I see a gih-tar
A geetar
A guitar
A STARE,
I see people reaching out –asking for someone to care
I CARE!
About you
Waking up each morning wondering
“What’s the point?”
-wonder why the next step is reaching out for that joint
THIS JOINT
Offers inspiration
Colorful paintings
Black curtains
Old brick walls!
And just enough lighting
That you can Share or Stare
Hide or disrobe
Lets just all forget about the ethical codes
Lets embrace
Humanity
sharing a smile and a hug
like the baristas who greet you
tempting you to fall in love.
OH!
Isn’t an open mic at a coffee shop
Such a wonderful drug?
Saturday, January 10, 2009
Musica
I absolutely love it when a piece of music moves me. tears at me, makes me shed a few, makes me convulse, makes my heart pulse, makes my knees shake, makes my shoulders ache, urges me to participate, stretched bare to the invisible sky, asking God why, in my mind's eye, I could be so blessed to experience bliss, for just one moment like this, how my blood surges how my spirit urges to connect forever this way, so bound and so free, solitary yet connected to thee, with color and spirit, with energy movement with compassion and passion, unsure what is real, what is dream, and if this is true it would seem that I'm in love again and wishing this song would never end.
Eulogy for Uncle Chris (oct 2008)
Uncle,
At the news of death
women ought to be screaming and crying, rubbing your body for the traces of warmth that slip away... who cares about colors and funeral arrangements... who cares at all? The hero has moved on… Men, tightly holding themselves back, only to embrace in the strongest hugs that whisper "Please don't let go right now! My strength is gone, I have no will and no pride left..."
Words unsaid, the gleam off an eye, the strain of the voice, the voiceless. The senselessness.
As the arrangements are made
Even the timid should want the best. The gold and silver, the flowers and prayers. He shall be wrapped in silks and laid out on a hand carved wooden bed. The flame or dirt will take him as we sing of his glory. Sing how things won't ever be the same again, the clouds seem darker, the trees so rigid, the mountains so much more intimidating.
At the mourning
the dark should infiltrate the eyes and skin of those you leave behind, their sadness so deep and intense that no cheek is un-wet, their hair shed, their heart burst, they should fall all over themselves with despair.
At the celebration
they should speak in weeps loud and unfiltered of your beauty, with smiles that tremble, the emotions so thick with the warmth you have shed that the room of gathered still feel wrapped in your presence, the sheltered, the secured. They beam and sparkle having known you, having experienced your wild, your steadfastness, your strength, your strength, your strength that is now lost to them.
And the many who were touched should tell stories till the morning,
dance and drink like their movement alone, was the radiance of the moon.
They should leave still feeling the loss though with renewed -
with a spirit like yours, heartily joking, greeting the dawn with hope for the better.
Oh uncle,
where is your grand funeral march?
At the news of death
women ought to be screaming and crying, rubbing your body for the traces of warmth that slip away... who cares about colors and funeral arrangements... who cares at all? The hero has moved on… Men, tightly holding themselves back, only to embrace in the strongest hugs that whisper "Please don't let go right now! My strength is gone, I have no will and no pride left..."
Words unsaid, the gleam off an eye, the strain of the voice, the voiceless. The senselessness.
As the arrangements are made
Even the timid should want the best. The gold and silver, the flowers and prayers. He shall be wrapped in silks and laid out on a hand carved wooden bed. The flame or dirt will take him as we sing of his glory. Sing how things won't ever be the same again, the clouds seem darker, the trees so rigid, the mountains so much more intimidating.
At the mourning
the dark should infiltrate the eyes and skin of those you leave behind, their sadness so deep and intense that no cheek is un-wet, their hair shed, their heart burst, they should fall all over themselves with despair.
At the celebration
they should speak in weeps loud and unfiltered of your beauty, with smiles that tremble, the emotions so thick with the warmth you have shed that the room of gathered still feel wrapped in your presence, the sheltered, the secured. They beam and sparkle having known you, having experienced your wild, your steadfastness, your strength, your strength, your strength that is now lost to them.
And the many who were touched should tell stories till the morning,
dance and drink like their movement alone, was the radiance of the moon.
They should leave still feeling the loss though with renewed -
with a spirit like yours, heartily joking, greeting the dawn with hope for the better.
Oh uncle,
where is your grand funeral march?
Might As Well Have Been A Dream He Thought (Sept 2008)
I don't even need the answers to the questions I pose
I find them in the prose you wrote in my dreams.
Each message not so clear and concise
but I dream through the night,
and then I think all day
to decode what you have said.
Is it any wonder I wake up depressed,
but in hearing from you, prefer my bed?
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