A gorilla is a being, a very special being, if I’m not mistaken, an animal being, an endangered being that as far as we know is unique to this Earth alone. The problem is that a gorilla is not a Human being, therefore he or she can be murdered in order to protect the children of humans. Some say, sadly, that there was just no way to know how this particular animal was going to react in the long run to having his environment being invaded by a human child or to being tranquilized by a high-powered dart gun in the process, so naturally a violent death was called for by the authorities in charge. We must always show these unpredictable creatures who is superior and who is not before they start thinking that they might want to live in any kind of real freedom of expression without getting our permission first. Sound familiar? Racism, bigotry, Fascism, sexism, species-ism? Let me explain. This morning on the TV news I heard a usually somewhat sane lady newscaster saying, “The child must always be protected.” Maybe so. I guess. That sounds right. But what bothered me was the bluntness of her pronouncement going out over the airwaves like a dictatorial pogrom, and there was simply zero compassion in her voice for the poor gorilla (who she didn’t even mention)—who certainly didn’t ask for any of this. Did this animal want to die? He lived 17 years before he was killed for the mistake of a child. How many years have you already lived without having to pay the ultimate price for someone else’s trespass? Would a bullet in the head make you a better person for it? He had a name. He had a home. There were those who cared if he lived or he died. He will be missed. Mourned.

All right, admittedly it’s a great big terrible situation all around, and I’m sure the overwhelmed mother feels deservedly awful inside about the whole senseless ordeal that her little wandering off boy has caused in the civilized world today, but let me ask you this, did that particular gorilla have a right to his own particular feelings that day? Will you allow that he even had his own set of genuine feelings at the time of the incident, not just instincts? Are the feelings of a gorilla’s life, even a captured one, at least important to the gorilla? Was his heart in the right place at the wrong time? What’s a gorilla to do? What would you do? I’m not asking Jesus, like those bumper stickers say, I’m asking you. And, believe me, I get it. There are no easy answers here. Everybody’s a victim here and make no mistake, the Zoo, the keepers, the parents, the animals, the public. All the easy answers make me feel uneasy, queasy, but we are supposed to be the shepherds, for good or for bad, of all the creatures around us. We do seem to have a responsibility to them and for them. They are not just for our amusement. Or are they? I guess that’s the real question, just who in the world are we?

The exact words that would rebuild your world for you, but it wouldn’t make it last. The earth always reclaims its own. That’s why you must be in the moment to actually have it. Sure there are people out there who have been saying this for years, but they aren’t you. You are the one who will live or die inside the experience. The thing to see is that it can never remain the same, that’s the illusion they’re always prattling on about, but it doesn’t mean it’s not real. You can’t hold it, you can only be it at the time of its being, but the continuation of being is always change. Just like everything else this can either become a burden or a blessing in disguise. Either way you must choose to let things come and let things go without trying to own them or make them stay the same forever. That action too easily turns into greed, and greed always leads to hate, and hate is death by its very nature. It has nowhere else to go. Life isn’t meant to be just a collection of things, whether it’s experiences or clothes or houses or cars or objects of art. We are all just curators of the museums of our lives. We’re not meant to be entombed there. Yes we may find some comfort there, but the real comfort comes from having passed through there to something or someplace else, a fulfillment of our potential as human beings.
 
The thing I’ve found to be most true about the world is that the real fun is in who you are with as you travel through this life. That’s the added bonus. That’s the extra texture. That’s the reason for the photographs, the memories, the dances, the smiles, the laughter, the tears, the getting up and going to work, the sitting down and writing, the making of music, the painting of pictures, the sewing clothes, the making dinner, the watching a movie. We get to do it together. That’s the luckiest thing that ever happens to anyone in my opinion. It’s not the destination, it’s the journey. And you can either do this with your eyes wide open or your head stuck in the sand. Time will not stop turning you into another you. But why do I think this is beautiful? Because I think you are beautiful. I think we are all beautiful. Just like stars. Just like seashells. Just like trees. Just like flowers. That doesn’t mean some of us are not deadly. It doesn’t mean some of us are not tricky in our participation techniques. It only means that taken together we are a most interesting phenomenon in the universe with the potential to be just about anything and we are definitely a part of something larger than ourselves. We are amazing and diverse, clever and determined, creative and possible.
 
Look, as a poet I stand up for the individual as much as anyone can. I think we each have the right to be here, to express ourselves, to be accepted, to love and be loved for who we are, not what others want us to be. I get it. But the truth is we are inside a mystery. Just because we can name things or take things apart and define them to the best of our abilities doesn’t necessarily mean that we understand them at all. And I’m okay with that. It’s a giant universe in all directions, but we’re in it, we’re part of it and that’s the incredible truth to me. We each do what we can with our lives. My mission is to put words where they might do the best good, to sing a little something human into the cosmos, to tell a bit of truth without pretending to know the whole truth, to be honest, to be fair, and to care with compassion, not with fear. 

Every year on December 8th I take the time to say a little prayer for someone who still means a great deal to me. It grates against everything I hold dear to see our poor John Lennon being lumped together with others into the dusty old category of Dead Rock Stars. This heroic young person who gave to all of us so much genuine goodwill and hope throughout his time on the planet. Who, over and over and over, provided us with perfectly sane reasons to get along with each other instead of fighting all the time. (Life is very short/and there’s no time/for fussing and fighting, my friends.)  We were a world in mourning when the Beatles came along and lifted our falling hearts to the possibility of joyous spirits again with their timeless gift for making great folk art out of rock and roll, creating a sweet sound that touched on every level of human emotion and helped celebrate it around the globe and in every culture. Records, movies, books and everything else under the sun. It was fun.

Look, we all know John wasn’t perfect, but he was a supremely gifted artisan, a compassionate and good man, and really funny and charming, and sometimes silly, and often too serious, an outstanding creative guitarist, a poet, a writer, an actor, a philosopher, etc. The list is endless, as it is with most people like John. They aren’t just one thing. I liked him a lot, I trusted him, and I miss him today more than ever. I miss his honesty. When he died, Yoko simply said, “He was one of us.” And I think this is the major point I want to make here about John this time. He never saw himself as being better than others just because he was more famous. He was the one who was upset when the band couldn’t meet the regular kids who had come to their concerts, they always had to shake hands with the mayor’s children. When the migrant farm workers were marching down the streets of New York asking for fair work wages he didn’t just send a check, he went down and marched with them. John had his problems, and I don’t mean to indicate otherwise. He made some naive decisions about different causes he was asked to support, but I don’t blame him for that. He almost always saw the light eventually. His heart was always in the right place. He never wanted anybody to think so highly of him that it diminished their own self-worth in any way. He liked cats.John believed in our potential to change things through the power of love. Imagine that!

I wish I could be more like John Lennon, but I can’t, I’m not. I’m just not that talented or brave. Maybe I could be, I don’t know. Time will tell. Or more like Paul McCartney maybe—always trying to make everyone else happy all the time. I’m pretty sure I could never do that either. But Paul is a master at melody and knows how to create harmony in a room, any room, anywhere, any time. The fact that these two were partners is kind of amazing when you think about it. Remember in the Peanuts musical when Lucy sings about her happiness? She’s basically saying happiness is anyone and everything you love. The Beatles were a very large part of my happiness for a very long time. Their music made me happy. Their movies made me happy. Their antics made me happy. Their faces made me happy. It’s hard to explain, but it’s still there after all this time. And for me it all started with John. So Thank You John Lennon. You are not forgotten.By me. You will always be loved. By me. See you next year.

I wish I had the good sense, the time to write you a tender poem, but it’s almost Halloween and I’m starving. Some perfectly numb voice inside my head just said to me, “Yeah, but it’s not for food.” There you go. We’re all just fast slobs in our own heads finally trying to be the better heroes, better people for our friends that we’ve already let down somewhere along the line of everyday living. You can call that somewhat cynical I suppose. It’s what I deserve, but not what I need. What we all need is a little forgiveness. It’s not too much to ask. It never was. 

This idea of tenderness. This idea of forgiveness. This idea of trying to do better now what we already must have done wrong a long time ago. I mean I think it’ll be okay if we can all agree that it’s incredibly hard to be a top notch human being 24 hours a day. But just the fact that we give it a try every now and then is a pretty hopeful sign that there may be something kind of worthwhile in us yet. Just the fact that we might believe in hope is kind of crazily hopeful. Just the fact that we realize we’ve all made mistakes before and probably will again, but we’d like to become better at managing those tendencies to overreact and choose slower, kinder reactions is a step in the right direction. Each step can be a step in the right direction or it can dig the circling ditch deeper and deeper as you go. 

