POEM: I Suspect

Here is a May Day poem, where metaphysical optimism crashes into empirical skepticism.  Will we simply crash and burn?  Or, will we rise like a Phoenix from the ashes?  Stay tuned…

I suspect

I suspect
God is
The greatest
Un-detective
Just
Waiting
Wise
Cracking
Another Case
Wide
Open
As the whirled unrivals
As wee
Per severe
As we in cyst
In decisiveness
Receive only
A silent answer
Deifying the laws of gravity
What trail of clues
Could we possibly fallow
In too the forced?
A Candide house
In witch to live
Or worse yet, in ovens
Mere bread crumbs
Long the way
Consumed by others
In an inquisition
What could passibly be incite?
Like pop corn
Under cover
With more heat than light
Blowing our tops
Not taking know for an answer
Yielding
Nothing but
A mess haul
Leading know where
What more all fiber
We knead
Sow un-pallet-able die it
Doody-bound to ask, “Where’s the better?”
The haystack needles us
As a single blade of grass
Mysteriously cuts through our encyclopedic egos
Wet the hay!
Rudely ruminating
For an unherd of fourth tine
How can we stomach it?
We have a cow
To match our bull
Sterile and next to godliness
Making love
With a test tube and a bleaker
Open minds and vacant hearts
A terminal generation
Overcome by they’re first
Fore knowledge
Over looking
Clothesing one’s I’s
So unsightly
As life’s wizzed ‘em
Over taken
Bypassed
Buy history
Doomed to replete it
Prospect us
With pre-science
And art
Beating
Like a conundrum
None the less
Dissecting all of life
Left
With a pile of tripe
As we complain of the stench
Of our own making
(Or un-making as the case may be)
If God were to show his face in this town
The lessen would certainly be learned
Love hurts
The hair of the dog
Banned
On the run
Never quiet feeling like homme
He would, in all probability, be epically misunderstood
From the powers that be down to a best friend
Likely murdered by both
A merciless alien power
And the icons of the culture he was born into
Un-Abel to walk unscathed through a crowd of birthers
For they couldn’t pick him out of a lineup
In the company of drunks, tax collectors, and fools
In a holding cell
Wading for some final trial
With a thousand co-Pilates and no one at the helm
Staging a mock revolution
Where the only truth is that
What goes around comes around
Accept some con-science
And the inevitable quest in
Beyond the reach of a court of laws
Some lurking undiscovered
Lost in a holey see of overlooked graces
Born free
So far from home
In one’s living room
A naiveté of a starless night
On the out in an inn-less locale
Only there for another’s senses
Borne stuffed
To the rafters
Full of hay
Only longing
To be assistant manger
Nothing more
Than what thou dust
Surrounded by animals
Where the “nays” have it
Guilty by dissociation
Given birth
By an absentee father
The biggest mother of all
I suspect
Not countering upon
The distracted
The brutalized
And hard working skeptics
Unresigned to forest labor
Sisyphean mountaintops
Out to sea
Beyond the vale
Beyond damn nations
Willing
To pay the fined
The greatest miracles unearth

POEM: Not Unlike Hope

Here is a poem about hope, sometimes on the run, sometimes on the lam.  Hope is never lost, and hope often lurks in sometimes unrespectable places. This poem has plenty of puns, hidden jewels, drama, chase scenes, and victorious poetry.  Enjoy!

Not Unlike Hope

Take heart
Breaking news
Hope is believed to be
Residing in an undisclosed location
The authorities have undertaken
To apprehend hope
Dead if need be
Vowing to devote all needed resources
To the hunt
For citizens
Good
Neighbors
Turning in
Suspicious
Character
Turning out
En masse
Lady Justice
Courting
Blindly
Dated
Expects her clues so
Much like a pink panther
Only rarer
Insulated by specious arguments
A trade mark
To protect and serve
Up
The last
Ne’er do well
Un-till
Hope rears
Her ugly head
Once
More
Only aft her
Out laud
In the vicinity of
Lincoln and MLK Way
Where the scufflawless meet
The police force
O Captain! My Captain!
Flailing too
Resolve
Issue
Press
Release
Dashing
Up the poetry
As we cooly add verse
Shelling out what is ode
And the sonnet rises
Not unlike hope

POEM: My Heart Breaks Daily

Life is messy.  Compassion is messy.  Acting in the world in a way that is congruent with one’s broken and breaking heart is a challenge.  A challenge to the actor, and a challenge to those in the world witnessing and trying to make sense of one’s acts.  Here is a short poem about such heartbreaking action:

My heart breaks daily
Spilling out into the streets
And other public places.
The authorities instruct me
To clean it up.

