollow alleluias ring.
~

In Pacem

We missed it, Dad—
that last embrace that bonds
the blood of men
who always faced into the wind of love
and never understood its source.

So arrived the days in early fall.
We settled for a handshake, then,
and after all the years that we pretended
we were close,
the words, like leaves, were also blown away:
weightless, dry, and crumbling.

There we stood, two helpless men
without so much as one distracting tear,
who lied about the year to come,
and of those dear and fresh remembrances
beyond the day of parting.

You knew the last stop
would be Arlington,
albeit not on Chaplain's Hill
where sleeping comrades filled the ground
you loved. You did not know
a slope beneath that crowning tree
awaited you.

So there it was:
that we assembled heard again
the sound of Taps,
the slap against the sky
of twenty-one explosions,
and a young man's tribute to an officer
who wore two crosses and a silver leaf—
who'd marched with his old comrades years before.

Now there is this aging son
embracing just with spirit arms,
to wish you rest, old soldier,
there to find the peace
you never knew in war...
the peace we shared one final afternoon,
on Chaplain's Hill.
~

It seems to me

that our fascination with pain and with pathos may stem from a celebration of that pivotal moment when an event or an experience may have gone either way...or could. We want to capture the last moment or second when pleasure rather than pain, would have been the result. It is from that curious admixture of triumph and tragedy that art steps in to help us bear it. It must make significance of the pivot. In so doing, it celebrates and confirms our humanity...it says that tears are the prize song. It tears and pulls at us, wrenching us from complacency. We, who can easily kill, are warmed, embraced by a weakness that is sacred. We reach out to it...and come home.

Am I hammering away at the obvious, here?

Someone else's poem

The following, by Mark Turpin.....taken from today's "Writer's Almanac" of Garrison Keillor, grabbed me as the kind of writing that I would love to do. It's simplicity and plain language is infinitely more powerful than any rhetoric I have ever attempted. I hope it will make the same impression on you that it did on me:

Last Hired

On Monday returned the man I fired
wanting the phone number of the laborer he loaned money to,
and stood while I wrote it out on a scrap of shingle
and the crew on the floor kept hammering
with the silence of three hammers tapping out different beats.
I scratched down the name and seven digits with a flat pencil,
scrawling across the ridged grain and then with it.
He thanked me with an uncomfortable smile and left.

He was incompetent, but incompetence is not a crime
-- I never liked him.
Out of almost pure intuition, right from the beginning
and I noticed how quickly the other men closed in beside me
against him. He must have felt it, too,
those days as he knocked the nails out of his screwed-up formwork,
and spit saliva in the hammermarks of his windowsills
to raise the grain. Must have every day

felt more alone. He had a habit of mumbling explanations
that trailed into incoherence. But he was not a stupid man.
When I asked him to repeat himself, he shrugged me off
with a sigh and asked me what I wanted him to do.

The morning I fired him I walked down to the street
before he could leave his truck, and was on the way surprised
and annoyed by a hypocritical watering in my eyes that went away.
Then catching him, saw-in-hand, I told him to go back to the truck.

I said it deliberately hard, so he would guess
before I said the words. Then we stood together. And he took it
as if he expected, and failure were something he had grown around.
Then he got in his truck, drove the street, and was gone.
~

I hope you find this as fascinating as I did. Anyone care to discuss it?

