Friday, September 24, 2004


In those tender moments of remembrance
when you felt human in the touch of everything
and all senses seemed to be united:

in those tender moments we feel a thing rare.


The Promises

So easy to forget all the promises
we made to ourselves in secret rooms,
in silent places: I’m sorry I pushed
you to remember, to recollect a failure,
as if you hadn’t succeeded or fulfilled
a goal you always said you would.

Your face showed a painful memory:
a moment I caught you bringing-up again,
a childlike image of heroism or idolatry
you haven’t yet accomplished, nor perhaps will.

The child in us lives longer than our dreams.


Friday, September 03, 2004

Already Within Us

Does a flower decide not to bloom
when its inner growth knows what is to become?

Nature knows best because it does not ask
the question why, or strive to interfere.

Human life is thwart with inconsistencies,
like chance does play the game of poker.

That which is natural may have a better chance,
if we allow ourselves to listen.

That which can be is already within us:
we are the gatekeepers to our own heart.



Very few people say very little;
nothing much gets known except
that done by our own hands;

hands that tie and do not fist.
Hands that collect, and store,
to transmit that which could be missed

by a history that charts myth as fact
and stories full of heroes.

We like our heroes: they look beautiful
and shiny like bought things. Maybe

it’s we who are the bought ones.