What is it that makes the real difference? For want of a better word, I would say the word is love. You’ll know it when you see it in action. You’ll know it when you feel it in your inner most being. You’ll know it when you know you know it. So don’t worry about that part. Worry about helping the love to actualize out of everything you do today.

I was watching a taped segment of the TV show the Austin City Limits the other day and just looking at the audience made me feel something special about the whole human race. That they could get together inside a building and listen to some good music and celebrate the fact of it all together. That they could expel the energy needed to make that happen on both sides of the stage. People danced. People put their hands up in the air. People held each other tight. People exchanged meaningful glances. People sang. It was a terrific feeling to be a part of it even through the TV screen, because I knew what they meant with all those very human actions. I had felt them myself many times in similar situations. And the guy up on the stage wasn’t telling them anything they didn’t already know—he was simply being one of them, one of us. I was so thankful for this person, thankful for his talent, thankful for his generous spirit in sharing that talent with all of us, and thankful for the audience for embracing the moment when it all came together within their own lives. 

There was joy in that room. Among perfect strangers. Something bigger than politics, bigger than money, bigger than religion, bigger than ego. Something bigger than greed. People were having fun. People were feeling something besides hate, besides envy, besides anger. They were feeling glad even if they were also feeling sad. They were feeling loved. Loved by the music, loved by the shared community, loved by the poetry of the lyrics, loved by the voices in the air, loved by the instruments in the hands of the musicians. Loved by the unique experience they were having. In a way they were being healed, maybe not wholly, but somewhat, and for real. How cool is that?

I very much like Halloween, but mostly because it gives the littlest kids among us the free reign to express themselves in ways that have no boundaries to their imaginations, and because it’s a good way to send off the last vestiges of summertime and prepare for winter ahead. And who doesn’t like a good candy bar and a good excuse to eat one? Plus now we can think of those cozy family dinners to come, when the only important things will be how to enjoy each other’s company the most, and which desert goes best with a full tummy, if we are lucky. And by that I mean we’ll have developed a sense of true thankfulness for our own good fortune in this life and carry that bountiful gift forward with us into the next day and the next until we have accumulated the sufficient grace we need to try our best once more to overcome our constant petty squabbles and live like we mean it with all our hearts. For ourselves and for all beings.

I hate having bad dreams, both literally and figuratively. It makes you question everything. Where is the love? Why in the world would my mind want to conjure up such images when it’s also full to the brim with the beauty and majesty of the sunset filled sky of my childhood, of inspiring canvases of brilliant art I’ve seen and experienced, of tender and touching ballets both human and animal, of exciting musical concerts, of warm summer nights holding hands, of starry fields of dew like diamonds hung by the billions and so forth. What part of me is doing the choosing here? And can we choose differently, say on purpose? Can we dream in a way that resonates with who we are when we are at our very best for instance? I’ve had really fun dreams before, one where I was standing up and flying like a vacuum cleaner, the earth barreling along below me, another one where I was a James Bond like character in an exciting car chase, but the one I’ll always remember was the one where an Angel came up to me and hugged me because I was told I needed it. It was a long, tight, but not too tight hug that wrapped all around me and didn’t ask me for anything in return, nothing, but just kept giving its immediate kind concern and love to me in a deeply moving way. I remember waking up and being shocked by that much feeling in my body, even if it was only from inside a dream. I felt like crying for some reason. It stayed with me for days on end. And as you can see, it’s still very much there in my memory of dreaming. So why bad dreams? Is it something I ate? Is it something I thought? Where is my personal power in my ability to dream? If I have any, and I suspect I do, then I would like my dreams to be civil, however thrilling, thank you very much. I’m sure there have been a ton of books written on the subject, but like everything else, I’d like to make up my own mind, not be told what to think. It’s a big universe. I think there is room for many different kinds of thinking on the art of dreaming. I’ll listen, but like I said, I’ll make up my own mind.

We all have our dreams, big and little. But what if they are alive like us? Now hear me out. I remember reading somewhere that linguists have determined that when we speak, the sound, the noise, the very vibrations of our words have a cause and effect in the real world we live in, sometimes big, sometimes small, but actual. This makes words a kind of potent weapon if you think about it. They can be used to destroy or to build, to heal or to tear apart. They can explode, they can explore, they can reach out and touch, they can freeze. You get where I’m going with this, what if some tangible part of dreams have that same kind of power, just in a different form? What if dreams we dream, consciously or unconsciously, make up a part of the living fabric of everything? Then do we have a responsibility to try to understand them, how they work, how they can work? Can we use them to move mountains, to cure cancer, to invent computers, to make movies, to write books, to end war? Are our dreams another natural tool to the art of self-realization that comes free with the whole human package? Maybe. Maybe that’s all too far-fetched to matter much in the everyday scheme of things. Do dreams put food on the table? Do they pay the rent? I don’t know, but it’s probably worth looking into as a pretty good resource I suppose. Maybe dreams are meant to just get us started in the right direction, to nudge us into action, to be a cosmic companion in the great mystery of things seen and unseen. The only thing we know for sure is that we each have the power to dream. It all has to start somewhere. I dreamed I could write about dreams if I put my mind to it.

Poetry should always be something you invent, not something you learn how to copy. Poetry is something you define inside the independent action of just doing it, not something that is defined by the poetic doings of a string of others, no matter how well-meaning or serious or intellectual or philosophical they are about it, because it is a free choice you make in the process of your being creative with words, with sounds and meanings, with feelings and neuroses if you like, whatever moves you to express yourself. It is not a narrow state of being or mind, nor is it a completely solid thing like mud, heavy and ponderous, but it should be infinitely fluid like the morning sky, mysterious like the ocean, full of its own stars and planets, like a deep breath taken on purpose. Poetry is a partnership with your own deepest feelings. It’s not a silly chess game with the reader, it’s a gift that only happens when you are honest enough to let it speak on its own behalf. Poetry is a certain kind of music, the kind that asks you to listen, and when you do, rewards you with an incredible sound only you can hear and act upon, because it is alive within you. Poetry lets you see, magnifies the truth and beauty of the poetry in everything around you. But it can’t do it alone. It needs you. Your thoughts, your emotions, your dreams, your smiles, your tears, your desires, your words.

Just because someone has written a wonderful book about the meaning of poetry does not mean that you have to stop thinking about or looking for the meaning for yourself. Just because someone has earned a learned degree or written another bestselling book or won another prestigious award for their kind of poetry does not mean that they can speak for you. Just because you like someone’s poetry doesn’t mean you owe them anything. It’s more than okay to disagree with anyone’s thoughts about the true nature of poetry—even those who have been judged masters—because real, true poetry is not something that is dead and gone, but something with the very real possibility of being right here right now at all times and in all places. Everyone has the inalienable right to make their own poetry out of their own heads. It is not just for the academically rich and never was. That’s just a damned lie dreamed up by some nasty people a long time ago to control the world. All these people with their many hard and fast rules for poetry are just trying to fix the game and own it and keep it away from those they despise for being different. Poetry rules are usually for those with cruel and petty minds. No house rules are for those with pretty enough minds who just might express themselves in surprising and interesting ways if given half the chance. So first of all poetry has to be set free by the poets in all of us. Otherwise it isn’t poetry at all, but just some new monstrous gilded imitation hanging on a brightly painted wall.

Finally poetry is like love, you can’t contain it, but if you are lucky you can only try to find a graceful way to be in its presence without making a complete and utter fool of yourself. And like love, it won’t be smothered or it will simply disappear from view like it never happened and become something else, something less desirable and more sinister. It’s a direct question of striking the right balance between self-expression and art. Poetry shines a proper light, but that doesn’t mean it can’t be misused by the enemy to blind or redirect an incoming good energy, so that brings me to my last point. Poetry is a responsibility. It’s not for the faint of heart. It asks a lot, even of those it need not. It wants your full attention, your full devotion, but it promises you nothing in return but the sensation of the moment. You must take it on faith—faith that someone else out there can or will relate to its form and function, faith that you are doing the job of outlining it in your own words quite well, faith that you are not boring the shit out of the very leaves on the very trees, faith that you can get the body on the slab to get up and walk, maybe even to dance.