POEM: Universe So Vast

I once asked God
Why did you make the universe so vast?
What were you possibly thinking?
And God said
I was kind of hoping
To have enough room
For all of the poetry yet to be written

This is a poet’s poem, in case you didn’t know it.  The universe is vast, mind-bogglingly vast.  There seems to be so much empty space, and so little to fill it.  The overwhelming majority of this space is cold, near absolute zero; and the warmth of life seems too sparse to not ask some hard questions.  The anthropic principle, “that observations of the physical universe must be compatible with the conscious life that observes it,” also suggests in its vast mathematical underpinnings that these vast amounts of space may be necessary for life to exist.  Also, humans, and human consciousness, is fittingly right in the middle of the logarithmic scale of the universe, between  the scale of subatomic “particles” and astronomical distances measured in light years.  Surely, this is an ideal perch for poets, equidistant from the mysterious veil of quantum wonders uncertain and the ponderous views of an apparently infinite universe.  And at the heart of it all, “get a job!”  And what a job the poets have: to fill the universe with poetry!

POEM: Slow Boat to China

Some days
I feel like
I’m on
A slow boat
To China
Then it hits me
More like
Being water boarded
In America

My life is generally at a pretty relaxed pace, and with this I have no complaints.  However, when I look at the state of the world, it seems that we are amidst an excruciatingly long process characterized by a big dose of denial and a shockingly resilient lack of self-awareness on the way to a place I’m sure that not very many people actually want to go.  I like the China reference in the slow boat to China phrase, because the conventional wisdom seems to be that the Chinese culture and economy is a juggernaut, not a particularly desirable one, but probably one that has to be emulated in the race to the bottom.  And, as they say: “If you keep going the same direction, you’ll end up where you’re headed.”  In the battle to maintain a positive consciousness in what seems to be a herd of lemmings heading toward a cliff, occasionally this experience fits the old war adage: hours of boredom punctuated by sheer terror.  However, when the terror and torture hits, it is increasingly in the states, both blue and red (also states of mind), as opposed to overseas.  For what we send out into the world eventually comes home to roost.  Unfortunately, terror is a brother to fascism (though I am not sure which one is the big brother).  So, how does one cope when waterboarding comes to America?  I’m guessing that the answer involves more than just surfing the internet…

POEM: I am

The other day I got kicked out
Of an atheist’s club
Told in no uncertain terms
There is science
And no other!
And I am left
To wonder
Wow, where did that come from?!
I was raised
A Christian
A long story (some may say tall)
Which makes some short
Red chapters
Heavenly verse
To love
One, an other
To bless
Not curse
A Palestinian Jew
Named Jesus
We could do much worse!
I once heard a Muslim
Of five pillars he spoke
Coming down to One
And as a Muslim
I woke
Then along came Buddha
Who said: “Don’t follow me,
Experience it first!”
Which made me want to follow
This unslakable thirst
To find compassion and justice
A home
Here on this suffering Earth
A little man
Named Gandhi
To kingdoms united
He spoke
I am
A Hindu
A Christian
A Muslim
A Jew
And undoubtedly a Sikh he
So many will accuse
Well
Me too!

I have considered myself a theological mutt as long as I can remember.  While I have never found a home in atheism, I have a deep appreciation for those who have rejected theism when they experience theistic followers as extremely unwelcoming and exclusive.  Probably one of my most basic theological beliefs is that God is love, and that God’s love is unconditional.  I find it difficult to imagine such a “condition” that is any more inclusive!  This wreaks havoc on virtually every conventional way of thinking.  This is one of the major reasons why I consider spirituality as countercultural.  A healthy spirituality is constantly turning up statist views of reality and human conditions.  I see spirituality as basically a struggle of life over death.  How does one enliven, incarnate, the inanimate matter that is the object of science (there is no subject in science!)?  I don’t see differences of opinion around spirituality primarily as theists versus atheist, but rather as fundamentalists versus welcoming dynamicists.      In the myriad world of either/or propositions, the dynamicists welcome the answer of “YES!”, as opposed to “this, “that,” or “yes, but.”  Or, more simply put, does it enhance living?  Unfortunately, living in this both/and world can be quite disconcerting for those demanding hard endpoints or absolute certainty — which are dangerous to coming to healthy terms with the irreducible uncertainties of life.  In theological terms, this would probably be called process theology, where: “it is an essential attribute of God to be fully involved in and affected by temporal processes, an idea that conflicts with traditional forms of theism that hold God to be in all respects non-temporal (eternal), unchanging (immutable), and unaffected by the world (impassible). Process theology does not deny that God is in some respects eternal, immutable, and impassible, but it contradicts the classical view by insisting that God is in some respects temporal, mutable, and passible.”  But enough theology, suffice it to say that I believe that fundamentalism is a death knell for healthy spirituality and a living religion.  Perhaps ironically, I don’t see that atheism has done any better of a job than theism of minimizing fundamentalism.  I don’t see much difference between militant atheists and fundamentalist religionists.