Quantum physics points out that the way we observe the universe in this present moment literally evokes the universe that is observed. Our perception of the universe is a part of the universe that is happening through us that has an effect on the universe that we are observing. Quantum physics points out that it makes no sense whatsoever to talk of an objective universe separate or independent from the observer. To quote noted physicist John Wheeler "Useful as it is under everyday circumstances to say that the world exists 'out there,' independent of us, that view can no longer be upheld. There is a strange sense in which this is a participatory universe."" In a variation of the classic "two-slit experiment," which is the cornerstone of quantum physics, Wheeler has demonstrated in the "delayed choice experiment" that not only does our act of observation in this present moment effect the way the universe manifests in this present moment, but that the act of observation in this present moment actually has an effect on the past. This bit of quantum weirdness seems particularly relevant for our current times after the controversial presidential election of 2004.Consensus reality, as embodied in the views of classical physics, describes the present as having a particular past. Quantum physics, on the other hand, because of its probabilistic nature enlarges the arena of history such that the past is an amalgam of all possible pasts that are compatible with the version of the present moment that we are currently experiencing. The quantum universe is one in which the past involves a wide range of possible pasts all co-existing in a state of unmanifest potential. Speaking in physics terms, by imagining the past to be a certain way, we literally collapse the infinite potentiality of the past's wave function, and concretize the past as being something very particular. This is analogous to the quantum physicist's question: is it a wave or a particle? And the answer, of course, is that it depends on how we are observingThe quantum universe is one which pulsates in and out of the void multiple times every nano-second, endlessly recreating itself anew. Each moment brings with it a potentially new past, which we are the 'builders' of in the present moment. In this present moment right now there are endless possibilities, it is an infinitely textured moment in time seething with unmanifested potential. In the future, when we consider this multi-dimensional moment we are in now, we will probably focus our attention and only remember a certain slice or aspect of this very moment, solidifying it in time, and this will be our 'memory' of that seemingly past event. And yet, by the way we remember this present moment in the future will have an actual effect on the way that moment in the future manifests. So on the one hand, the way we contemplate the past has a creative effect on how the present moment manifests.What Wheeler is pointing out through the delayed choice experiment, though, is that the past doesn't actually exist in a solid and objective way that causes or determines our present moment experience like is imagined by classical physics. Rather, he is saying our situation is just the opposite. He is saying that by the way we observe in this present moment we actually reach back into time and create the past. It is not just the future that's undetermined, but the past as well; just as there are 'probable' futures there are 'probable' pasts. Our present observations select one out of many possible quantum histories for the universe.We have entranced ourselves and fallen under a self-created spell if we imagine that the past exists in a solid, objective way. To quote Wheeler "It is wrong to think of that past as 'already existing'S..the past has no existence except as it is recorded in the present." When we become convinced that the past exists in a solid way, we solidify it in our imagination as being that particular way, which will thereby create compelling evidence that proves the rightness of our point of view (that the past really is that way). When we imagine that the past is a particular way, for example, this conviction effects our present moment experience AS IF the past really was that way, which just confirms to us our conviction that the past REALLY IS that way, which just makes the past seem even more AS IF it really was that way, ad infinitum.This is to fall into a self-created and infinitely self-confirming feedback loop that is synchronistic and atemporal in its operation and thereby has the nature of a self-fulfilling prophecy. We have unwittingly literally hypnotized ourselves by our own power of effecting reality by the way we observe it. Because of the limited and limiting way we view the past it seems convincingly solid and objectively existing in a way that it simply is not. The past is much more malleable than we have been imagining. For what really did happen in the past? For that matter, what is actually happening right now?In a circular, non-linear and acausal feedback loop, the past effects us in this present moment, while at the same time, in this present moment we effect the past. The way we observe the past in this present moment actually effects the past which simultaneously effects us in this present moment in what I call a 'synchronistic, cybernetic feedback loop.' The doorway is the present moment, which is the point where our power to shape reality is to be found. In quantum physics the universe wasn't created billions of years ago in the big bang but rather is being created right now by what Wheeler refers to as "genesis by observership." The mystery of this universe doesn't lie at some point way back in the past, but rather, right now, in this very living present moment.This quantum perspective on the past arising or being conjured up out of and into the present moment collapses the sense of sequential time and linear causality. This points to the non-local nature of space and time, in that the past, present, and future completely interpenetrate and are inseparable from each other. In a bit of quantum weirdness, if we ask whether the universe really existed before we started looking at it, the answer we get from the universe is that it /looks/ as if it existed before we started looking at it.Quantum physics is describing what I call the physics of the dreamlike nature of reality. Like a mass shared dream, we are all literally moment by moment calling forth and collaboratively 'dreaming up' this very universe into materialization. And dreams, by their very nature don't exist in a 'flat-land' where they are fixed in meaning, but are extremely multi-dimensional. When we contemplate the past in this very moment, it has the same ontological status of and no more reality than a dream we had last night. Just like this present moment, when we contemplate it tomorrow, will in that present moment have no more reality than a figment of our imagination.What actually did happen on November 2? Did George Bush win the election? Or did he steal it? And if he stole it, is this criminal act something we can do nothing about? If this universe is like quantum physics describes, then we are only /not/ able to do anything about it because of our own self-imposed limitations and a failure of our imagination in this very moment. If even some of the overwhelming evidence that Bush stole the election is true, can we step into a universe in this very moment in which we have the power to do something about it? Or is the past written in stone? Quantum physics points out that this is a participatory universe in which the power to change reality is literally in our hands at every moment and that the choice is truly ours. Let us not get fooled into giving away our power by the source of our real power, namely, the reality-creating function of our own sacred imagination.*************

© Copyright Paul Levy 2004Paul Levy is a spiritually-informed political activist. He can be reached at paul@awakeninthedream.com *. Please visit his website at http://www.awakeninthedream.com/, where his article "The Madness of George Bush: A Reflection of Our Collective Psychosis" is available. Please feel free to pass this article along to a friend if you feel so inspired.

