Try to put well in practice what you already know; and in so doing, you will in good time, discover the hidden things which you now inquire about. Practice what you know, and it will help to make clear what now you do not know. (Rembrandt)
I sit at a keyboard with no letters.
I light a cigarette.
I stare at the venomous screen.
So much to say.
So little pushes through.
So far, I am in the…in-between.
Strong as my back is…built upon years of slaying dragons and their flies.
Far as my gaze can reach…daytime bats, the blue-jays, frolic and distort all that I wish to see.
And, of course, the pitter-patter of a fifteen year old, eighteen pound cat, he knows exactly where my mind is at.
He taunts me like a catholic mother.
Guilt ridden, I am side tracked…insight, will never just hover.
What a show to behold!
Therefore, I always embrace it.
For it is with certainty, recollections will fade…imagery will be less bold.
We have memorized America,
how it was born and who we have been and where.
In ceremonies and silence we say the words,
telling the stories, singing the old songs.
We like the places they take us. Mostly we do.
The great and all the anonymous dead are there.
We know the sound of all the sounds we brought.
The rich taste of it is on our tongues.
But where are we going to be, and why, and who?
The disenfranchised dead want to know.
We mean to be the people we meant to be,
to keep on going where we meant to go.
But how do we fashion the future? Who can say how
except in the minds of those who will call it Now?
The children. The children. And how does our garden grow?
With waving hands—oh, rarely in a row—
and flowering faces. And brambles, that we can no longer allow.
Who were many people coming together
cannot become one people falling apart.
Who dreamed for every child an even chance
cannot let luck alone turn doorknobs or not.
Whose law was never so much of the hand as the head
cannot let chaos make its way to the heart.
Who have seen learning struggle from teacher to child
cannot let ignorance spread itself like rot.
We know what we have done and what we have said,
and how we have grown, degree by slow degree,
believing ourselves toward all we have tried to become—
just and compassionate, equal, able, and free.
All this in the hands of children, eyes already set
on a land we never can visit—it isn’t there yet—
but looking through their eyes, we can see
what our long gift to them may come to be.
If we can truly remember, they will not forget.
I have learned to be…
that is where I place a frown.
I have learned to…
speak my mind
look for my own interpretation of kind.
Listen to what I say…
do not hold hate
do not plan to act on a different date
I maybe nearing the end of a frayed rope…
but even with all these splits ends…
LOVE must be the only message that I send.