poems and prose 

from this side of the room
 
On Traveling Through Texas

 

HOW ABOUT A MILE OR TWO OF WIND-SWEPT PRARIE!

HOW ABOUT A MILE OR TWO OF SAGE BRUSH AND CACTUS!

HOW ABOUT A MILE OR TWO OF COASTAL PLANE, HOT AND HUMID!

HOW ABOUT A MILE OR TWO OF -- 'HILL COUNTRY'?

GOD!  GOD MUST HAVE LOVED TEXAS, HE MADE SO MUCH OF IT, ALL

ALIKE!

 

 

 LOVE IS WAITING IN THE GARDEN

 

Love is the water for the garden,

 you can sprinkle it generously around

And watch the flowers quickly growing

Where the water's found the fertile ground.

And if you want to find me, early every morning

Take the flowers in your hand,

When the dew is lying on the garden

 I am there with love,

Just waiting to be found.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                    

 

                             1996       MAUI SUNSET

Facing west the setting sun,

bright and shining in my eyes

As I wait for the Maui sunset.

 

What is it supposed to be?

Why is it so special?

It's just the sun going down over Molokai

Chasing away the heavy dark clouds that look like rain.

But how does the sun,

the dark clouds and the island shadow

Make a sunset?

 

And then it happens, an hour of changing light,

Flaming orange and red and streaked with brilliant yellow

As though the clouds of heavy blue just couldn't resist

the sun and turned to flame.

Now it's dark again along the rocky shore.

The lights gone out across the channel.

And on the Maui side just the tiki torches light the   rocks

and accent the white foam of the breaking waves.

The heavy clouds are dark again against that other island.

Just the sound of the waves endlessly breaking on the shore

To lull me to sleep and dreams of another Maui sunset.

 

 

 

                    SITTING AT KIMO'S

 

Parasailing, like my heart

High, aloft and free,

Reveling in contented bliss

Watching the rolling breakers

Rolling in to Kimo's.

Lunch on the terrace

Looking at the channel between me and Molokai.

Wondering, is it ok?

To feel this good, this well, this blissful.

Reassuring Hawaiian music

Talking with the trades.

Clean sounds, simple melody

Quieting, superbly calming.

Small boats, anchored

But still moving softly on the sea.

Faint taste of lemon on the sliced tomato.

Eating and savoring every mouthful.

Wondering where the taste goes

When we savor nothing

And hardly feel it going down.

But this is bliss, knowing the taste of it

More than just living.

This is lunch, this is Maui, this is Kimo's.

 

 

 

 

            DO NOT FRET                 

 

Do not fret and carry on

When it looks like you’ve been sent away.

Those who truly love you

Will be there with you wherever you are now.

And when or if you need them will answer the call.

And all the others?

Love them well in passing

And kiss them with a brushing kiss.

But save the quiet loving or passionate embrace

For the other one or two or three.

For, are there ever more?

 

 

 

 

 

 

1968                        AND MOTHER

 

Draw me to your breast to hush the frightened cry,

Caress away the tears

And satisfy the hunger for a thousand things

And be the substance of them all.

And fill the many tiny places with a certain warmth

And love and tenderness.

Lightly healing, softly feeling, quietly giving.

And Mother, opulent and dazzling,

Say beauty, say power, say light and it is so!

But Mother, then say truth and let the ages roll!

And Mother, turn your head and open your heart

(And hide the choking, smothering pain)

And let me go for I must go my way

And find and taste the bittersweet.

 

 

 

 

 

                         THE BAR

 

It seems so strange to sit there one by one

Separated by the stools.

Are we so far apart?

Are we really looking across and through

Hoping to see

Something warm and friendly and approachable?

But, if we sit too close

And, if we talk across

We seem too bold for such a time.

But then, I always look too long

And talk too loud

And wish too hard for that one significant glance

To turn the time into a moment.

 

 

 

 

THE ELEVATOR AT THE SHELTON

 

You wait, you turn your head

And then you turn around and kiss his neck.

He holds you closer, twisting slightly

With warmth.

Don’t look around.

It’s your thing,

It’s your bag,

It’s your night

And it’s right.

As a matter of fact it’s a beautiful moment.

But a girl could get nervous

Waiting for the elevator at the Shelton.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                             HAIKU

       

                                 *

High amid blossoms on soft breezes

A fragrance to carry homeward.

 

 

 

                                  *

Tender, trembling blossoms move and fall,

And their movement blurrs the quiet tree.

 

 

 

                                  *

Catch the blossoms gently as it falls

And cradle broken petals in your palm.

 

 

 

                                   *

If you love and nourish the tree,

Will the blossoms last a little longer?

 

 

 

                                    *

Let me touch and hold the blossom,

For I may lose the path along this way.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

1996         MY IMPORTANT ONE

 

I don’t know if you can stand it, friend,

But you are my important one.