Hallmark Heaven

Up, up, my brothers,
it's our time to play
in the heaven-blessed land of the fullblown cliche
where the sun always smiles and the thunder still booms,
and laughter still echoes in cavernous rooms.

'Tis a joy to romp freely where sprites give their all,
where love is eternal in spring and in fall.
Though dastardly deeds are inflicted by those
who would challenge our nighttimes of splendid repose,
we will triumph when evil pervades our clear sight
and laugh when the stars fall, and day turns to night.

For magic enraptures the sum of our days.
Full hearts store the treasure; let me count the ways!
And should you find stale, the sweet things you might say,
your muse will find YOU, at the Starlite Cafe. *
~

*The Starlite is a poetry web site, whose contributors are addicted to cliche.

On Juliet's Watch

Were there of night sufficiency to hold
its chambers shielded from all predators
of mind that thrust into those walls
(as she will thrust into her own)
with reasoned words,
though she would stay them with a love
transcending seasoned swords until,
invading her last sanctuary with larksong,
day asserts its cruelty
and moonlight, vanquished, vanishes—
then Romeo would live, and lovers lose
forever that they gained, on Juliet's watch.

Then what of tragedy would mold
an intellect, would steal from history's
raw fire and feed compassion....take desire
and form a noble sacrifice?
Could we have known the power
of hopeless tears to change diversion
into art....to touch in our humanity
a flow of the divine?
I tend to think a night presaged
effulgent day on Juliet's watch.

Had we not heard her laughter,
watched her weep,
what would become of us?
Had not we stood around that wooden stage
400 years ago and felt within
a manhood only saints and prophets knew,
would we too, laugh and cry,
and treasure that within our hearts?
Perhaps; I think, though, not so much
as we do now, because of what we saw
on Juliet's watch.
~

Beauty Mark

On Baxter Street
young ladies walk among the trees,
themselves strategic in their placement
as a hymn to the aesthete,
arranged to interrupt both heart and breath
from their routine;
for I saw each arrested step in passers by.

And as I saw the infant green of spring
in altered light,
I wondered why and how those adolescent thighs
can rest upon the benches there
with such an ancient grace.
I think it was the ancient men like me
who watched--who were the necessary foil
to all this loveliness.

I contemplated that outrageous truth
until the bold impressionist called twilight,
kindly blended youth and age within its soft domain
and in true charity confirmed
that imperfection is a gift to greet with joy;
that much I learned
on Baxter Street.
~

They are finally catching on?

It would seem so, but whether the top admits it,
is doubtful:

www.truthout.org/docs_04/120704V.shtml

A new Way to Rise and Shine

http://www.unitedforpeace.org

The Last Judgement

First, there was a beast,
who did what beasts will do, quite well.
One task alone, to be a beast--
and then he grew,
and changed,
and found his thumbs,
and one day knew that he could rule,
and make, and learn,
and what he needed was a God
to take him past the enemy that lurked among the trees,
and that was death
.
This God he made was frightening, and so was taught
to be a friend, who then would share authority
to sit upon the higher rock, and judge the earth.
(Most blessed are the beasts
who will not understand such power.)

The man sat down with his created God
and could not dare to look into his face,
for he, himself in medias res
would learn of justice only at the end
in retrospect.
With his clay hands he seized the gavel one last time
and cried out, "Court adjourned."
~

Known but to God

Out of all the brave and beaten men,
whose echoed cries rebound
from their victorious fields,
a soldier died, and bravest yet,
he who would travel back to the unborn--
back to the womb of weakness,
back to the fountainhead of light.

And I can hear resounding,
his last song of where the glory lies.
And it is love. Still it is love.
Oh, It is love.
~

Deja Vu

Like errant children
words will scurry from a dream.
You want to chase them back and take control
before the night may blow its parting kiss,
and disappear.

