Personal Effects

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  • Timeless

    It’s the end of time;
    it’s the 1st day of living;
    when the moment is here,
    ..and we see every where.

    It’s a way of seeing;
    it’s a way of believing;
    like the wave that’s moving
    ..on the all constant sea.

    When I 1st saw your face;
    when you 1st touched my eyes;
    I could feel my heart beating
    to the rhythm of your light.

    I remember the night;
    I remember the feeling,
    of the sweet sense of home
    as you entered my life.

    As my past reaches out,
    your tomorrow receives it,
    and whispers our story
    so clear and so free.

    We belong to the wind;
    we belong to the river;
    in this 1st breath of morning,
    you belong here with me.

    ….It’s the end of time;
    ….it’s the 1st day of living;
    ….when the future is here,
    ….and we see every where.

    ….It’s a way of seeing;
    ….it’s a way of believing;
    ….like the wave that’s moving
    ….on the all constant sea.

    When I 1st heard your song,
    and the music was flowing,
    ..as the city was sleeping,
    ..as you lay in my arms;

    With the darkness outside,
    and the darkness around us,
    we were two open secrets
    that shined in the night.

    How could I not know
    that the world changed forever;
    creating what would be
    from all that had been.

    …In that quiet dark room,
    how could I not believe it,
    as you entered my soul
    and you found me again.

    …It’s the end of time;
    ….it’s a new way of living;
    ….when the future is here,
    ….and we sing every where.

    ….It’s a way of seeing;
    ….it’s a way of believing;
    ….like the wave that’s moving
    ….on the all constant sea.

    Seems the days they flow by,
    so swift and so steady;
    …and the memories pile high,
    …till they fill up my eyes.

    Now there are dreams in your eyes;
    and they rise on their own wings;
    to reach far past the limits
    of my once far-off designs.

    Seems the world has more light;
    seems the world has more color;
    …as you un-fold your dreams,
    …as you take to the air.

    And yes, I admit,
    I hold out my arms,
    as I’ve done for so long now;
    then you glide past my fingers
    and soar everywhere.

    Yet in the deep purple sky
    we can still see the same moon,
    that bounces our “I love you’s”
    across years of star light.

    ..So just remember that night,
    and remember my promise,
    ..that I’ll always be with you
    …in rest and in flight.

    ….It’s the end of time;
    ….it’s a new way of living;
    ….when the future iis here,
    ….and we sing every-where.

    ….It’s a new way of seeing;
    ….a new way of believing;
    ….like the wave that’s moving
    ….on the all constant sea – like the wave
    ….that’s moving..
    ……..on the all constant sea.

  • Sometimes the Evening Star

    Sometimes the Evening Star.
    Sometimes the Morning Star.
    Sometimes I really don’t quite understand,
    ..who in the heaven you are.

    Ascending out of habit;
    with praise on every tongue.
    At times the lonely day star;
    the promised kiss of sapphire.
    ..Sometimes the Shining One.

    ….Amen to all that was.
    ….Amen to what will be.
    ….It all comes back to here;
    ….To only you and me.

    Some call upon the Titans;
    some call upon the Giants;
    to rage against the mountain,
    ..the defeated and defiant.

    Some made of light and fire,
    rebel against the day;
    re-fuse to bow before,
    ..some made of only clay.

    Cast down the morning star,
    and all who worship here.
    Replace the pride and avarice,
    ..with sweet decay and fear.

    Cast down the evening star;
    and steal away the prize,
    that rules all men to fol-low,
    ..where none can dare to rise.

    Amen to all that was.
    Amen to what will bee.
    It all comes back to here;
    To only..you and me.

    They come like fallen angels;
    ..their eyes still blind with awe.
    Confused and dazed and
    quite unprepared,
    for the swiftness of the fall,

    And each can find perfection,
    in the teachings they-all-learn-well.
    When you lose the rapture of heaven,
    ..well there’s really no-need-for hell.

    I met a man of vision,
    while stumbling through the street.
    He held a stead-y hand,
    ..to every one he’d meet.

    One called him as a prophet.
    One called-him as a king.
    ..One called him as a god and many,
    ..many other things.

    He said he was mistaken
    for who the sign is for.
    He-said “this royalty eludes me;
    so I leave my cape at the door.”

    Amen to all that was.
    Amen to what will bee.
    It all comes back to here;
    To only..you and me.

    The light that pierce forever,
    reveal the end of things;
    where all will turn to clay,
    ..where once were simply kings.

    When every thing is finished;
    ..when e-very thing is dust;
    there won’t be much to worry;
    ..and there won’t be much to touch.

    Now everything is certain,
    ..and any thing can go.
    The worshipers are waiting,
    ..while the worshiped always lay low.

    Amen to all that was.
    Amen to what will be.
    It all comes back to here;
    To only you and me.

    Sometimes the Evening Star.
    Sometimes the Morning Star.
    Sometimes I really don’t quite understand,
    ..who in the heaven you are.

    Amen to all that was.
    Amen to what will bee.
    It all comes back to here;
    To only you and me.

    Amen to all that was.
    Amen to what will be.
    It all comes back to here;
    To only you and me.