We’ve got to get over this cracked notion that there’s only one way. One way to drive a car, one way to wear a hat, one way to be or not to be, one way to express yourself. Think about it. Flowers and trees certainly don’t buy into this harsh philosophy. Mountains may look the same. May even have some of the same mighty characteristics, but are absolutely different in their approach to being. Look at butterflies and moths. They come in every size and color imaginable and exist almost everywhere, even though you could say they belong to the very same family tree. What’s right for you right now may not be right for someone else at this time. People deserve their own freedom to choose, to know for themselves what is right and wrong in their own lives. To make choices based on their own deepest feelings, whether or not you agree with them. It doesn’t matter if you agree with them. You are not their ruler. They are the rulers of their own hearts and minds.

Yes, there certainly may be some common ground we can share along the way. Do no harm seems to be a good solid bit of a starting point for going forward on whatever path you like, but so is judge not lest ye be judged. I think what John was saying is quite simple. Instead of complaining about how the other guy lives to survive, why not celebrate the fact of his arrival. We all go through things that are difficult. Some of us face obstacles that are monumentally stressful in their monstrous forms, things like Cancer for instance. We don’t know the incredible amount of courage it takes to arrive daily on each individual path. A lot of times we’re just seeing the struggle or the result and are unaware of the many sacrifices and painful steps that are needed to propel a person forward, or even to just maintain a dignified standing position in the world. Treat others as you would like to be treated. That’s another one that makes all the sense to me. Do what you like, but do what you can.

I think the other thing that John was referring to is don’t be so hard on yourself either. We’re taught to feel so guilty all the time for not being perfect, but, really, it’s time to let go of that particular Medieval torture device and give ourselves a much needed break. You don’t have to be punished for making a mistake. That’s bullshit. You don’t have to be hated or shunned or despised for being different. That’s also bullshit. As John so kindly put it, it’s alright.

It’s so important to forgive those who have harmed us in the past and move on peacefully into the present life without them. I was flipping around on the TV the other day and landed on an old fashioned western. I don’t know why I decided to give it a bit of a watch, but I did. Seems there was a father and son who were determined to kill another man who had killed another son of the family in a fair gunfight. They wanted it to be two against one to make sure the outcome would be in their favor, but the man wouldn’t oblige, so they later ambushed him and tried to hang him in a barn. That didn’t turn out too well either and they both wound up shot to death in the ensuing struggle, and the innocent man was thrown in jail because there were no witnesses to the fact that he was only defending himself against the nefarious pair of violent idiots.

I know in some of the most ancient books I’ve read, people are constantly being warned against seeking revenge just for the sake of revenge. It’s bad karma. It turns the victims into perpetrators. It adds another crime to the list of crimes already committed. So how do we stand up for ourselves and show some real courage and recognize the blessings of an ultimate good in the universe without resorting to violence in return for violence of some fearful kind? To even ask this question makes me sad. I know we have every right to defend ourselves and our loved ones, but we can’t make that anger the central core to our daily reality, or it will always come to the forefront of our attempts to communicate with one another and block the strength and clarity of our natural minds and hearts.

It seems to me that each and every day we get another wonderful chance to make our unique way on the planet, to project an ideal feeling about this life in general, to envision the beautiful person we are still constantly hopefully becoming, and establish an on-going dialogue with the world around us. This in itself is filled with an incredible potential right now for change, for growth, for prosperity, for energy. You don’t need a cheerleader, and I don’t mean to be one. All I’m saying is, to quote John Lennon, give peace a chance. There are plenty of challenges ahead. I believe you are stronger than hate. I believe your compassion is deeper than hate. I believe your soul and mine, too, are limitless in their capacity for containing and sharing joyful things, but we can only soar that high if we are willing to put down our fists first, knowing that they are there if we need them, not as mindless ready spears, but as ready steady guards for one and all.

We are still becoming ourselves. I know they like to say that you continue to grow into mature versions of yourself then you stop, but I just don’t think that’s true. I think our potential to learn, to know, to experience is endless as long as you are alive. We shouldn’t think we’ve reached the end of anything just because our birthdays are getting larger by the number. Instead we should marvel at the fact that even now there is still so much to see and do in the world on a daily basis.

Yeah we are somewhat limited by our bodies in many ways, but our hearts and minds can still go well beyond the boundaries of a physical existence to interesting places. That’s one of the reasons I think artistic expression is so important to the public good. It fires up the imagination and keeps us exploring, it opens new vistas of seeing and understanding, it deepens our feelings in all the right spots, or at least it can, and has. I know there are plenty of hateful expressions being espoused out there, too, but that’s just one aspect of a myriad of ways. It’s not the center, and it’s not the all. If anything, we are the all, or the all is the all, meaning that life is full of the unexpected and the world isn’t over by a long shot. It still has plenty of amazing potential because the people have the will to make things happen. We’re alive!

You know all the things that you are doing right now creates a lot of what you will be doing tomorrow. So you have some say in the future for the whole planet. But in the meantime why not put your best energy to work for you, put it where it can power the most positive changes in your life or the lives of those around you that you care about, and enjoy the fact that you have the power to love, just as much as many others have the power to fight, love has its own unique might and meaning, too. You don’t have to choose sides. Just be yourself, and continue to allow yourself to learn something new every once in a while. Just because you were told something is true doesn’t mean it is. You decide, not them. You have the power to think for yourself, to answer for yourself, to choose for yourself. It’s your life. You know what you feel.

So any way it’s a thought. I was talking today with a friend of mine about the 4th of July. I was saying that large crowds of people tend to inspire me, not scare me, because there are so many different kinds of human faces to look at and you hear exclamations of every kind being made, some like laughter and delight and mmm, mmm deliciousness, to name just a few. You’ve got to have a treat of some sort on a night like that, right? Bleak is only one color in the air, it’s not the whole rainbow, and never will be. That’s all you need to remember. And you are a pretty cool color all your own, and always have been, and always will be.  dp

There might not be solid mythological unicorns, but there are actual amazing blue whales. There might not be little leaf costumed fairies flying around the garden, but there are whirling hummingbirds defying gravity. There are tiger moths and dusty yellow butterflies and magnificent cities of clouds and flashing fields of millions of stars. There are tiny sea swept shells and mountain of fireflies. There are sparkling moments on the water where the orange sunlight meets the crashing waves just for that one moment. Maybe we’re looking at the notion of unicorns all wrong. Maybe they aren’t things to be imagined, but people, or aspects of people, or ways of going about treating people that are in some ways most extraordinary. Maybe our definitions stand in the way of our seeing. Of trusting in something that exists without our own particular understanding of its true nature. We have representatives of unicorns, in art for instance, in books and poems, and even songs. But what if a unicorn exist only in a moment of time, too? Only as a thought? Only like a prayer? There are unusual interesting things beyond our understanding, but not beyond our trust, not beyond our best dreams and hopes, not beyond our love. Everything is made up of vibrating atoms—maybe some that are vibrating at a frequency that needs a more refined tuner to get its message, or the meaning, or a picture. I don’t know, but I hate to dismiss things out of nothing more than no concrete evidence to the contrary. That seems too harsh a way to go about exploring the remarkable universe.

What brought all this up was the constantly nagging question of why should we bother to belong, which means why should we bother to care so much at all, what’s the point? I think the simple answer is in the faces of all the people. Nobody gets it right all the time, but the steady determination I see daily in the people around me makes me feel like trying, too, to live as authentic a life as possible, even with and after so many mistakes, even if we fall down, even with the benefit of the doubt in question. When you ask me what good is this, you must also then ask the equal and opposite question, what good is not this. I’m not saying we’re better for being somewhat curious to see what we can do if we imagine it, if we try, we’ve made our fair share of mistakes growing up and spreading out in the quest for something real, I’m only saying we’re also here, also part of what makes things go better or worse in the long run. I’m glad you’re here. Thank the Great Spirit for that. It matters to me. That’s one, and if there’s one, there’s two and so on. That’s a good strong length of something rare for us to hang our hopes on, and who knows what that can be used for in the end,  to accomplish together?

Look, there are some perfectly awful things happening out there right now in and to the world, no use pretending otherwise, but we’re also happening to the world, and to each other. Our actions, our thoughts and dreams, our hopes, our creativity—the art of becoming ourselves, even our fears, could possibly counter-balance some of those things to some degree. And if there’s a ghost of a chance, why not take it? Sounds good to me. Let me be the first to say, Thank You for what you do, and who you are. Thank you for your failures as well as your success. For every breath you take.