So full of mirth,
they cross the misty cliffs into the sun,
so reticent to turn and take your hand.
No matter; they are gone.

And so you sweep away the dust
and rub your eyes, remembering
this cumbersome embodied world
your midnight chariot deceived--
remembering so faintly now
the galaxies you passed,
a distant life that for a single hour
you could touch once more,

and not the least of all
your own sweet laughing Juliette
who once again lies still and cold
upon her slab of stone.
~

Last Wooden Head

"It is that I'm too old to be your God," Gepetto said
to his new voodoo doll.
"Too old to make you dance, or give you life
or leave you self-entranced
from your own vision of the prize.
I know the glint of it is dazzling in the light.

"And yes, it shines off desert shores,
yet my poor eyes will squint and tear;
it's your new owners' plight
to turn your wooden sight away
from all the precious liquid underneath the sand.

"Rest little George,
though all your little soldiers are forsaken,
cry out your pithy tears
and dream of just a place
where all the screaming fades
and wooden dolls parade imagining,
along the precinct queue,
assured within their wooden hearts
that here is peace...and it's ok.
Their father's will is done.

"Goodnight, my little one.
Goodnight."
~

This lady (Carolyn Baker)

is from an organization called "Global Research." I know nothing about her, and only little about the organization, but her thoughts are arresting, disturbing....and sensible. I invite you to use the link, and read it for yourself:

http://globalresearch.ca/articles/BAK411C.html

Special Envoy (revised)

Angels are
those filmy things
with stereotypical wings
at which we throw our fancies,
quite expecting they will catch them in the air.

I think I met one, once--
said he knew a seraph who had really tried
to teach him how to fly,
but he never got the hang of it.
He didn't really mind, he said,
when he could speed
with beams of light.

I guess he was
my kind of angel...
didn't preach, or try to soothe my fears.
He only let me know
the chariot wheels still roll above my head,
though space walks make more sense to me.
For who can fathom energy
that transcends life and time?

I'm not quite sure about those wings
since after that, a closer look
was not a thing that mattered.
As I stood a moment in that light,
although no misted mountaintop
could aid me or confirm,
Elijah too, was there.
~

On Listening to Bach on a Sunday Afternoon

No mere concert, this:
Rather, veneration of that paradigm
by which one measures awe.
Four o'clock: before the Lenten purple there arises,
burgeoning, such cloud of praise
that art, unworthy, never could embrace in brotherhood.
For how does one compress into that arching space
such bold, presumptuous splendor: Soli Deo Gloria?

If glory shines alone upon the inner court,
could any man intrude?
Instead, why should he not be blessed
with lesser echoes suited for mortality?
No other architect would build his temple crowned in laughter.
No other sigh presumes to resonate within a second breast.

I cannot rise to the ovation,
(would one applaud the Eucharist?);
and were it understood, I would not speak.
Out on the steps another little Easter ends in shadow,
as through the branches, lesser light pretends.
~

If you would like to read Pt. I

of the Karen Cobb article below, (No longer a Christian) here is the URL:
http://www.commondreams.org/views04/1025-25.htm

Is the "Right Wing" Christian?