    It all comes down to here;
    To only you and me.

  • This Moment

    Turn every timepiece back
    to 5 minutes before.
    Fix every star in place
    and close up all the doors.

    Put away the ticking objects;
    cover the sundials and the charts.
    Hold back the tide and tie up the wind;
    let nothing stir or start.

    Halt all the moving shadows
    and pin them on each window sill.
    Rob every measured minute
    to make this place stand still.

    Prepare with him the table,
    and when all is arranged and done,
    spread out the memory boxes
    and open every one.

    From across the now worn surface,
    from across this field of time,
    from across his unfolding story
    that lays across the markers of mine;

    From the medley of past remembrance
    spreading out before our hands,
    let these echoes and images rise up;
    take us back to where it all began.

    In this moment of return,
    in this field of yesterday,
    I will carry him high on my shoulders,
    while all time and haste give way.

    I will read him untold stories;
    I will sing him unsung songs;
    recite once forgotten poetry;
    paint masterworks undrawn,
    and on ancient mariners maps
    show him where he will always belong.

    I will show him faded photographs
    from original cardboard boxes,
    that mark times passing glimpses
    in picture frames and lockets;
    penciled notations of heritage
    and engraved family pocket watches.

    Then reveal the gentle wisdom
    my father placed in me,
    for such a time and calling
    on such a journey’s eve.

    Of kindred bonds and pledges
    woven deep within the core
    of a tapestry of legacies,
    lying on this threshold floor,
    pointing to our place within it,
    just inside the outer door.

    All this to fill his pockets
    with all that matters most,
    pausing at this gateway,
    to guide and hold him close.

    Prepare for him now this journey
    with maps and almanacs,
    and among all such provisions,
    one map to lead him back.

    Commit to memory his fingerprints;
    know by heart the sound of his steps;
    standing with him on this tapestry
    of then and now and next.

    Hold him still one minute longer;
    hold him close one minute more,
    while the world speeds ever faster
    just outside the outer door.

    Reach deep across the years;
    find him here in this embrace,
    where he always was and will be,
    and bring him home again to this place.

    Then open again the shutters;
    swing wide the outer door;
    pin wings to every footstep,
    and standing on the threshold floor,
    lay my arms across his shoulders,
    and kiss his cheek once more.

    Let every moment speak,
    rising up through all the years;
    leave nothing left unsaid;
    tell him everything that’s dear,
    till all I am goes with him,
    and all he is stays here.

     

  • Archaeology

    We live on the crust of the earth
    that is constantly heaving
    and flowing and shifting,
    and forgetting us.

    Our tracks and monuments and boundaries;
    our wonders and forevers;
    are built on dust and wind,
    one molecule at a time.

    Like our hand in the river,
    we are a great experiment
    in denial and hope;
    of loving people
    who love others,
    ..who love others.

    We are a migrant;
    an explorer and refugee;
    a homeland of leavers.

    We are a wave,
    that believes it is the water,
    that believes it is the wave.

    We are in constant motion,
    and the motion covers us
    and fills us,
    and then moves on
    and betrays us
    to a promise
    only one of us made.

    Time pushes
    and pulls us
    and leaves us behind,
    with not even an answer
    for this
    never-ending sweeping away.

    What happens to all that was meant to stay,
    in this place that so easily lets go;
    like great cities
    carefully built to be timeless
    before slipping beneath the desert?

    What happens when a book is dust?
    Where do the letters go,
    in neat heaps and piles,
    swept away with the slightest breath?

    Are they free again,
    at last?
    Do they no longer belong to anyone?
    Do they belong to everyone?

    Do they mix and move and bend
    in ancient precision,
    and then settle back down into
    some kind of meaning?

    Or do they wait,
    uncertain of such obligations?

    And where are all the love letters,
    tear and lip stained,
    mingling
    in what was, and is, and is becoming?

    Do they crumble in pairs,
    to surrender and fall together?
    Do they somehow catch the scent
    of their intimate purpose?

    And where am I?
    Where are you;
    when we swirl
    in this same release?

    Will we still belong to each other?
    Will we belong to no one?
    or perhaps
    everyone?

    Like our hand in the river;
    in denial and hope,
    of loving someone,
    who loves someone,
    ..who loves someone.

  • She said there’s no poetry in the dark.

    She said there’s no poetry
    in the dark.
    It seeps out in pieces
    and handfuls
    that lay scattered across the top of the world,
    seeking refuge
    in the order of things,
    that pins a sliver of the dawn
    in every window.

    But here,
    where the shadow meets the haze,
    their fingers entwine
    in intimate familiarity,
    and whisper secrets for all of us to hear.

  • Down here

    Down here
    ….in the row,
    next to the line.
    I try to catch your eye.
    I’m breathing differently
    ….than those in back of me.
    I’m standing differently
    ….than those in front of me.
    Down here;
    down here in the row,
    ….next to the line.

  • Aftermath

    (Spoken word poetry written while returning from aid work to Syrian refugees in Jordan – reflections from a conversation with a child describing their drawing of their bombed-out neighborhood as “a place with pieces of people on the ground.”)

