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'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'
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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
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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".
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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
(this poem is nominated for a Pushcart Award)
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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.
© 2006-2008 Walter E. Harris III
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