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On Behalf of Those Who Speak Different Languages
poet's note: The World Peoples' Conference on Climate Change was recently held in Bolivia. There was mention of the need for a Universal Declaration on the Rights of Mother Earth. To read more > http://pwccc.wordpress.com
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and the Winds whispered
"some people don't hear our voices
except if we blow real hard
which tires us out
so please speak for us
who you also call the Air
so we can breathe easy"
and the Earth trembled
"sometimes i get scared too
so please be courageous for me
and sometimes i get angry
so please stay calm for me
and sometimes i get sad
so please pat me somewhere
but mostly i like to be happy
as when a vegetable takes root
and remember to listen
to my sisters the Winds"
and the Waters rambled
"we can't help it
we go where we must
yet sometimes we go nowhere at all
which kinda stinks but the frogs don't mind
but it's hard to bathe ourselves
and sometimes we go up like a fountain
but it's our nature to bow down
so please keep us clean
and listen to my sisters
the Winds and the Earth"
and the Fire said
"look it's simple
i can cook your food and warm you
and i can also send you running
so please respect me
and listen to my sisters
the Winds and the Earth
and my brothers the Waters"
and our brother the Sun said
(but he didn't say it rather he sang
yet the language is so ancient that
hardly anyone could understand
but it has a musical vibration
so ALL the beings can feel it
like how it warms your skin)
what he said was
"Ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh
it's all the same to me . . .
but as to what the Birds and Trees
the Fish and Four-Leggeds
the Insects and Rocks and Plants
and ALL our friends say
well you'll have to listen and see
and hear and touch and taste
for yourselves because
the local dialects are so varied
but if you pay attention to the Winds
and the Earth and the Waters and the Fire
they will help guide you in the correct direction . . ."
* * * * *
union song
the bird sings his divine song when i hear it i stop and listen to the simple beauty
the joy of expression what i sense is pure expression which has nothing to do with me
yet being so stirred i realize the resonance the cord of sounds and feeling that connects us all,
each voice singing a union song making a bigger sound of union into the the vibrations of the One
* * * * *
IN ALL COUNTRIES HE IS LISTENING
dry and warm and the white folk call it Indian Summer in Manhattan
but there is a cat out in the dark night of rain,
there is an Eskimo trudging through the snow of an analog TV,
there is a man on the street with an empty shopping cart asking for food,
a young woman who was born in Africa now walks the pavement like a gazelle,
and it is said that the philospher's stone is the stone the builder's rejected
we are flying downtown along the East river
i am reading my poem to a Pakistani cab driver because no one in my country will listen
and he tells me it is the same in all countries, but in this eye-dropper of freedom,
in this bastion of propaganda, this peep-hole of We The People that is America
he is listening, a Muslim is listening to my English in a yellow taxi with thick padded seats
and a wall of glass, he is listening
on the fortieth anniversary of Kerouac's passing Jack is safe in heaven alive
or else he has reincarnated as a Pakistani cab driver who is listening
while weaving through the lives of multitudinous humans,
while telling me of the plight of his people in the country where he is from,
how the outsiders who seem to help also want to steal the power and i tell him
of the American Indians and of how sad it is the same in all countries
we are driving through the fashion show that is New York City
where the women and drag-queens dress like male birds
their flamboyant colors, sunlight bouncing off their jeweled beaks,
the strutting of embodied souls through the surreal and sweaty gray
of warm weather in October where a cold beer offered to a stranger
brings a rainbow to his face
i could keep reading and we could drive all night, boss,
like Sam said to Rick in Casablanca, but the meter is clicking
and the price is high, the price is high to get someone to listen
but we keep talking, keep reaching across the boundaries of countries
that are as flimsy as a spider web in a tornado, we keep talking and listening
because it is the same in all countries
* * * * *
Good Old Tree
and a summer night came,
and a summer night passed--
another notch on the Good Old Tree
yesterday, the thunder bellowed,
yesterday, the lightning flew--
today just met
someone i already knew
tomorrow's not here
but i can tell it's coming
'cause the trees are swaying
with a breeze from somewhere
and under the starlight
they're showing me something,
something, once dear
a friend is a whisper
and a laugh you can hear,
and the heartbeat quickens
soon as you're near
a mouth is a song,
and the wind at the ear is a voice
from a being you can rarely see
and a summer night came,
and a summer night passed--
another notch on the Good Old Tree,
and another notch
on the Good Old Tree
* * * * *
HUMBLE GRATITUDES
with thanks to Julia Butterfly Hill
for a line in one of her poems, from whence the title
Tibetans say:
at every infinite intersection
of Indra's Jeweled Net
there is a crystal gem
reflecting
every other crystal gem
of the Universe.
Our Father's House has many mirrors
would be the Western translation.
On the worn gray roadway
a truck -- hauling eggs, computer parts,
maybe oxygen tanks -- reminds us:
If you can't see my mirrors,
I can't see you.
One time
at the amusement park fun-house
my head was as big as
a hot air balloon,
and my legs skinny as sticks.
What you see in the mirror
could be
what is called "your self"
or maybe someone
is looking for you.
* * * * *
seems like forever
the leaves are green--
then they turn, and are gone
for William J. Higginson (1938-2008)
with gratitude for his service to the haiku world
and for The Haiku Handbook which opened a haiku door for me,
and with blessings for his continuing journey . . .
* * * * *
A ROOM COLLECTS THE ESSENCE OF EVENTS THAT UNFOLD
from a line by A. Molotkov
could not see the forest for suburbia
so i went inside a small room
to collect the essence of events
that unfold inside four walls
one day in winter the idea of sunflowers came to me. . .
in august they bloomed
one day in summer the thought of hot soup. . .
in february the stirring
the ongoing pondering of trees
how they gather as forest
how the trees in suburbia remember this
even those in the city
don't let any thing own you—
ah, the night air!