There are some greedy people out there who want all their reward now, and they’ll do anything to get it, and they’ll do anything to keep it. That kind of obsession can get very dark very quickly. Don’t believe me, just turn on the nightly news on any station and wait. We’ve given them power, privilege and position in society, and they’ve always abused it in the name of wanting it more than others. This kind of lopsided logic is nothing new, it’s an old rusty can of a story, but the story it most resembles for me is The Emperor’s Clothes. Why do we pretend we can’t see through their silly con games, why do we pretend we don’t have to hear anything that might be even construed as a sorrow in our discussions? We’re hearing a lot of well-oiled nonsense right now from well-groomed folks who lie right to our faces and then hide behind a series of self-righteous flags, and we stand there like idiots and cheer them on. Are we that afraid of the simple truth? And the truth is that people everywhere are people no matter the circumstances of their ordinary lives. They want to love and be loved. You can't help who you love. Love is love. But there are some people who put that honorary notion second to piles of money. Those people are the scary ones.

When I was in school there was always some kid who had everything, and that kid was always a shit to all the other kids, likely to bully someone or treat them like a second class citizen just for existing in their air space as for being different in any way, and then smiling pretty if getting caught, apologizing with their fingers crossed behind their backs. The teachers always bought it. And now those same phony kids are out there practicing the art of manipulation on a grand scale way beyond anything we saw them do in childhood. But some of us are not just older. Some of us have actually and actively grown in our caring for others. Some of us meant what we said way back when and still do. Some of us have survived the daily grinding of our bones and are still in motion, still growing as human beings. Some of us are the same people just with fuller minds and clearer hearts. I have nothing against money. Believe me I like money. It’s fun to have it. It makes things a lot easier to deal with, that’s for sure, but it isn’t why we are here. It’s just a nice by product, or it can be, of our work and play together. It shouldn’t be used as a nasty weapon against the penniless or be the price of admission into the human race. What is your compassion worth to you? Who comes before us with mercy, and who comes before us with revenge on his mind? Who pranks out of a good sense of humor, and who pranks out of an entitled sense of cruelty? You decide. Who are the jerks? And who are the heroes.  Who are our friends?

I guess my main point here is that we need to not trust somebody with our political lives just because they have the money to run for that office. There’s got to be more to it than that. It's only fair that we have an open and transparent debate about things in the public interest. They are after all getting a very special job that will probably set them up for the good life. We are selling them our trust. So shouldn’t we at the very least be concerned with who they are on the most mundane level of their existence? They are going to get some of our cash and they are going to pocket some of it and they are going to do things with some of it. We need to find out what those specific things might be if at all possible and vote on it honestly, looking them straight in the eyes together.

I was on my way to a volunteer job I do on Wednesdays when I stopped my car at a red light. I happened to glance over to my right and saw something that profoundly, instantly affected me. It was a woman, middle-aged, obviously on her way to an appointment of some kind, walking with such a lonesome, slow shuffle it made my heart ache. She had her head bowed down low and she was all alone. Whatever she was walking toward her body language was that of someone who had given up hope of ever mattering much. She would go through the thirteen steps, the motions, of her visit, but she’d already made up her mind about something else about herself a long time ago. Right then and there it dawned on me that what I wanted was for people to never have to feel that alone. I don’t know her story, her circumstances, I only met her in a frozen moment at a ticking light, but my heart went out to her, and still does. No one should have to feel like they are doomed or abandoned. She was like a zombie, but without the growls or the hunger for fresh brains.

I get that we make our own beds, that everything we do has a real consequence in the real world we live in, and that probably nothing in this life is easy, but I just wish with all my heart that we could see when someone else is in real pain, real need, and be there for them, even if we somehow think they don’t deserve it. Would we deserve it? Everybody’s been a shit, some longer than others. Wasn’t it Baudelaire who said, “We are all hanged or hang able?” You get the point. Nobody’s innocent. People do rotten things eventually, but they still deserve your compassion, and your true forgiveness. Why? Because compassion exists to be deserved. You figure it out. We need more love in the world and always will, and the ones who need it the most need it the most. I’m not saying you have to be a saint, but maybe put yourself in this woman’s shoes. Did she have no friends or family who could have gone with her to this event, this meeting? Was there no kind hand anywhere that could have lifted her chin and looked into her eyes and said, “Your life matters to me?” Where was I? Where were you?

I don’t know why I let things like this get to me, but they do. She’s not the first person I’ve seen with that look of despair on her face and she won’t be the last. I can only tell you that it felt awful to see someone so obviously alone. I can imagine her eating alone, watching TV alone, shopping alone, sitting alone, swimming alone. Some alone time is good and can be quite beneficial to your health, you get a lot of reading done, but all alone time all the time sounds like a slow, torturous death to me, too sad to be contemplated. There are enough things already that can kill us without our adding loneliness to the list. We are people. We belong together. We need each other. Our best happiness is tied together like a bouquet of flowers. Together is where the action is. Take another close look. Its wonder is made up of every color and texture imaginable, and it’s beautiful beyond compare.

I’ve already made my mistakes by letting things get me down and then writing about them, but I know writing is about much more than a list of sad complaints. It’s an ongoing experiment with color and feeling. At its very best it can be an incredible, fun celebration of symbols and sound, a guttural response to the ozone about you. At its worse it can be a stubborn refusal to listen. But, hey, it’s your freedom of expression. But I remain convinced that good writing can give us back our balance in times of trouble, and remind us of all the sure as rain things we believe in and live for in the best of times. Those words are like bells to us, and the bell ringers bring out every kind of misery and justice to their tones. Just like any other form of human functioning, they can bring about change or charge. It’s a miracle really. We’re able to talk to each other, to inspire each other, and even to wail against the stars if we want to. We can use words to pray, to get married, to go to the moon, even to invent things, to start things, to end things, to grow things, to love, to joke, to invoke, to rebuke, to identify and be identified, etc. It’s a lovely, powerful way to let the world know you are alive and willing.

I’ve wanted to talk to you about writing because so many of you have asked me about it, and I understand your curiosity, I do. But I want to assure you right here and right now that there just is no magic wand that will make you a writer, only years of writing will do that if you are lucky and even then it may not be enough to set you apart, to have you be called something like original at it and not be boring. That’s always the real and present danger. Just because you know how to write doesn’t mean you can. To paraphrase Baudelaire, “Don’t confuse ink with virtue.” It’s hard stuff. Everyone would be a writer if they could. You could name things and watch them grow real right before your very eyes. But once you name them they also become your responsibility. They are attached to you like children. And like all good parents you must eventually give them up to the universe at large and let them go on, to live and die on their own blundering terms. And if you think this doesn’t hurt, you are very much mistaken. You have loved them and now someone else will love them or hate them without so much as your leave. But if you’ve done it right, it will be alright because your writing will have a completely beautiful life out there of its own accord. An arc like a rainbow. A tale like a shooting star. A smell like a waterfall. And that’s just the beginning.

Look I get why people talk and act like this (meaning the above paragraphs), they don’t want you to be sorely disappointed, but the truth is, you have every right to pursue the big dreams, the impossible dreams. Nobody thinks you can do it. You must prove them wrong. Writing is a means of expression and there are those who want to control it. I say we mustn’t let them. Ever. They’re free to like what they like and give awards to what they like, but so are we. They don’t own writing and I don’t want you to think that they do. The bullies and snobs of writing, of the art of communicating whichever way you choose, whatever medium are just as alive today as they ever were in Paris. They would prefer you to leave writing alone. It’s way too complicated for the likes of you. It’s too much of a risk to your fragile ego. You’ll only be disappointed and wretched in the end. Well I say phooey to all that doom and gloom. Welcome to writing. Take your seat. Crank it out. You damn well do know what attracts you about it. And if it’s not what attracts the next person, so what? You are allowed by virtue of being human to be who you are. Your feelings are just as real, just as important, and just as full of potential as anyone else’s on this earth.

