meditations

regardez-moi, monsieur plus beau
that i might look in your exquisite eyes.
a perfect day is nothing more than
to think on you and smile within
and sing my french soul's quiet song:
je vous regarde avec un amour comme une montagne.

stream of consciousness -- christmas poem

a christmas holiday:
hot music, warm day, cold house, numb toes,
et canunt juglans regia
of the horrors of the nutcracker's bite.
but for all else there is peace and love
and a gift of a Baby in divine humble splendor
and the joyous music of the season .
thank god for angel choirs
and oceans of piano keys:
white, black, white, black, white, white, black,
a richer beauty than any other,
and yet all in monochrome;
that metal and wood should render souls from onlisteners,
weeping and sighing, ebb and fade,
it is truly a christmas miracle.

power of words

Breath circulates. Vocal chords engage. Mouth opens.

Phonation.

You're talking. But what are you saying?

A simple biological chain of events can do a lot, either for better or worse. It doesn't take a lot of effort to create words, and thus it doesn't take a lot of effort to have a lot of power. If words are from the right Source, they can calm a storm or move a mountain. Words can change the course of history. And if they get out of control, they can be poison.

Words have power. They must be carefully guarded and stewarded. It's an easy thing to forget, how a small word can have big implications, so we slip up often. In the heat of anger, we make mistakes. If only we could take them back.

But since we can't, let us use those mistakes to remind us of the power of words and to remember that such power should only be used to encourage and ennoble, and never to condemn and destroy.

for a sex slave in bangkok

little actress in the rusty bed
spins cobwebs in her dusty head
empty just to save herself

and then a knock sounds at the door
she'll moan and sigh when he wants more
and smacks her, rapes her, calls her 'whore'
she'll pretend she likes it -- he loves that

and when he is gone
the little actress, no glamour for her here,
lays back into her bed of lust and smut and pain
and falls asleep to await her next encore.

an oscar winner at age thirteen,
and momma and dad are so proud,
or at least, they have food to eat now.

life is a poem

life is a poem,
but then mine is a haiku
or so it would seem

life is a haiku
it can seem extremely short
yet it means so much

or life is a song
possessing pain and beauty
in its careful notes

life is a poem,
so I will write a good one--
at least, I will try.

when and if

I am tired of your whining. I am tired of your moping. I am tired of your drama. I am tired of how hyperemotional you are. It hurts us both, and I can't believe how inconsiderate you are. I tried and tried and tried to help you, but it's going nowhere, and I have reached the limits of my patience.

When and if you are ready to let yourself move on, then I will be ready to speak to you again.

When and if seeing the world through wise eyes becomes a part of you and not just a pair of eyeglasses, then you will understand me.

Until that when and if happens, I am done being your life.

life is ironic

It occured to me this morning -- as it has often occured to me in the past, but never as eloquently as today -- that the most important thing you learn as you grow up is that you are never "grown up." The more knowledge you acquire, the more you realize that you know nothing.

How many times have I told myself that life will be what I want it to be in the future? How many times have I ignored where I am now because I was so concerned with the future? How long have I tried to make something out of myself that I liked, only to feel completely unsatistfied and start over again? How many of us has looked forward to something for so long, and yet found themselves utterly disappointed when that end is finally realized?

And thus I am trying to remind myself that life is too short not to savor every moment. Pardon the cliche when I say that every moment is a gift, and it should not be squandered. Think of Jesus's parable of the prodigal son. He took his inheritance and ran with it. He spent it on things that did not satisfy him beyond the moment. And in the end, he returns to where he was. No growth, nothing to show for his time, only shame. And when we read that story, we think, "how foolish of him to squander his resources!" Yet that is precisely what we do with so many seconds and minutes and inhalations and exhalations that God gives to us, here and now and until we die. So preserve the child within you. Love that which is marvelous, and remember that life is short.