No Longer a Christian - Part II by Karen Horst Cobb Follow up from an article published October 25, 2004 For over a month my inbox has been filled with responses to my original article "No Longer a Christian." The total of emails is well over 2550. I have read them all and have responded to those with questions, or who wanted permission to reprint. The article has become part of some college curricula in the US and in Europe. It has been taped to refrigerators, copied and saved to give to grandchildren, sent to right wing relatives, placed on car windshields, posted on numerous sites, discussed in blogs, and read and preached from pulpits. The backlash is also evident. I've been called a communist, a Marxist, a humanist, and a baby killer. I have been accused as one who has never attended church, never was born again, has no knowledge of the Bible, is naive, idealistic, immature and hateful. The most amazing of all was the person who responded saying that the leaders of his denomination say that Karen Horst Cobb does not exist and is merely an urban legend. Imagine my surprise. The majority view my words in the spirit they were written, (a mixture of "love and sorrow"), and then others reading the same words reference my "hate filled rhetoric and judgmental attitude." The condition of the heart interprets what we see and hear. This is why the scriptures say "Those who have ears to hear let them hear. " We are not wrestling against flesh and blood but against powers and principalities, and spiritual wickedness in high places (Ephesians 6:12). The majority of the responses were words of gratitude for having expressed what they had wanted to say or have been saying. There were also those who supported much of what I said but had specific questions concerning war. The article appeared on some Muslim websites and Muslims in the US, the Middle East and other countries commended me for speaking peace and recognized the creator in my words. The last category of responses is something that can only be identified as christian hate mail. I am humbled beyond comparison and honored to give voice to the heartfelt cries of at over 2500 people who responded positively to the message I gave. There is a great movement that is forming behind the scenes, and the results can be a resurrection of the simple message of Christ that extends to all people. We can live and speak the message of love. We can proclaim publicly the morality of social justice, thoughtful environmental practices, racial equality, and economic justice. One can not be a Christian and worship mammon and the sword. It is Christ's grace that allows us to extend that grace to others as humble servants. Jesus explained that where two or more agree, our humble prayers will be answered (Matt. 18:19) Many of us are in agreement concerning the misuse of Christ's message in the world today. As we simply make our request to him we can know that our prayers are heard if they are with the sincerity of a child . It is the heart of the child who holds the keys to the kingdom of heaven (Matt: 18:2) The second category of responses are those who agree with much of what I wrote but had questions which they could not reconcile. Many asked "But what about Hitler?" or "What if someone breaks into my home?" They mention the teachings of theologians who support violence. It is true that Hitler was an evil man who did evil things. The larger view of that situation is that if all the good people of his time had refused to give way to fear and had refused to believe that communists bombed the Reichstag or resisted the lies presented about their own Jewish neighbors, then Hitler could never have come to power. He would have been marginalized and scorned rather than looked to as their savior. Giving way to fear always leads to violence and oppression. When people keep their eyes on Christ and continue to follow His example they will not be so easily lead astray by political powers. St Augustine's Just War Theory, Francis Shaffer's recommendations of how we should live, and the modern day televangelist's interpretation of the Book of Revelation are not my final authority. My authority is the example of Christ. The message is simple and His communication clear. Many present the idea that those who believe in non-violence need the violent to protect them. I want to be very clear that I will never expect someone to kill or die for me. Some have suggested that the pacifist stance is helplessness, but pacifism is powerful, brave and just. Some make the mistake of thinking that one can only be a victim or a perpetrator. The reality is there are always many options in any situation. As a crisis therapist I have seen how force escalates violence whereas a calm presence addressing fear brings almost instant calm. I have had many life experiences where pacifism has been tested and it has never failed. In the end I would want my last act on earth to be an act of love and forgiveness (if God grants me that grace) rather than an act of violence. Many question the right to defend themselves and their familes using violence and force. Each of us must answer that question for ourselves, and in the end must know that God's grace is sufficient to heal and restore one in such a situation. This is much more different thing than killing the innocent of another land because of a fear of what some of their fellow countryman might do in the future. Many have mentioned Jesus' act of throwing the money changers out of the temple as a way to justify war. This can much better demonstrate the anger God has when money and power corrupt His message, and it is this same message that motivates me to speak His truth in a sea of deceit. Some of those who responded referred to the Old Testament accounts of battles as justification for the current war. This is a difference of theology. I believe the old Testament is a Divine history book showing how incapable humans are at keeping the law and living free of guilt. It also shows the linage of Christ (and also Mohammad Gen: 17:20). The New Testament presents itself in a better way. It is here that Jesus is the sacrifice once and for all. Humans are incapable of following all the laws. Human nature usurps authority while lording it over others with excessive man made laws. Jesus said the ten commandments can be summed up very simply: Love your neighbor as your self. (Galatians 5:14). Christ is the fulfillment of the law. The point was that the law said "an eye for an eye" but Jesus presented a better plan-- Love. The third group of responses were from Muslims. One person said that they were living in a country where they were taught both the Christian faith and the Muslim faith. They chose to become Muslim because they understood it to be