Lately I’ve been struggling with finding the meaning of any meaning. What is the meaning of my life? Is it to piece the teardrops together again into a kind of forced smile for the sake of others? What is the meaning of disillusionment? What is the use of anything but love? It all seems to start out wrong from the first steps we take, with an argument with God or Life or the Universe. Why must we suffer? Why must the ones we love suffer? Does God ever suffer as much? Why do children get cancer and die before their childhood gets to grow its unique flower and beautify the world?  I often talk to the world’s soul as a poet of the heart and the world still will not listen. But that’s just way too simplistic a picture. The meaning of poetry is to be poetry. Perhaps the monks were right after all, listening is the true art of talking. And we’re not making enough true art to go around and open up the closed spaces in ourselves. But let me get back to my central points before I get lost in all the stupid, oozing pouting going on around here. We’re all wounded, but we’re not all doing everything we can to promote some kind of healing. This is nothing new. Old hat is old hat.

Let’s just say it’s all an ongoing grueling struggle to stay present and physically alive, to be awake spiritually, or to stay real and not be boring to ourselves or others. In the meantime people all over the planet close their eyes and shut their minds off. Personally I only want to continue to grow as a human being while I’m here, as a father, as a husband, as a poet, as a philosopher, as my dog’s human, as a comic (a long, long way to go there)—but you get my point, you’re always more than just any one thing in this life, and perhaps you can find some true meaning inside each and every one of those facets of your daily being if you try, if you look, but do they add up to something worth the hardest struggle you have to go through, which by all accounts is as long as a lifetime to complete anyway? My guess is there are as many answers to that question as souls of beings. Perhaps the challenge is to come up with the meaning that fits your own deepest feeling, or perhaps it changes all the time depending on your headspace for it, or your compassion for yourself and others. It’s hard for me to find it in my heart today, that’s all I can tell you. Tomorrow it may be pretty self-evident to me again, but for now, it’s making me question what I’m here for. Right now I’m here for this blog. I am blog, hear me blog.

A lot of the awful pain we feel is self-imposed, and a lot of it comes from those we love, and still a lot more of it comes from total and complete strangers, cutting us off in traffic, treating us like servants, without common courtesy or kindness, cheating, blaming, and judging when what we need is some understanding, some tenderness connecting with our lives. But that’s a two-way street and always will be. So I’m no closer than before to finding the meaning I’m looking for, but I believe it’s got something to do with love as a way of being, where it’s not an impression, not a connection, but a deep satisfying breath taken over and over again without fear of the last count.

Everybody is somebody’s foreign devil. A few examples: to the ancient Chinese the Christian missionaries were the foreign devils. They disrespected the most important role of the Ancestors in a person’s daily life and scorned their incredible cosmic ability and willingness to help those still in the battle for a good and compassionate life here on this earth. To the Native Americans (The People) the white settlers were the foreign devils. They insulted the Great Spirit with their unmanageable and inelegant slaughter of the buffalo. They gave no thanks for the sacred places of the land. They cared nothing for the old ways. They came in uninvited. They tried to change the way the people thought, dreamed and dressed for a better way of a spiritual life. They didn’t care what got ruined in the process. Their process was destruction of one kind or another. They were greedy, not good at sharing, and constantly lied about their intentions. Oh, yeah, and they were violent about getting their own way all the time. They built their own square houses on top of sacred burial circle sites. To the gun-toting white guys in white shirts who own everything all black guys were suspected of being the foreign devils. Obviously one of the saddest, most heartbreaking and institutionalized results is racism. They dared to look and act differently than most whites, but mostly just to have a different skin color altogether. To the jazz guys who were once the undisputed kings of the radio airwaves the rock and pop artists of the day were the foreign devils, taking their jobs, taking their money, taking their places in the hearts of listeners everywhere. To the Bible thumping fanatical straight guys hiding in their caravans like sports junkies anyone who is gay is definitely a foreign devil, going against God and nature just to explore a taboo subject matter with impunity. Campaigns of illegal war spring up everywhere all the time like bumpy mushrooms, but in the end they all carry the same awful flag, that of hatred, one group warring against another. What started out as self-defense in some of these cases quickly turned into something more sinister than murder, and that something is intolerance. When it gets to that state all means are justified and used to annihilate the other, including lies, including laws, including guns unfortunately. So where does it stop and where does it end? As always we must look to ourselves for an answer that doesn’t look like a regime trying to take over the world and make everybody in their bloody image.

But before we do that kind of deep soul searching research together let’s take another look at a few more extreme cases of foreign devilry among us. For instance I’ve often thought that maybe men think of women as foreign devils. After all they do come into the land of masculinity with a lot of preconceived judgments and immediately try to change everything around. But is this a bad thing? I suppose it can be, but then can it also be a good thing? Sure? There seems to be no real true acceptance for the man-cave ambiance of the place as it is so to speak. But then is the opposite also true? Do men act as foreign devils in the space of feminist place and trust? Do we refuse to accept the feminine in ourselves as genuine experience? I think we all know the answer is somewhere marked on an individual case by case basis, so tread carefully here. The war between men and women has been going on since time began. They can both make a very mean case against the other, but I think that may be where the problem is, or at least where it festers.  To the garden plants rabbits are the foreign devils. They invade. They destroy. They have no mercy. To the high flying kite rain clouds are foreign devils who carry deadly lightning rods around with them. They would not hesitate to use them on paper and wood. So where in the world can we possibly find any real peace to believe in, to start from? Within you and without you as George Harrison put it, the operative word here being you. It’s nobody else’s task. Don’t put it all on the other guy, that sanctimonious decision only makes a devil out of him, and by association, out of you. How many foreign devils does it take to screw in a light bulb?

We are here, here we are. We are not gone away. The world is made up of us. Every day is at least a possible answer to all our problems. We are not magical. We are human beings, all of us. If we are to make this world a much better place to live in then we’d better get started doing it right away, one step at a time. We can start off with the little things first. A smile here, a kind word there, a simple sacrifice at the checkout line of life, a helping hand, a generous spirit, a little courage. Life has its challenges, but lay off labeling people, or grouping them all together under a nasty sign or judging them in any way as anything other than human. Then let’s see what we can do about cleaning the place up. dp

Deserve your dream. That’s a quote from Octavio Paz. It fits my mood. I just happened to open up a book of poems and saw it. I believe in synchronicity. Those words were looking to open me up and discover me. I’m thankful for the random beautiful moment that brought us here together. I’ve repeated the simple potent phrase over and over to myself now like a new mantra, but like all mantras it begins to lose its immediate charm after a while before it begins to really sink in and settle. So here are a few of my own thoughts on the subject. First, it’s a brave thing to do. To match your dream and your heart. To grow big enough to accompany your dream, or become it altogether. That’s probably the best interpretation I can muster. It’s the sound of one hand clapping after all. No difference. No difference in you and your dream. No difference in the journey and the getting there. It is one. But it’s also a call to action, to activate your dream, give it life, your life—and again, this is a very brave thing to do. I suppose the question is, is it necessary? I think it is, and I’m pretty sure I agree. We are called upon by the things we know to be true in our deepest feelings to say their names out loud to the whole universe by our actions, thoughts and deeds.

What this doesn’t do, and what any statement of poetic intention doesn’t do, can’t do, is to do it for you. That’s the cosmic rub and always will be the burning question. Are you going to take up the heavy mantel of this challenge or just acknowledge the pretty interesting nature of the timeless thing before you? Look, I’m not trying to say this makes anything any easier for you, it doesn’t. But so much of what you contribute to this life rests on your honest answer, your next final move, your free-form willingness to try something, and I also think we should as human people demand something altogether positively hopeful in return. Something like respect for the struggle. Something like community in the wilderness. Something akin to kindness in our dealings with others. Something like love overall. If possible. If not, at least we can say we tried.

So if you are going to ask me to deserve my dream, I am going to ask you to believe I already do. By doing this we will help each other to succeed in the long run, even if most of the real work has to still be done individually. I can accept that responsibility gladly. Be on my side, I’ll be on your side. I think Neil Young said that. Again, I get where he is coming from. It’s a statement of hope as much as a statement of being and it doesn’t replace living it out, nothing does, but having it in our minds can only do us good.

