BREATHE

People and ideas sometimes have to be left
to the river and carried downstream.
Some we will see again, maybe.

In that river ink will flow on,
people will drink in ideas you thought
and create their own ideas—

and you will be connected with them
without ever seeing their faces
or hearing their voices.

What you did that others will not see
will stay hidden and quiet in you,
will be a piece of all your future prayers,

will maybe make you turn left
when you would have
otherwise turned right—

and you may never even fully realize it
until you are watching a replay of your entire life,
reaching for that great light—

like dreams that are potent just after you wake,
but find their quiet place in your memory—
guiding you silently without you even knowing it.

(July 24, 2008)

SIDE

Tolstoy, they say, used to write
in the village square—the faces inspired him.
Here, at the coffee shop,
the faces chase away
what the air hopes we will find on it.

(July 19, 2008)

MISSING LINK

Each page I turn is for that
missing link, not for
an already-thought idea.

When the shadows grow,
then it is time to move on.

(July 19, 2008)

CERTITUDE.

I
Most mornings I set out after dawn, not sure where to go,
but hopeful that the voice of God and I
will cross paths—that my own road to Perdition will
remain hidden. The wind blows in my ears,
deafening me a little from the world, I learn to accept it.

Beside the silent lake I catch my breath—
close my eyes and they’ll all be gone.

II
I only see the living in my dreams:
African faces, far-away sisters, my hand held
in another’s—the still trees say,
“We know what is in your heart”—better than I do.
When I wake, the meaning of the world is lost.

III
Beside the silent lake I catch my breath—
I will try to help you through.

I am wiping the sand away,
some day I will understand it all.

What is in my hands does not belong to me.

(July 19, 2008)

LISTENING

My father has difficulty hearing things intended for him
that come in on the wind, much less the gentle sounds
of the wild summer night—a world we rarely go into
once we’re past childhood.

I receive reports from abroad—are those
tears, though not false, really real—
to me?

I like to think there are always possibilities.

(July 16, 2008)

A PICTURE

Most of the voices we hear are of people
we don’t know. But they’re in our homes,
in the living rooms or bedrooms, talking
to us, showing us the better life. Of course, it’s not
perfect, but the pros outweigh the cons—
walks on the beach, a small empire,
a happy sex life.

It’s better to know these people when you can’t
understand the language—when you don’t have
that better life.

(July 14, 2008)

GROWING UP

A separation may happen, a
permanent divergence. God’s great silence
is encouraging.

We’ll never know
if something good would have come from this,
or if it is better not to uncover so much hurt.

(July 7, 2008)

MIWOK: THE FIRST PEOPLE

We pass thru this park every day, where
submissive rain dances were performed.
We learned about history.

There is a sense of ownership—
the creek can’t remember
the prayer it was always offering, the trees are still.

Something will come.
Something will come.

Local traditions have little inspiration
anymore, their light is fading from the world.
People are out there, waiting.

Something will come.
Something will come.

(July 7, 2008)

CONFLUENCE

There is a large wall today, but I
can still feel the rain—
a plea from the heavens.

There is a lot of time between the mornings
when we leave our bodies to the flames—
a search for freedom.

Every day is our battle cry of the heroes,
with stones flung in our faces—
a river in the distance.

The air around the golden dome has come
all this way to find me—
I hope it feels my gratitude when I breathe it in.

(July 6, 2008)