a message of peace but now they are in the Middle East and see beheadings on the nightly news. They see the destruction of the US bombing knowing that those in power are "christian". In agony, this person asked me, "Where should I go for help, dear sister?" Other Muslims have said that the same article could be written about the evil that is done in the name of Allah. It is safe to say that in every culture there are leaders who seek to divide humanity for the purposes of money and power. The sincere follower of the prophet can gradually begin to believe in a justification that twists His teachings. It is interesting that those who keep their eyes on His example do not engage in violence against the innocent no matter what justification is given. The true message of Christ unites, but the false message of those who claim His name divides and destroys. It has become clear to me from the many responses from Muslims that this is also true of the prophet Mohommad. He teaches love and peace and denounces the killing of the innocent. It is the powers and principalities which seek to destroy. The final group of responses are from people that are sure I missed the mark.. Some showed general concern for my soul but made many wrong assumptions about what I said rather than actually reading my words. I am born again. I am saved by grace through faith and the good deeds I might do in this life are not anything for me to boast about . I have not renounced Christ but the false religion of media christianity. There were several fine examples of christian hate mail which referred to my head being "chopped off" and making the clear statement that I do not have to worry because I am not a christian of any sort because I am a liberal and I will burn in hell where I belong. To the leader of the denomination who is saying that I do not exist, I want to say that the reports of my non-existence have been highly exaggerated and I will gladly accept his apology for bearing false witness against me if he chooses to do so. Some have mentioned that clearly I am quite young and idealistic, have not read my Bible, never belonged to a church, and am a "yellow dog democrat" So let me set the record straight: I am a grandmother. My beliefs have been well tested in life. I have read the Bible several times cover to cover, was a member of a church for 40 years, and for much of my life was a registered Republican. Some have suggested I am uninformed and have not studied the scriptures or read the works of various theologians. The truth is I have several letters after my name and have read more than most in the areas of Christian theology, philosophy, and ethics, but none of these facts have added to the very clear admonition of Christ to Love and shine His light in the darkness. To borrow from another writer, "Everything I needed to know I learned in Sunday School." So the final question is "Where do we go from here?" I am now aware that there are many like me who have left the church or who have been asked to leave due to religious/political views that are in opposition to the "christian right" and government policies. For those who remain in the church, I urge you to continue to speak out against the false christianity which is seeping beneath the doors and sliding over the airwaves. Many have mentioned the desire to have a spiritual leader like Martin Luther King, Jr. However, the times we are living in might call for a different form of leadership. A figurehead or public voice can be easily silenced and an organization can be infiltrated and corrupted. I did receive several responses from people who desired to co-opt my message for their own purposes. I am sure that a public movement would be targeted. The tactics to which some of these people will go are surprising . A popular "christian" religious radio personality responded to me pretending to be a woman, but when I replied to what I thought was a woman's a sincere question, the "undelivered mail " message on my computer showed his real name and e-mail address. He is one of the main media personalities I was thinking of in the original article, and evidently he recognized himself in that first paragraph. We are dealing with many public personalities who call themselves Christian but will not hesitate to deceive. I was reminded by one reader that the wolves don't even bother with sheep's clothing anymore. In this case the sheep suit was at least partially in place but not well zipped. So where do we go from here? We need a spiritual movement addressing the largest of moral issues. A spiritual movement of individuals living in community can not be stopped. Hierarchical groups can be manipulated and changed to do the bidding of the powerful, but the diffused power of a people committed to peace will be a sweet smelling gift pleasing to God. Just as there were house parties, and grass roots efforts on the political front I suggest that each person invite others to their home to meet this spiritual disenfranchisement or find un-compromised churches in their communities. My prayer is that those of faith would flee the churches that do not preach love. The Church is not a building; it is in the hearts of believers. Some suggest that liberal Christians should take to the airwaves in a battle of theology, and perhaps there are those who are being raised up for that purpose. Let us not, however, be scheming and plotting, but let us just boldly proclaim the truth in love. It is in this way we can address the individual needs of our communities and can encourage one another to follow the radical message of Christ. It is in a community such as this that we can find the power to resist the excesses of consumerism, gluttony, and personal gain that comes at the expense of others and our environment. We can reclaim the message of Christ and show His face to the world. In this way we can gain strength and courage from one another and face what lies ahead. We are sure that there will be wars and rumors of wars, and we know that this is more true now than ever before. If the media Christians are the supporters of these wars then it will be more and more important that the true church of Christ's love support, encourage, and enrich our spiritual understanding. The simple fact is that when it is darkest the light that shines brightest can be our comfort. Let our homes be a haven of peace in this warring world.. Behold I send you forth as sheep in the midst of wolves: be ye therefore wise a serpents and harmless as doves. (Matt. 10:16 .) This verse is good to remember as we continue to reclaim the meaning of the life of Christ. The simple truth exists: Perfect love casts out fear. Karen Horst Cobb is a freelance writer and artist and can be contacted at Cairnhcobb@m....