School did not take with me, I considered it to be an abject terror program meant to turn innocent children into lunatic adults. Oh I could get top grades if I was remotely interested, but I was mostly bored, and scared. You went into the machine with cheerful dreams and hopes, but you never came out of it smiling again, at least not like you were. You were suddenly all about the work and never about the play. You were square, an empty cube ready to fill an empty hole and be completely forgotten, glossed over. But I wanted to express myself, a major sin or so I was told by the priests of education, who insisted that I straighten up and fly right and be normal like them, not write poetry, not play my guitar, CERTAINLY NOT WEAR A PAISLEY SHIRT. They seemed ghoulish to me then and they seem just as awful now in retrospect. These freaky adults were not just the no longer hidden monsters of my childhood come to life, but real sadistic thugs bent on breaking every last bone of your individual thought on their wheel of conformity. They were corrupt with power, but it seemed other adults were powerless to stop them or just didn’t care enough to get involved. Either way good people who just happened to be children, even friends of mine,  were turned into good little monster soldiers who obeyed every command as if it was the last source of all true life on the planet. They were churned and churned into the latest batch of buttery glop imaginable, pinned with stars, primed with important looking papers, and turned loose on an unsuspecting world like would be hungry piranhas flushing up a dirty river with only one thing on their minds. It was like watching a horror show. It made me sick to think of my friends as gone forever.

I blame it on the sad cruelty of adults. They are the ones who think it is ok to hurt someone as long as it is all in good fun. They are the ones who started every war, never forget that. They are the ones who perpetuate the hate, the emotional torture, sometimes physical, that keeps all children locked up in their rooms, whether real or imaginary. They are the ones who sell everything and everyone for the right golden price. They like the idea of slaves, it sends them into predatory fits of ecstasy. They hate love if it is in any way different or unusual. They like everything to stay exactly the same way as before. They cheat and brag about it, calling it beating the odds. Adults, for the most part, are hideous creatures who are prone to violence, to calling people names, to using religion to justify everything from road rage to murder. And I’m not talking just about old people here—I’m talking about anyone who has no child left inside of them. There are plenty of old people who are on our side, who are still as beautiful as they can be, who believe in children’s voices to tell the truth, who are what I like to call Guardians. The difference between them and an adult is that an adult will not think twice before choosing to harm anyone else for whatever reason. A guardian will always choose kindness over hostility. Adults use kindness as a bargaining tool—Guardians bless us with kindness because they are its host. Adults turn their hearts on and off according to their sneaky whims. Guardians always have their hearts turned on brightly. Adults deal in judgments—Guardians deal in possibilities.

I really disliked adults a lot when I was a kid. They made me feel so creepily uncomfortable, not just in the way they looked at you, but in the way they blocked you, making you doubt yourself, making you scared all the time of the world and of everything moving around in it, holding you to some impossible high standard of living. Music was my beautiful salvation then, music and art, movies and cartoons, nature, books, dreaming, thinking. It all helped. I prayed to the Universe, the Great Spirit, all of the time for the courage to not submit myself to the ugly process at hand. It was hard. It would be so much easier to just go ahead and submit to the adults, let them change your head, let them turn you into one of them. They would give you a nice job, a nice house, a nice family of your own. They would make you a member of their nice church, where you could be sure to be better than those other nasty folks over there. You could drive a nice new shiny car to the Grand Canyon and take a picture of the sky and put it on your desk at work or hang it on the wall behind you like a true badge of a clean honorable way of living. What you couldn’t do was be yourself, make a mess, take a guess, have thoughts that were not the accorded ones, love someone who didn’t exactly look or act or smell like you. You’d have to live within your prescribed circle in order to be protected from the fierce beasts of excitability and uncertainty. Each day would be the same comforting scenario, but at least you would know what to expect in your comfortable circumstance. You could even wear a crazy tie and have tassels on your shoes and drink lots of mind numbing beer. And for this ordinary hell all you have to do is quit thinking outside of the box, join with the in crowd, and belong to the joyful land where TV is king. No thank you. I’ve made up my own mind a long time ago. You can keep your ice cream bribes to yourself. I want to be free. Dp, the poet

I’m a glad person, but I don’t know exactly why. Shouldn’t I be bent over, trembling and afraid that the world is going to end—either by war or disease or famine or a meteorite the size of a small country? The truth is I’m afraid of a lot of the same things you are—sharks, tornadoes, bad TV—BUT I STILL FEEL AS IF LIFE IS WORTH WHILE. I was trying to determine this the other day, where this feeling might come from, and I came up with a few examples. For instance, and I know this is going to sound funny, but when I look at all of you, I see such interesting faces and these lovely faces remind me of the every hope I’ve ever had for myself and others, every good story I’ve ever heard that showed me how beautiful and determined people can be in the face of any adversity, and how universal is the human spirit for caring, for growing things and providing what is needed most. Yes there are plenty of awful examples of the black spots on some poor souls that cause enormous grief and suffering to others—I’m not blind to that--but that doesn’t make me glad, that only makes me sad. I’m talking about the innate goodness one can actually feel in the presence of someone you don’t even know, either by their acts of kindness or by the words they choose to use and expressions they say to cheer us up or make us laugh or sigh, or even by the mere sound of their own sweet laughter in our ears, and certainly the sound of their singing in the shower, however out of tune. You know what I mean. Even someone’s crying out can bring about an epiphany of deep feeling that life must be preserved at any cost. It just makes sense, especially to me, when you look into the eyes of a child or any loved one, that life is precious, a gift, a miracle, and an amazing, remarkable event.

So I find myself a pretty (very) happy person to somehow still be here, in spite of all the obvious dangers, in spite of all the dire warnings of terrible things to come, the rogue vicious nature of some unpredictable animals and creepy crawling things. I can still feel quite giddy sometimes just to breathe the air in real deep, to walk the littered streets of my own little town and look up at the city of shimmering clouds, to enjoy the colors of the sky, to watch it rain, to listen to the busy bustling world go on its merry way, all of which brings me to something that has been on my mind now for quite some time, and that is that a brand new Springtime is coming our way. I can’t wait to smell that renewal in the air, the foods being cooked, the music being made, the love in our hearts, knowing that the earth has begun to believe in its own potential self once again, enough to blossom and bloom in every color of the rainbow. Ah, you can call me an optimist I guess if you want, I really don’t like labels, but it really does thrill me down to the core of my being to think of walking in new warm winds. It’s just something I enjoy—and of course my dog absolutely loves it!

I mean if you wanted to you could start a list right here and now of all the things to be glad about, and I don’t think you would soon run out of things to add to it. Start with anything. Strawberries, Sunflowers, Stars, the ocean, shells, birds, trees, music, poetry, books, movies, bikes, hiking, picnics, fabrics, the spoon, pets, art, hats, sunsets, rainbows, ice cream, dancing, reading, walking, swimming, anything you can think of that brings you joy or peace or a feeling of sharing or makes you glad to be alive, family, boats, sports, ballet, birthdays, weddings, cameras, cake, cookies, pie, what’s your favorite, shoes, blankets, a good joke, well told or not, cats, butterflies, The Beatles, tractors, trains, you get it, it never ends, but for me it starts with you, with all of you, I’m very glad to know you are here. It makes me feel thankfully glad to be alive, too.

We've got so little for each other, that’s what bothers me, very little time, very little concern. We’re quick to blame someone for something, but slow to feel any real compassion for their ordinary lives. Life is a struggle among a million struggles, it never stays the same. It’s always crashing into shores, into other waves, into more days and nights. You’d think we’d want to at the very least soothe away some of the loneliness with a little spoken kindness here and there, but that would take away from our own self central concern. That would mean that maybe everyone deserves a break from the inevitable breakdown of their minds and bodies, a little celebration there, a little recognition here, but we’re more likely to turn back to our comfortably numb TVs, our incessant phones, our internal wiretaps than break out a good hot meal to share. And then we wonder why no one trusts anyone else any more, granted there’s not much proof that goodwill even works. If God is dead then we are lost among the stars for nothing. And I’m not talking about some old white haired bearded guy sitting on a cloud with sparks coming out of the ends of his gnarled fingers. I’m talking about the basic light that casts you into being at the beginning of all things and still continues to animate the one that you are. Some call that a soul. Some call it love. It’s as good a term as any I suppose. I wonder what all our souls all at once, all tied together looks like? Broccoli?

This is not a religious thing to me, but it is pretty miraculous when you think about it, it is amazing to think that from the right perspective we might appear as one. Imagine the tremendous flood of feeling that the astronauts must have felt when they first saw our little spinning planet from outer space. There were no wars, no countries, and no awful destructive weapons, only a beautiful blue and green ball covered in beautifully soft swirling swaths of clouds. One ball, one people. But I suppose that’s an illusion the closer you get, the more you look. Because the reality is we are very much at war with one another all over the planet over everything under the sun, land, water, food, shelter, you name it. We are full of hatred for all kinds of things that continue to divide us, education, environment, gender, politics and class systems, garbage and more garbage, money, poverty, even entertainment. Jesus, it’s a regular Pandora’s box full of nonsense and stuff, always more stuff, more stuff than we need to ever be happy, although happiness is not something you can buy, even though the market managers of the world would beg to differ I am sure. They put a price on everything.