But, alas, such debate has being going on for millennia, and with much dissatisfaction; so I would propose that the dividing line can be summed up by the attitudes represented in one’s response to this statement by Albert Einstein: “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is a miracle.”  Or, to frame it somewhat differently, when Einstein was asked what the most important question that a human being could ask is, he answered: “Is the universe friendly?”  I don’t know if this question is answerable in some ultimate, final sense, but I do know that I can vote for the universe being friendly, and make the universe a little more friendly, by practicing kindness.  And the gratitude manifest by seeing everything as a miracle helps empower me to behave kindly.  But, you be the judge…or not.

POEM: Entitled to be Untitled

Your life is a work of art
Entitled to be untitled

Your life is beautiful.  Your life is a work of art.  Your life cannot be reduced to a thing; it is irreducibly mysterious.  Any label is inadequate.  I have an ever-growing appreciation that people are eccentric, a unique and eclectic collection of gloriously contradictory characteristics. If you don’t believe that someone is eccentric, then you probably don’t know them well enough!  So, whatever you call me…don’t call me late for dinner!

POEM: Spiritual Economy

The other day I went to my spiritual economist
She had already been in receipt of my stack of papers
I spoke at some length and detail
She noted that I have much that I can not afford
She advised that I do the things that I can’t afford not to do
Perhaps I’ll make a note of that

The world has a glut of financial advisors.  And most of the field of financial advising is awash in the stale conventional wisdom of materialism.  This short poem alludes to going to a somewhat different type of advisor.  Though not necessarily the life coaches of the day that can only be afforded by the wealthy.  Instead, in addressing one’s spiritual economy, the adviser shifts the focus from those things which one cannot afford to those things which one can’t afford not to do.  Given the busy lives that most of us leave, the urgent favors the important. Of course, the most important things in our lives are those that if we don’t do them, then we would either experience substantial harm or miss out on substantial benefit.  What exactly those things are can be very personal — not usually something related to making a buck, or something that requires a lot of money.  It may be writing that poetry that you always wanted to write.  It may be looking up an old friend and reconnecting. It’s a question that you alone can answer.  And there are precious few people who get paid to even ask such questions, let alone answer them.  But, if you’re fortunate enough to identify some of the things you can’t afford not to do, and these things bring a smile of anticipation, you are definitely on the right track.

POEM: Bull Shit

There are two things I know for sure
One, I am way too old for this bull shit
Two, I am way too young for this bull shit
Okay, it’s more
Like one thing

In my college freshman english class, I wrote an essay where I quoted Ernest Hemingway, “The most essential gift for a good writer is a built-in, shock-proof, shit detector.”  In a weird twist of irony, my professor thought that I made this up, that it was bull shit. Even more ironic, running into people who see the truth as bull shit seems to be as common of an impediment in life as encountering people who see bull shit as the truth.  There seems to be a large supply of denial available for coping with inconvenient truths.  Also, it seems that cognitive dissonance plays a large role in people sticking to bull shit beliefs even when facing fairly accessible truths.  It seems that the economy of the mind finds it much more efficient to jettison inconvenient truths if accepting them requires a substantial amount of reworking one’s own thinking.  I suspect that most of us are old enough to be capable to see through most of the bull shit flying about.  Hopefully, most of us are young enough to reject the lazy ease of settling for a world where bull shit is often the foundation of our reality.

POEM: No Longer on Speaking Terms with God

I am no longer on speaking terms with God
She keeps pouring drink into my cup overflowing
And I no longer have the heart to say when
Only ever with a rye smile
Would she say to me “eat me”
She is so much better bred than that
She is the host for me
And not often best served en masse

Words and rituals will always fall short of the true glory of God.  However, this doesn’t mean that we can’t experience God in a rich and robust way.  With tongue-in-cheek, God “rudely” keeps heaping blessings upon me, in such a way that if I fully take it in, then I will likely appear as a babbling drunk in most any conventional setting.  I’m not sure what more to say, except that I am eager for my next visit to God’s speakeasy!