* * * * *
'this is what it's like when you're not home'
the air holds still as wood
and the bright grey sky does not appear to move
as i look out the window
'this is what it's like when you're not home'
says a voice inside my head while i am home
with mid-winter craning its neck toward March
'the furnace comes on, the furnace goes off.
a neighbor yawns and birds skip branches
en route to aerial liberties
'but the air is different
(as small a difference as it may seem)
without you breathing me
'your steady breath a lovely rhythm,
a table in a corner of a restaurant
with quiet conversation'
* * * * *
The Nobel Peace Prize Goes To . . .
a child in Iraq a sparrow in Detroit
a polar bear a wildflower the one cell
in Rove's brain that is peaceful
a chunk of ice floating away from the top of the world
the soldiers who have held their gunfire
the soldiers who have left the war
the soldiers who refused to become soldiers
a sparrow in Afghanistan
the Myanmar monks the Australian abos
a Darfur grandmother a Hopi grandfather
a Taoist a true Christian the funniest Jew you've ever heard
the Shakers the Quakers the Pacifists
the half-baked weed smokers
the devotees of Walden Pond
the whirling Dervishes
the drunk in the alley who has only damaged his own knuckles
against the cold brick wall in the heart of winter
a fool in a field in the middle of anywhere
who is feeding a sparrow with one hand
and waving a white flag with the other
* * * * *
SUN SONG
Wouldn't you want me at daybreak
all up into your sky, your hair,
a firecrackered twilight still sparkling in our minds
bells on my moccasins walking like an Egyptian
the taste of every birdsong on my tongue
whether you want it or not, Sun song
whether you seek it or try to avoid it, Sun song.
Nighttime is ungraspable
and so is this ball of fire
but if you let the rays touch your skin
"you are the One, the only One".
* * * * *
YOUR DAY
- with thanks to Joseph Campbell -
When your day was an illusion
the Empire arose and built walls
and called it good, and rested.
Ahhhhh, to kick back like God,
Ohhhhh, to kick ass like God,
and they called it good, and rested.
While the One in eternally busy repose,
the unmoved mover,
the legitimate oxymoron,
flicked a crumb off its shoulder.
When your day was an illusion
you joined ranks and went along for the ride
and there was comfort in this, while the conscience
sat tap-tap-tapping on the wall,
which way to fall?
While the Most High Invisible
the breath within the breath,
sun behind the sun
strolled evenly along the path
you call roadway
and welcomed your conversation.
And did you go?
Did you saunter windward?
Did you unparch your massive regimented tongue
only to find the thin curl of a bird's tongue
licking truth off the hand
of that winged one?
Because there is no name, He sits in silence.
Because there is a world, He speaks in riddles.
Because the sun has come up over the hillside another day
He has put on a pot of water
and is ready to share himself with you.
Because there is no word, i call Him.
When your day was an illusion
none of this made any sense.
When your day was an illusion
you had no idea where the water came from.
When your day was an illusion the wall was God
and you rested,
and you too flicked a crumb off your shoulder.
A vigilant sparrow picked up both crumbs,
intertwined them into one meal
and flew off,
and the rest, as they say, is real myth-making.
And have you gone?
Have you followed windward?
Have you de-programmed enough to sit in silence?
Have you too picked up your dainty cup,
and sipped,
and called this something
far more than good
far more than God?
* * * * *
DEVOTION
my ear to the track for your train coming,
leaning over the cello playing the deep strings,
the meal simmers,
planets orbit,
water from a mountain lake
to a stream to a river to the sea
the path at my feet without moving,
the sky on my ceiling with the shades drawn,
nowhere to go and no one to look for,
yet looking far into the future of your eyes
your smile, warm touch,
the gift and story of our journeys
the unexplainable tears about the illusion of separation
:all is whole:
the unexplainable feelings before your arrival
:all is whole:
the manifestation of some thing or some one
that was not visible a moment ago
and just as soon somewhere else
another thing's or some one's disappearance,
what was there
a moment ago
:all is whole:
in this brightly lit dark place
lack is a state of mind
or else a consequence of someone else's stupidity
someone's greed or fear coveting all the flimsy trinkets
or not allowing the water to flow from a mountain lake
to a stream to a river to the sea
:but you are here beside me and have heard this all before:
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* * * * *
My GOD has an O
some spell G-d
as if there is a risk of insult
a chance for smiting
my GOD has an O
round as an apple
the moon the sun the earth...
this could go on and on
like Os do
like Ouroborous
or standing ovations
or orgasms
Oh! it's nice to see you
once again
my GOD has an O
round as my right testicle
round as a Norweigan's face in summer
as another round of drinks
round as been-there-done-that found another ball to play with
as a merry-go-round or golden ring
or the Nothing they say we all come from
live with
go to when all our rounds are over
* * * * *
ONE MAN'S MYTHOLOGY - #5
One man has a roof over his head
but no doors,
so he has to stay home most of the time.
With only windows
one man's eyes grow tired from looking
at the sky, the traffic, the sky, the trees.
One man has several doors
so he comes and goes as he pleases
but there's nowhere to hang his hat.
On clear nights, one man, with only a floor
looks up and exclaims
"whatta view!"
One man in the neighborhood
walks around all day
with the finest blueprints under his arm.
One man lives in a tree and calls that home
and when his fruits ripen and go tumbling
toward the ground, one man after another
reaches out his arms for a taste
of home improvements.
© 2006-2010Walter E. Harris III
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