Poetry.

I shall to sleep

I shall to sleep while you are yet dancing
over the endless tile,
sliding, eliding in hectic half-measures,
amid the fractious bile.

I shall to sleep while you are rejoicing,
savoring sweet ecstacy,
enchantment, affection, brief understanding,
moments of found harmony.

I shall to sleep while you are at worship,
leaving your self behind,
Seeking a place for inner surrender,
hoping for faith unrefined.

I shall to sleep while you are triumphant,
making a place for yours,
pounding out beats of perpetual striving,
as whispering worry implores.

I shall to sleep while you yet falter,
yearning for absolutes,
and do you sense that such is elusive,
in spite of your heartfelt pursuits?

I shall to sleep knowing you follow
my path inexorable,
struggle and breathe, discover its gifts,
life ever ends for us all.

So think I on you while I am yet living,
watching at one remove,
in my minds eye your burdens your joys,
yearning your pains to soothe.

Poetry.

Breathing

I lie flat upon my back,
having just flung myself to the ground following the full effort of a bicycle ride up a long hill,
breathing deep and hard,
swallowing gulps of restoring air.

I feel my rib-cage lift against the fabric of my shirt as each breath enters my lungs,
my muscles and cartilage stretch to accommodate the air,
then rapidly compress,
expelling a rush of sound.

I attend to the bed of grass in which I lie,
its earthy smell of hay,
its tiny fruiting heads gently scraping against the skin of my forearms,
its stalks waving in the wind and against one another in soft whispers.

I feel the simple pleasure of being alive,
as a gentle breeze flows across my chest,
and the spring Sun shines down and warms my skin.

Around me all else in this glorious moment unnoticed,
ignored.

Just. Breathing.

From memories of a bike ride from Rodalben up Pirmasenser Strasse to the Husterhöh Kaserne, Pirmasens, Germany, 1975.

Poetry.

Evensong

Even as the evening comes,
All begin to home,
Some roundabout, wanting first
To wander in the gloam,
Some direct to open arms
Of lovers yet alone,
Each seeking friends and comfort
To ease their hearts to home.
Observations, Poetry.

I hear America singing

Should we be optimistic about the future of the American dream?  There is no reason we should not be.  Walt Whitman was optimistic about America, and his optimism was rooted in the potential for each American to realize their personal vision in a nation constructed to minimize tyranny; America is the land of the free.

Today we are facing the consequences of a long-term corruption of the American dream; we have deeply indebted ourselves and our nation in the pursuit of individual material betterment and the maintenance of a global military presence.  The corruption is both individual and collective, and the failures cut across ideologies, social classes, and leadership hierarchies. With all of our self-inflicted troubles, this is no time to despair, but to reflect, re-prioritize, and act.