POEM: Text Message From Rumi

I got a text message from Rumi:
big screen tv died
whole world looks like 3D
brb
That was over a thousand years ago

Real life is infinitely more fascinating than virtual life.  It’s like trying to compare 3D to 2D: there aren’t really words adequate for it.  Rumi’s timeless message is embedded in a short story encompassing modern times.  The instant text messaging and big screen televisions may draw us into their world.  Nevertheless, the whole world will eventually have its day; and if it’s a good day, it can last a thousand years – even given the worst of intentions.

POEM: I Dropped My Sword and Shield

One day I dropped my sword and shield
And as it turns out, it freed more than my hands

It is not unusual for me to want to see someone hurt; this is the metaphorical sword.  It is not unusual for me to want to protect myself and limit my vulnerabilities to others; this is the metaphorical shield.  On a good day, I find freedom in heaping compassion on all living beings, and opening myself to the reality that me and the so-called other are actually one.  It has been said that resentment is like taking poison and expecting another to die.  Resentments hurt me first, and then often go on to hurt others.  It has also been said that hurt people hurt people.  However, it is possible for me to break that cycle. And when the cycle of hurt is broken, I am the first one freed.  To live this way requires a lot of vulnerability, that is, dropping my shield.  While our culture often lifts up the virtues of the warrior, I believe that a willingness to experience hurt without passing that hurt on to others takes more courage than hurting others.  Punishment as a lower form of justice.  Also, by offering a break in the cycle of hurt it serves as an invitation to others to break the cycle.  The point is not to visit the karma of violence upon another but to escape that karma.  This is a higher form of just us.

POEM: Life is a 45 Record

Life is a 45 record
Most of us are playing it as a 78
Or perhaps we are being played
Few are old enough to get this
Even fewer are wise enough

Most of us lived life rushed.  For those of us old enough to remember 45 records AND 78 records (or record players), 78s were played at a much faster speed.  Playing any 45 record at 78 is likely to sound more chipmunkish than human.  If chipmunk sounds normal to you then you probably don’t get this.  If chipmunk sounds envelop your life and you find this annoying, then there is hope.  The wise slow down and experience life as it is meant to be…

P.S. If you don’t know what a record is, don’t worry, it isn’t any kind of record.

POEM: Shooting Star

You are a shooting star
Enjoy it while you can
And may others look up
And see your light

The short poem focuses on the theme that life is short, yet it can be glorious.  The first order of business is to enjoy life while you can.  Following this, others may be blessed to look up and see the light of your life.  I like the imagery of a night sky.  The night sky is largely dark but becomes glorious with the many tiny sparkling lights strewn across the night sky.   Of course, there is a strange partnership in that the great darkness makes the tiny lights shine all the more.  However, even though the night sky may occupy much of our potential field of vision, it is often overlooked.  In some way, this makes the beauty that is present all the more beautiful, considering the blessed few who are able to take advantage of such beauty.  Perhaps ironically, these tiny distant lights in the night sky are actually huge stars, massive nuclear furnaces burning for billions of years.  You’d think that might get our attention!  Nonetheless, we seem to acclimate to such enduring glories.  The irony is that tiny, short-lived lights in a motion, that is, shooting stars, are much more likely to grab our attention.  So may your  life be poetry in motion, capturing the attention of those who can appreciate it.  And if not, may you at least be able to enjoy the burn!

POEM: Personal Boundaries

Sometimes I have trouble telling where I end and you begin
No, wait, that’s you!

This funny little poem plays with the confusion inherent in having fuzzy personal boundaries.  Codependency is a very popular topic these days.  Sorting out what is your own business versus what is somebody else’s business can be a very difficult task.  Fortunately, we live in the world of interdependence.  So, I suppose that sorting out oneself from others would naturally present some difficulty.  I cannot claim any great wisdom in regards to that fuzzy line between what is one’s own business and what is somebody else’s business.  However, I think I’ve stumbled upon a fairly good cheat.  If I focus on who I am and who I want to be, this seems to be a full-time job, leaving little time for messing around with other people’s business.  Self-awareness and self-discovery is a lot of work.  However, if we were able to achieve a decent level of self-awareness, then what do we bring into our relationships with other people becomes much clearer.  Of course, it also helps a lot, if the other people that we are in relationship with know who they are and who they want to be as well.  In the end, this probably boils down to the simple reality that minding other people’s business is just a roundabout way of avoiding dealing with what is truly our own business.  Somehow, it seems so much more fun and/or easier to diagnose and fix other people’s problems!  Unfortunately, I am the only one that can truly take care of my business, and if I don’t do it, then I can’t blame anybody else.  Of course, if I just stick to blaming everybody else, I don’t have to deal with my own stuff.  Is this just me, or is that you?!