That’s why I am a poet. I want a world with poetry in it, so I’m planting some wherever I go in the hopes that it will take root and grow, even if I don’t get to eat any of it with you in the end. This belief that poetry can save the world comes from some place I’ve always had inside me since I was a kid. It just seems right to me. For want of a better word, it feels right, more right than anything else I know, and I know it’s not the same for everybody. Some have no feeling for poetry whatsoever or so they tell me, but I think that’s just fear and misunderstanding of the song that beats in every heart regardless of time or place. If we can open up the mystery of this wondrous speaking gift it might allow us to understand each other in spite of our differences, whatever and wherever they might be. It can also be a kind of friendship from another day, another time, one that extends itself to us in the eternal now, as a refuge, an oasis, as a welcoming town full of good and interesting people. Here’s hoping. 

Hate is heartless. I don’t think we can be free as long as someone else is ever in chains. Because this negates the very idea of freedom. Because freedom is an expression that involves more than just ourselves. It is a responsibility. It is a state of mind that begins and ends with creativity, and that creativity creates a current that flows out into the world. It is also a state of being that declares we are all equal and deserving of respect as we live our lives according to our deepest principles, but where is the line crossed and perverted—when it serves to attack and destroy those who are different. When it is set upon a path of murder, then it is destroyed by its own sadly misguided actions.Heartless is hate.

The line between a right to freedom and not freedom is where we push our own beliefs to the head of the line, declaring ours to be the one and only true expression of all freedom. Look at the wild diversity of life everywhere. We have to find a way to coexist with every kind of living thing out of respect for all, and this means allowing for different or foreign ideas of what it means to be here, to be alive, to have and use our personal power to create the world or our part in it. Many people have died in the course of human events defending the right of the individual to be free. It will always be so. We must never allow our freedoms to be compromised or taken away by violence or intolerance. And we never will. It is not in our nature to allow fear to control every aspect of life on this earth for long. We will fight if we have to—even those who long for peace.

All people have the right to a free existence, to be free of chains. To me what that means is you have the right to be happy, to love and be loved, to choose what your love means, to choose who you love as long as it doesn’t hurt or harm anyone else, and by virtue of its being, it therefore must also mean you have the right to defend yourself against attack of you or your loved ones. Each person is a loved one of somebody. To treat these lives as inconsequential or meaningless is nothing less than barbaric. It is cruel and senseless. It is not holy or fundamental—it is against virtue. It is pretense, it is false. It is a lie. It is inhuman. Because it is not love. Because it is hate, hatred as a way of life. And that is wrong and always will be wrong to begin with.

Only the one whose daily actions are made of love and kindness deserves to lead. Only the one who does not end his love at borders can cross over between differing thoughts and ideas successfully and negotiate real and lasting peace. Only the one whose being is always in love with all other beings can know what is true and what is not. Only the bringer of compassion can also be the bringer of understanding. Only the one who serves all can truly serve us best. Only the one who can lay down his life for his friend can be trusted with our own friendship. Love is the soul of all kind action and is the nucleus of mercy and goodwill.

We deserve our freedom. It goes without saying. We need it. It defines us as people. It allows us to feel, to express, to create, to build, to laugh. Freedom gives us our smile, and our courage. Freedom is our oldest ally and our dearest flag .It will always be waved as long as there are souls of beings in the universe willing to stand up for what is right and decent and fair, as long as there are people who care as much for others as they do for themselves. dp

Why do we want to always be enlarging our differences so much, to gather together in groups that hate one another, when not one of us believes in murder to further any political agenda or as anything other than that course of action as a bad sad state of human affairs? When we look at each other do we see the amazing beauty of the miracle of life all around or the inevitable decline of all things material? I was thinking the other day about the universals—music. Laughter, fun, nature, etc. I was reminded of something John Lennon said in an interview once when asked what he was against, he said he wasn’t against things, he was for things. This makes all the sense in the world to me. What good does it do to concentrate on the things that divide us all the time or even most of the time? What are we trying to do to each other? Are we really that despicable and petty? No wonder they call evil mundane.

Mistrust seems to be a given in modern living and, sure, you have to be careful where you step, but you’ve also got to trust yourself somewhere along the line. Trust that a smile is still a smile. That’s another universal. Don’t need a book written by a scientist to tell you what it means to you—although I’m sure there is one—because anything can be interpreted a dozen different ways for the contrary nature of our disbelief. But where does it all end up taking us, and where does actual community managing begin? I realize all questions remain organic in the face of a changing biological reality, but I’ve never thought that we were only these slick packages of meat and nothing more. We have thoughts. Are our thoughts meat? We have dreams. Are dreams meat? We fall in love. Is love a big steaming mess of meat? That just seems way too fatalistic and smart-assed to ever be the whole shebang and you know it. It negates our feelings. It treats us as objects. It leaves us cold to the touch, that kind of logic does, and we are anything but. We are sad, happy, angry, amused, bereft, creative and brilliant, just to name a few. There’s always more. Explore.

It’s a lonely world we live in. No one feels your life more than you do. None of us gets to rest for long. We are barreled through the days and nights like an endless parade of smeared stars, and this gets to be a bit much if we stare at them for too long. If we are lucky I suppose we might make a decent song out of it, but then that thing falls away from us too like blown leaves from a tree. It’s nice if someone else takes up that same song, also, with you, but you know eventually things will change and their own tunes may lead them elsewhere on a path for a while. Then we are haunted by the music of our own lives until we drown out the sorrows with a newer tune and so on. Life goes on, as George Harrison put it, within you and without you.

Oh we might make a piece of art out of a bunch of words on a blank page to start with, and this might matter to someone other than ourselves, but again in time those words demand a much better sequel, a rewrite, a revision, a tune up, a new perspective, and so we must let them go off into the unknown, no matter how close we are to their meaning. They must not be allowed to grow old—they must be fashioned anew to fit the times. At that point they become a different kind of intellectual property—one that resembles a drop of rain in the ocean, a part of the beauty and/or chaos of everything going.

We might do anything at all and it might still be okay, but it won’t end there. It ends where it ends. It always does. Nothing you can say or do will make any difference to the outcome of the truth about the life of a life, meaning it will say what it is and it will stop speaking on your behalf when it does, even if that encompasses long years of gases and vapor trails. Some things are forever, but only because new eyes and new ears and new fingers discover and welcome them into a still beating home of a heart and a thoughtful awakened mind space. Timelessness comes from where you are, not from where you've been.

But none of that solves the problem of being alone and it shouldn't really. There is an old Zen proverb which asks, what is the sound of one hand clapping? The answer is you don’t differentiate between the two hands. There is only one, and yet there are two or many. I guess the best we can do then is to accept this Yin and Yang of existence as a single source of creature comfort, rather than a constant cosmic struggle for balance and improvement. Yet it appears to be both.  The sky has much to offer us, but it means nothing without the gift of land. We have the rain and the sun to teach us how to grow, but we wouldn't have a chance to fulfill our potential without both. There is joy and sorrow—there is no such thing as only joy or only sorrow no matter how harrowing the statistics for each. A time for war, a time for peace.

So lonely is a space we occupy from time to time, but it is not the only space there is, and it doesn't represent the true nature of our being here either because that is always a dual potential happening—with and without our input. Start where you are. The journey of a thousand miles begins with one step. We've all heard these sayings a million times over or seen them plastered on postcards or tee shirts, but there’s some truth in their well-worn dorm poster tracks. And that is we have some power to make a bit of real difference in our lives and maybe the lives of others just by starting to walk or talk or sing or dance or write a song or read a book or fall in love or start a family or any of a million other activities. Your masterpiece of self-realization is just waiting for you to give the word its go ahead and then it’s over the hills, you beautiful boys and girls—this is it! One for all. Lonely is as lonely does or doesn't, but it certainly needs your foot to count you in or out.dp

This is territory that most guys feel uncomfortable going into—so of course I’m jumping right into it--and that is the profound foundation of partners in our lives, and how we might be more verbal in acknowledging their active presence, not because we ought to, but because it’s necessary to create the lasting beauty of real true love. Things can’t just be planted and left alone. They need our attention, if they are to grow and to flourish and to realize their potential. Of course most of us are too busy being selfish to begin to think of this duty as anything but a chore, instead of an honor, instead of fun, instead of a beautiful thing to always want to do. 

