Call out the names of the dead so that we may mourn. Call out the names of the dead.
Call out the names of their killers so that we may rage as we mourn. Call out the names Photo by Carl Lawrence of their killers.
Call out the names of those who march in protest so that we may give thanks as we rage and mourn Call out the names of those who march in protest
Call out the names "Peace," "Justice," "Freedom," "Palestine" so that we may hope as we give thanks, rage, and mourn. Call out the names "Peace," "Justice," "Freedom," "Palestine"
And when the time has come to call out the names of all who remain silent as we are calling out these names let us pray that yours will not be among them.
June 18, 2008-Jan. 18, 2009
BEE WATCHING
1. I can't remember the last time I stopped to watch a bee step from blossom to blossom,
stand here entranced by this four-cornered dance (insect, color, pollen, nectar)
take some time to contemplate all of the factors Photo by Pat Jordan that had to evolve synchronicitously for even this tiny slice of an ecosystem to emerge.
2. The bee, however, simply harvests, then returns to her nest.
Jan 18-April 11, 2009 GUITAR
Driving alongside the Verazzano Narrows on my way to the bridge, I glance left for just a moment, then, dazzled, glance again, think: if any human being were sitting beside me I would say: "Take a look at that sunset."
But there is no one.
John Denver, reminiscing, said of his guitar: "What a friend to have on a cold and lonely night." if you are like me, you have sometimes wondered how a person who could sing the way John Denver could sing would ever find himself alone, unless he wanted to.
But there you are.
And this may be something for you to consider next time no one is sitting beside you and you spy a sunset to share, or anticipate another cold and lonely night (especially if you don’t even own a guitar). Perhaps, if you are like me, you’ll then be struck by the realization that you aren't alone—
not really.
April 11-July 7, 2009
FEBRUARY BEACH
I visit on a day when the dunes are traveling.
Everywhere I look there is a fog of sand blowing from the peaks as they shift. At my feet individual grains stumble along, close to the earth (bumping into others, more rigidly fixed or else (gaining even the slightest elevation) whip past at the speed-of-wind.
If there is a god, who tracks each particle (as I have been told) she must have an infinite mind indeed.
The plan was for twenty minutes or, perhaps, half an hour to walk along this shore, let the surf and spray know that there is one human being who cares enough to visit on an off-season day. I discover, however, that I can barely remain in one place without being blown over, decide walking would be a bad idea.
Either going or coming would have to be in the wrong direction.
And so, after spending some time in standing contemplation I return to the spot where sand gives way to pavement look back, surprised to discover no trace of footprints left earlier, watch as those just engraved grow less distinct with each passing moment, decide it would be best to leave now,
before I am obliterated completely.
July 7 to September 8, 2009
ALIVE
She speaks to me on intimate terms as we sit across the table, (although we did not know each other an hour ago) describing the rush each time a horse raises its back to meet her half way as she settles into the saddle.
And I think to myself of the mathematician at that moment when a proof decides to give up its secrets;
of a tutor, when his student understands—at last;
the diver, as she twists and tumbles in ways you and I may never comprehend before straitening to knife through the surface of the water;
of a climber, cresting that final ridge before the summit;
the wine taster who discovers a perfect claret;
or the chef, as he gathers ingredients for his favorite sauce.
And then of myself, at that moment when the poem decides to give up its secrets, so you and I may speak on intimate terms— at last.
