Tag: poems


There are so many excellent essays here at Docudharma:

davidseth’s: Remembering Dr. King’s True Legacy

NLinStPaul’s:  A Better Way

OPOL’s:  A Gentle Reminder

Jimstaro’s: Peace History – This Past Week

are a few I read this morning.  Please check out the list on the sidebar, this weekend’s been a all-header for stories.  @;-)

I am taken with the ideas, experience and hard truths that are offered here as a matter of routine.  There aren’t often essays calling for someone else to provide “leadership;” there are however many essays about “calls” that individuals have answered and are in the process of answering. Just as in the Hero’s Journey stories of myth, only right now- real people- in real time.

I am struck with how much work is being accomplished as much as I am struck by the enormous amount of work there is yet to even begin.

So, in the spirit of encouragement, I offer a poem that I wrote (and was fortunate to see published) in 2001.  It is the story of the bird of rebirth, the Phoenix, who rises from its own ashes on the fabled Ben-Ben stone only once every 500 years.  In most myths, the bird is solitary, he/she has no leader, has no followers, has no companions.  I like to think that we all are our own Phoenix, but while our journeys are often conducted alone, we now have the opportunity to share the inspiration from our own experiences of ‘rising out of the ashes’ with other Phoenixes from not only around the country, but from around the world.  I like to think that the millions of us on our own journeys see each other, flap our wings, and know that individually together, we are changing our worlds.

In honor of your own Phoenix:

Profiles in Literature: E. E. Cummings

Greetings, literature-loving Dharmiacs.  Last time we discussed gay Harlem Renaissance author Richard Bruce Nugent, who tapped into the experimental cadences of black modernist literature to spin fantasies on queer life long before it became acceptable to do so.  This week we’re going to talk about another American experimental writer, albeit one who achieved enormous popularity both at home and abroad.

With torture and extraordinary rendition so much in the news, it may come as something as a surprise that today’s subject experienced the agony of unjust political imprisonment first hand.  But in 1917, this recent Harvard graduate and volunteer in a World War I ambulance corps found himself thrown in prison for “espionage” without recourse to any legal defense.    Fortunately for history (and for us) the experience did nothing to crush his puckish personality, and he went on to become one of America’s most warmly loved artists.

Follow me below for a jaunt with this 20th century master:

Blue Moon

so called, as once a blue moon or so, a poem might appear. @;-)

Another version of this was written in March, 2003 for the grassroots “Poets Against the War” website,

along with thousands of other poems, from thousands of other poets. The site is still active.

Old Woman and The Child

He said,

“It is dark!

Did the comet die?”

She answered,

“Yes, it is dark,

the comet is gone,

dark prayers are planted in the land.

But look,

here, in the round

we still have our fire.  

I tell you now,

before they come-

drink blood from our fingers

eat bowls of our dead-

we’ll show them the river’s source in the stars,

found in each of their palms.

And one-by-one

they will sit down, and remember.”


water falling down
it splats on the ground

do you, when nobodys watching
sing in the rain

do you spin around and let go
of all your worries
and who cares if anybody sees
you’ve already made sure
nobodys there

do you pretend you’re in a movie
and turn your face upward
and open your mouth
and let the rain in

please tell me
you’re like me
…that i’m not the only freak
jumping puddles with
Gene Kelly

please tell me
you’re like me
that i’m not alone
in being alone,
… dancing in the rain

Reworked poem (thanks cronie!)

i would leave …today
and walk straight through tomorrow
if only i knew
that i’d find

i remember thinking…
as we watched the
fire flies fading
like falling embers into the night
i should kiss you
in this smoldering light

in the morning…
memory brings the garden into bloom
i still smell days, just before rain
and hear the thud and splat
of water, gathering in the bird bath
and making mud of our path

the afternoon and the sun
fall through the bedroom window
all warm and yellow,
with a warmed breeze blowing over us
… those few perfect moments of rest
when there is no need for it…

these things, and a hundred more
make me pull open the door
and walk away from today
through tomorrow
and further

to find you…………………