Tuesday, April 7, 2009



The dream isn’t really a dream
(Call up Chief Joseph and ask him)
Even though giant gentle elephants may float above
Or clouds laugh as children on the playground
In that place I look for my hands and find them
Watch penny whistle tweets shooting out the ends my fingers
Walk through walls and vault through closed windows
Talk to strangers from other realms
Find my self by losing it

The essence of who we are
Does not rot with this bodies end
The knowing of this moves us to use it
As a delicate instrument capable of fantastic feats
Sets us free to overcome our fear
Observe every present passing moment
With keen attention
With joy
And stop walking asleep

Friday, April 3, 2009



We look upon her soft as grandma
Queuing us according to gender
Our shoulders, legs, arms straight and stiff
Awaiting the rush of approval from her gentle touch
To win the flag of her tender lips upon our forehead
It seems the prettiest girl usually held firm to her chest
That tiny banner of white with red cross centered in the blue corner
And it seems too the favorite boy mostly held aloft
The other tiny standard with stars and stripes
As we marched the four corners of a Sunday classroom
Singing praises to those proud and valiant crusaders
Off to war
Armageddon began with us
Equipped with the prophecy
That damns the Philistine’s trespass
Upon the steeple this grandma protects
With lips so soft pressing us into battle
With resolve firm as ice hanging from a frozen beam