My wife and I have been marriage partners now for almost thirty years. That’s a long time, and like all couples everywhere we have had our ups and downs. We have been excited, depressed at times, and mostly determined to beat the odds and managed to stay in partnership in spite of the unpredictable nature of this life. Things can happen, suddenly. You just have to adjust and go on. That’s what people who care for each other do for each other. They don’t give up. They find a way. That doesn't make it any easier, but it’s easier than running away and hiding your head under a rock.

When we first met I was knocked out by the quiet pride and creative mischief I saw deep in her sweet blue eyes and the proper young woman clothes she always seemed to be wearing. I mean they were ironed and everything! I wore nothing but faded blue jeans and old band tee shirts and earth shoes or sneakers. I didn't have a TV or a phone, I slept on a mattress on the floor and my furniture consisted mainly of bookcases and records in milk crates. Oh yeah I had an old mission writing desk stuck away in a corner with a lamp on it. We quickly learned that we had many things in common, favorite books and authors, Billy Holiday, an insatiable thirst for movies, a love of modern art and all manner of museums, and good tasting food.

We often ate at a local Mexican restaurant that was family owned and operated. We quickly became regulars and were on a first name basis with all who worked there. One time we made one of our greatest discoveries on the west side of town—a family owned Italian restaurant stuck away in a little corner of nowhere. The Mom cooked, the kids waited on the tables, and the food was simply fabulous each and every time. Now that’s money well spent. That kind of happiness stays with you for days at a time.

When our daughter was born we were in for quite another shock—six weeks early and a surgery we weren't expecting. We were scared shitless. Our daughter had to stay in the hospital for 16 more days because her lungs hadn’t developed properly yet. We visited her every day for as long as it was legally allowed, often begging for just one more minute with her. I often would put my finger through the incubator opening and she would grasp onto it with all four of her own tiny fingers. This of course tore me to pieces. I’ll always remember the first thing my wife said to me immediately after her surgery, “Go and make sure Charlotte’s okay.” So we were numb, but my partner and I figured out what to do next, and how to do it, and to make good things happen for our new daughter. We stopped being special and became guardians of the future.

People in this life or so it seems to me if they are lucky get to find someone to love. When I met my wife I got lucky. I got a great partner. And a great family.

Around this time every year I set aside a bit of my own free time to fondly remember my friend, John Lennon. I call him my friend because that’s how he always felt to me, especially when I was growing up in Kentucky. I knew I could pretty much count on John for a laugh and even a serious conversation or two, which the adults didn’t allow or like, and for some quality rock and roll, which I truly loved. It spoke to me like no other music could, like Elvis did to John when he was just a brokenhearted little boy living in Liverpool. The Beatles were boys then making a beautiful racket all around the world and I loved them for it very much. I thought that amazing Beatle sound would surely wake us all up to a happier, healthier, less violent planet, if only we would give it a listen. I was wrong. Rock would eventually sputter, choke and die on its own internal greed and lust for immortality. But that is not at all what this blog is about, not today of all days.

We lost John in a December, thus this particular blog, it doesn’t matter what year to me now. It was a long time ago. Many generations have grown up without his flame, but they still have his music, his art, his drawings, his books, his movies and his influence, but even that’s starting to wane. Young people of today don’t know that much about his campaigns for peace, just that he used to be in a band with Sir Paul McCartney, the founder of Wings. That he was the leader of the Beatles, that the Beatles were his idea, that he was the interesting Beatle, that he wrote the better songs, that he took the brunt of the abuse heaped upon the Beatles by paranoid politicians and right wing fanatics, that he told the world All You Need Is Love, that he wrote the opening credit songs for Help and A Hard day’s Night, that he loved cats, that he was a great poet and an artist and a philosopher. Yeah I get it. Paul is a lot easier to look at and to swallow, but that’s why you needed John—to balance out pretty with awesome, to give weight and authority to the poetry of rock and roll. John was the first young person through the locked gates of society and he declared them open to all.

Once when my wife and I went to the rock and roll Hall of Fame in Cleveland Ohio to see a John Lennon exhibit, I wasn’t sure what to expect. There was his white baby grand piano shipped down from his apartment in the Dakota, there were his early school and childhood drawings, including the Daily Howl, confiscated by many a teacher, but passed around to lots of fellow students for big laughs, there were his hand printed lyrics and poems, and dozens of his pen and ink drawings, his lime green Sgt. Pepper’s outfit, videos of his interviews, performances with and without the Beatles, posters, record sleeves and much more, but I must admit I  wasn’t fully prepared for the end of the tour. There in a tiny glass case sat a crumpled nondescript brown paper bag with his clothes in it that the police had given to Yoko after his murder. And up on a glass shelf above that horror were the actual blood-splattered glasses that had fallen off his face when he fell to the ground, gravely wounded from six bullet holes to his body. I couldn’t help myself in that numbing moment of stopped time and warped space, a leak of warm tears came to my blinking eyes, blinding me. I tried to swipe them away, but that only made things worse. Something in me broke all over again. I wanted to stay there with those glasses, to protect them, but my wife eventually pulled me away and we left. I was at a loss for words.

I miss John the person, the friend I never met face to face for a friendly conversation or beer. I guess that’s all I wanted to say here for now. I did see John Lennon once in a dream. We were sitting in a small modern looking kitchen with our feet up on a beautiful butcher’s block table in the middle of the room, both of us tilted back in our chairs. I noticed that he was wearing red socks, which I thought was unusual, but kind of like something he would do. I told him I loved him and we both started laughing and I felt happy about the fact that we were laughing together. Then I woke up.

Power, it’s a form of universal energy I suppose. Politicians have power. Teachers have power. Parents have power, all generally speaking, because power can be diminished, stripped or rerouted, ignored or hijacked, depending on the circumstances, so don’t be a stickler here. John Lennon said Power to the People. Patti Smith sang People have the power. But there are powers beyond our power to comprehend. There are healing powers, and there are destructive powers. Everyone, for the most part, has the power of being. Witches have power. Rock stars have power. Artists have power. Bricklayers have power. Rivers have power. Rain has power. Winds have power. Our thoughts we are told have power. Dreams have dream power. A vegetable has vegetable power. The printing press used to have a lot of power, now the internet has a lot of that same power. But what do we do as the people in charge of these and other powers do with the power we get to handle? Can a simple, good power for instance be turned into an ordinary evil intent without our personal consent to use? What is our own personal responsibility for the energy of any power in our power?  If we abuse the powers we are given are there long term consequences to our actions? I think probably so.

I’ve heard it said that one of the oldest warnings about power is to do no harm with it, in other words this thing called power is not to be used to hurt, maim, befuddle, confuse, or smite any other person for any reason, or you will be called upon to defend yourself in front of the powers that be. That will be a carafe of instant karma for table two, anyone else? But some people obviously don’t care who they may or may not offend in the use of their little bit of power because white knuckled fists fly in the air we breathe all too frequently, both metaphorically and physically speaking. Someone hurts our feelings, pull out the power gloves, someone insults our fairy tales, more power to the gas please, someone doesn’t like us, maybe amp up the power boxes, someone crosses the street at an angle that sends goose bumps up our flesh or as Dr. Seuss pointed out has the audacity to butter their toast on the wrong side of their bread! We need more power! We need bigger killing machines or at least machines that do more destruction than our enemy’s powerful machines…yeah, it gets creepy pretty fast. Power gets loaded into the chamber at an alarming rate of speed.

So I’m thinking what we need is a bit of cooling off wisdom to deal with all this raw, exposed power flipping around on the ground. It can’t hurt. But let’s get one thing straight right now—wisdom is not knowledge, it is the experience of the experience. It is being right, not necessarily doing the right or what is expected of us. It is feeling the truth, not reciting it. Wisdom is found in the center of all circumstance, it takes no side. Wisdom is kindness without motive. Wisdom is life. It does not lie. Wisdom is not anger. Wisdom is listening to all four directions. It is humble, but it is not cowardly. Wisdom is care that is given, not coerced. Wisdom is like the sun. Your choice to how you react, just like with power. Wisdom is grace, not always graceful though. Wisdom is thankful. It grieves, but not out of remorse. It does not steal your love like a thief in the night. It does not kill all hope. It never looks for a cruel way to cause pain to others on purpose. Wisdom is best love. And there you go.