Saturday, April 19, 2003


A billion times God has turned man
Into Himself.

You stand in line for the
Highest gift
For His generosity cannot end.

But best to bring an instrument along
While waiting in the cold desert

And make some dulcet sounds
To accompany the palmsí swaying arms
That are casting silhouettes
Against the skyís curtain
From our fire.

Remind the Friend of your desire
And great patience.

A billion times God has turned man
Back into Herself.

We all stand in line
For the highest

written by Hafiz, the Great Sufi Master (c. 1320-1389),
translated by Daniel Ladinsky

Lost Treasures (from Slate.Com)

I haven't been blogging much lately, since Harley has been
here, and we have been preoccupied with his visit - which has
been a fine distraction -- a Wag the Dog
to our everyday routine.
He came here for healing and was open to all possibilities.
He left this morning, much improved in his energetic
picture -- he called to say he is past all the police barricades and
has safely returned to Our Nation's Capitol. I will write more about his
visit and the past week, but I haven't wanted to blog much about the
Lost Treasures of Baghdad -- the Mosul "incident",
or the DU doctor's fears of a Gulf War syndrome has been a struggle to
remain centered and grounded this week....with a reddish-orange
alert going off the fear-charts....

Harley left me a book to read and edit, which he'd like to re-publish --
it is called "The StoryTeller from the Red Earth" --

Anyway -- here's the poem he chose, that he said spoke to him...
now that Lolly has gone through the gateway.
It's called....


This is a lovely party
We both bid farewell
I drink and you sleep
Only two can understand
I shall miss you my magic friend.

from poems written by Birago Ogotommeti - literally meaning the StoryTeller from
the Red Earth -- AKA Kenneth E. Moody.

Wednesday, April 16, 2003

I have been thinking about the fathers, and the sons.
I can scarcely allow myself to comprehend that this is a
generation that will know war, that will be living with its memories and the
consequences to the human spirit, and that will be dying
for old men's causes -- Empire, Oil and Dad?

And this generation is-- Our Children!
Children of the Flower Children, who wanted peace in our times.
When did Peace become a bad word - a threat -
an outdated concept? Where did joy and lightheartedness go?
What could possibly justify this?

So, here's a poem about fathers - by Grace Paley -


Fathers are
more fathering
these days they have
accomplished this by
being more mothering

what luck for them that
womenís lib happened then
the dream of new fathering
began to shine in the eyes
for free women and was irresistible

on the New York subways
and the main transits
of other cities one may
see fatherings of many colors
with their round babies on
their laps this may also
happen in the countryside

these scenes were brand-new
exciting for an old woman who
had watched the old fathers
gathering once again in
familiar Army camps and com-
fortable war rooms to consider
the necessary eradication of
the new fathering fathers
(who are their sons) as well
as the women and children who
will surely be in the way.

----Grace Paley

A little child shall lead them...Noah points the way....

Sunday, April 13, 2003

I can hardly believe this poem I found today -- it is so like my dream!

Small Aircraft

As if I didnít have enough
Bothering me, now Iím confused
By dreaming nightly
Of small airplanes. I donít understand it.

The planes donít care that I dream of them:
Now like chickens they peck seed
From my hand. Now like termites
They live in the walls of my house.

Or else they poke me
With their dumb noses: little fish
Move like this to a childís foot,
Tickling, making their feet laugh.

Sometimes they push and bump each other,
Around my fire, blinded by the light.
They wonít let me read and the noise
of their wings excites me.

They have another trick: they come
To me like children in tears
And sit in my lap,
Crying, Take us in your arms.

You can drive them away, but theyíre right back,
Flying out of the polished darkness,
Looking from their eyes like sad dachshunds
As their long bodies float by.

by Bella Akhmadulina (1937--)
(born in Moscow, attended Gorky School of
Literature, later expelled. Married to poet Yevgeny