    When you’re in pieces on the ground
    it doesn’t matter
    that the missile was blue,
    or silver, or grey;
    or that it was caught
    for a moment
    by the sun
    before spreading it’s darkness
    everywhere.

    It doesn’t matter
    that you were wavering
    between becoming an artist,
    or an astronaut;
    but lately
    just someone
    who builds something;
    anything.

    It doesn’t matter
    that an old woman,
    struggling to push a cart
    filled with bread,
    was there,
    and suddenly not there,
    as though she never existed.

    It doesn’t matter
    that the world
    saw a photo
    of your street
    – maybe just another street,
    and for a moment
    thought about the power
    of flying metal.

    It doesn’t matter
    that the motive
    was some small piece
    of some larger plan
    that will go on, and on, and on.

    When you’re in pieces on the ground
    it only matters
    that the smallest of seconds
    meant the difference
    between now,
    and anything next.

    When you’re in pieces on the ground
    it only matters
    that in that moment
    of still sensing life
    you lost the sense
    of being whole;
    with no meaning,
    or reason, or rhyme,
    or fateful frozen instant,
    just in time,
    just in time;
    when you’re in pieces on the ground.

  • We shared an argument

    We shared an argument
    all through the night,
    on who was the intruder
    and who was the guest;
    who brought the soul
    and who brought the flesh.

    Did you think
    you were Aphrodite,
    entering this court room
    armed with only your breasts?

    Such shallow inconveniences,
    slyly borrowed from some copycat vision,
    have no place or weight in this challenge,
    and leave no spoils to justify the quest.

    Instead,
    let’s linger awhile longer
    with this innocent question,
    of who is the sinner
    and who is the blessed.

  • Arranged

    I can see that you’re nervous.
    I think you can see I am too.
    These days my time seems out of rhyme,
    and filled with someone else’s rules

    Well I’ve been told that you’re faithful;
    And I’ve been told you’re kind.
    And I’ve been told the dreams I hold
    are the kind that are best left behind.

    So I’m not saying I love you.
    I can’t say that I do.
    I can just say that I promise to do
    all the things that I say I will do.

    Some lives are filled with wonder.
    Some lives only hope for more.
    And some dreams don’t seem to matter that much,
    when you can’t recall what they’re for.

    Well, I don’t care if you love me.
    I don’t expect that you do.
    I only care that you do all the things
    that your words say you promise to do.

    Now we could be together,
    or walk away alone.
    But the dream I hold, so I’ve been told,
    is to have
    a place to call home.

    So I will give you my lifetime,
    and stay with you when we’re old.
    But I can’t say that I’ll give you my heart;
    and I can’t say I’ll give you my soul.

    Some lives are filled with wonder.
    Some lives only hope for more.
    And some dreams don’t seem to matter at all
    if you never know who they’re for.

    I guess this is what happens.
    I guess this fits some plan.
    And if I wonder out loud inside
    doesn’t mean that I must understand.

    We walk these steps we’re given,
    and fill our moments with time.
    We play our roles as life unfolds,
    and watch it from the sidelines.

    But If I keep my pledge to you,
    and you keep yours to me;
    then maybe we can leave some room
    to feel some small part of free.

    Some lives are filled with wonder.
    Some lives only hope for more.
    And some lives search for away somehow
    to find what dreaming is for

    It’s strange how time can happen.
    It’s strange where time can lead.
    This history is a mystery
    that’s filled with you and me.

    There are days I have forgotten.
    There are days I wish I could.
    There are days that linger more than once,
    leaving traces where we both stood.

    Some years we count with laughter.
    We count some years with tears.
    And some years the who and the why we are
    isn’t always certain or clear.

    We’ve walked so long together.
    Gone down so many long roads.
    Along the way you’ve shown
    the deepest parts of you,
    that only I can know.

    Now I don’t know if you love me.
    You stay here with me it’s true.
    I just know the me I find inside
    seems to always be calling for you.

    And here I’ve given my lifetime
    to be with you when we’re old.
    And now I find that I’ve given my heart.
    And I find that I’ve given my soul.

    So I can say that I love you.
    I can say that I do.
    And I can say that I promise to do
    everything in my power for you.

    Yes, I can say I love you too.
    I can say that I do.
    And I can say that I promise to do
    everything in my power for you.

    Yes I can say
    that I promise to do
    every thing
    in my power
    for you.

  • Happenstance

    I could have found you

    in the crowd,

    on a walk through a

    busy city street;

     

    or in line at an air-port gate,

    filled with other hopes

    waiting to board.

     

    I could have found you

    absorbed

    in a book,

    in some café window

    I wandered by,

     

    on a day

    when any-thing could happen.

     

    I could have found you

    in

    a museum,

    under constant renovation,

    in a dim room filled with Cezanne;

     

    or at a rally

    for some

    important intention;

     

    or sitting quietly

    alone,

    on a park bench

    near the river,

    with soft thunder

    mixing in the wind.

     

    I could have found you

    in

    a thousand ways;

    but I couldn’t

    find you in time.

     

    I could have found you

    in the crowd,

    on a walk through a

    busy city street.

    I could have found you

    in a thousand ways;

    but I couldn’t

    find you in time.