Kent State Massacre POEM

Today is the 42nd anniversary of the Kent State Massacre, where four students were killed and nine students were injured when National Guard troops opened fire on anti-war demonstrators.  Below is a picture of Arlington Midwest at Kent State, May 4, 2006.  Arlington Midwest is a display of the Northwest Ohio Peace Coalition which organizes traveling displays of tombstones representing the human cost of the war in Iraq and Afghanistan.  The display includes a simulated tombstone with name, rank, age and state of origin for each fallen U.S. soldier.

arlingtonKSU1 POEM: I Suspect

Below is a  poem reflecting on the Kent State Massacre, by Terry Lodge, a member of the Northwest Ohio Peace Coalition, activist lawyer, Toledo’s People’s Attorney, and usual suspect:

Looking down from the black marble memorial
Grave reminder
Of a dark chapter
A nonfiction nightmare
Played out in an Ohio theater of war
I’m halfway between Blanket Hill and the valley of death of May 4, 1970
An observation post above a field of green
Today dressed up as thousands of war crimes.

It is May
And the semi-shade of the black oak branches
And their celadon new leaves
Wreath the distant, orderly rows
Of white spring petals
Fallen from the Tree of Life.

Tears water this chiaroscuro of whitewash, nestled
In the shadows where crimes against humanity are plotted.
From a distance, it’s a palette worthy of Manet,
Choreographed by Rumsfeld.

These petals will produce no fruit
Nor beauty or poetry
Their leaves are pages of the guest registers
Of three thousand funeral homes.

Silently we listen
For some hopeful spring noise
That their blood might have nurtured,
Answered by silence.

POEM: Metaphors be with you

Metaphors be with you

This simple one line poem which is only four words is a takeoff on the Star Wars saying, may the force be with you.  Is it any surprise that one of these four words is a pun?  Of course, I love metaphors way more than Star Wars, which I enjoy quite a bit.  I love metaphors because they can hit you right in the face with an apparent literal meaning while simultaneously launch a much grander and ephemeral meaning.  I suppose that literalists are confused by metaphors.  However, I might note that literalists are confusion.  This poem is also a simple blessing that the metaphor rich reality in which we live is ever accessible to you.  Like another poem of mine, everything else reminds me of everything else.  Rather than a reality that is barren of meaning, reality is so robust with meaning that it nearly busts out everywhere.  So, metaphors be with you!

POEM: Near Life Experience

I once had a near-life experience
but that’s another story

I like this funny two-line poem because it turns around the mysterious fascination with near-death experiences.  This poem implies that near-life experiences may actually be the uncommon experience.  This is driven home even further in an ironic fashion by not even bothering to tell you about the experience but simply referencing it as just another story to tell.

POEM: Protesting Pet Peeves

I would protest against my pet peeves
Except, I’m not sure that “Honk if you want to end noise pollution”
Would work out so well

I like this funny little poem because it teases at the natural limits of something like protesting.  Many people consider me a big-time protesters.  Perhaps fewer people recognize that noise pollution is one of my major pet peeves.  I love the sign that protesters have that say “Honk for peace” or the like.  This is a great way to invite others to get involved in making a public statement about something very important.  However, when you put these two things together: a honky protest and a desire to end noise pollution, the incongruity becomes comical.  Life is funny!  Thank God!  Sometimes we just have to live into the mystery and find things laugh-worthy along the way, especially when dealing with serious or difficult issues.  At some moments in life, it may not be possible to have both peace and quiet; it may be a choice of peace or quiet.

LOVE POEM: Stolen Glances

I have a confession to make
I’ve stolen so many glances of you
And just us demands
That I stare into your eyes
Until further notice

This love poem is dedicated to my sweetheart, Maryjo.  Fortunately, when only the two of us are involved, the eyes have it!  May it be the same for you and your sweetheart…