The one I want to talk to late at night

When it closes in,

When the morning seems so far away.

The one I think about when I’m on the road

When I’m alone in those strange places

In which I’ve chosen to be.

Sweet paradox!

To dream of closeness, being safe and loving,

And wanting at the same time

To be on the road, free and moving,

Learning and growing into new places,

New ideas and other times.

But, I love you still and deep within

I want you to be there.

And I will be there too, for you, my friend,

My important one!

 

 

 

 

 

     ARE WE LISTENING?

 

Are we listening?

To voices of a  thousand dreams

To quiet pain, wounded hearts

And empty, empty, emptiness

That fills the overflowing brain

With looking and trying to see.

But it’s so dark and not enough.

Where are the other ears to hear the

            story of the time

Through which I pass?

The quiet nod of another head

To know that I am heard,

To fill that giant emptiness?

Are we listening?

There is so much to hear.

 

 

 

.

                                                 DEAD CENTER

 

Hard to get a handle on it.  To understand what is driving, what is pushing and

what is pulling.  A feeling without plus or minus.  Something on dead center. 

Without the assurance of youth that it will all work out, just do it and everything

will be better and better and better.

 

But now.... Here I am, unsure, unsure that action, movement, engaging has

anything to do with it.  But simply staring at a blank wall, feeling uncertain,

unwilling to risk, this is certainly unsatisfying.  The trick is to replace the old

values that don't seem to fit and give life and direction now to the internal

mechanisms of just being -- that is the order of the day.  But in the in-between

time, between the old way of going that seems so meaningless and inappropriate

and the new way of going lies a giant chasm of emptiness and I think I am

floating somewhere in that chasm, hoping to find something solid to put my feet

on.

I'm willing to walk a new path if I could find it, if it made sense, if it could give

that old feeling of certainty or even a certain lack of doubt about me, my place,

my role the direction of my life.  But now, on the bright side, all the avenues are

open and some even beckoning, but on the other side that gnawing, empty feeling

that resists and even discourages taking the new thought or action plan for the

now-me, the one that has another 20 years to live.  Afraid now to become again

when the first becoming was so effortless, mostly automatic.  This time, every

step is agonized over with the chorus reinforcing with the do-nothing refrain, let

it go, it's better to be on hold than to take a chance that you will lose it all again.

But somewhere there is an 'I' buried beneath all the negativity that is looking for a

way to surface, and this time to love more deeply, to want the best for others more

sincerely, to be a better person.  Maybe even to walk with God and this time to

give me, to surrender me to the journey, letting those positive impulses rise right

to the top and push and pull and guide and ultimately, perhaps, even to satisfy or

at least to still the beast of doubt and fill the aching emptiness with more love of

life and living.

Is this too much to ask for?  Oh God, you are the ground of being, now be under

my feet and let the winding path be a little straighter so these old bones can try

again to find the way and climb the path.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                SUMMER PASSING

 

The air is light now, mid summer’s heavy dew is past.   But in the

passing I feel the longing to move on.  I felt it in the air this very day,

an autumn day, I thought, warm, sharp and bright, but not, perhaps the

autumn day you may have known, nor the falling leaves that signal

Fall.  A different kind of summer day,.  The old folks called it ‘Indian

Summer’ and it floods the deepest parts of my very self with warmth

and cries out to be given voice.  So, I’m writing you this end of summer

note, to affirm to you the indescribable things I’ve felt and learned by

being with you and loving you.  I’ve learned that I am loved and that’s

the greatest of the gifts.  And I have returned the gift.  I’ve seen you

stretching to overcome your fearful moments and watched you reach out

to others for no reason of personal gain, just love, pure love, and 

thought that just maybe that realization of tenderness and affection, that

grace of spirit came out of our mutual loving.  I’ve watched you choose

to be someone strong for me and dependable and not afraid; and I am

not afraid, still wanting to be strong. 

 

Together we have learned to ask for what we want and identify better

what we need, so that the wanting makes more sense.  We’ve learned

together to hold each other close and the other first, to love each other

with sensitivity in every aspect, never submerging our honest self in the

offering of our self.  That is the blessing of honest love -- to be able to

give love without requiring it in return, and then to rejoice, almost

humbly, that the love which was not required has been freely given back. 

Love meets love when there is no fear or design or seeking.  In your love

I find my own, deeply buried and almost forgotten, but to find it is to

shudder in delight and inexplicably feel the need to give it back. 

 

This kind of summer is never gone.  I have loved it best and I am ready,

gratefully, for whatever lies ahead.

 

 

 

 

 

                           TALKING CIRCUMSPECTLY

 

 

Talking circumspectly all around it,

Trying not to falter on the phone,

Hoping it will sound just normal,

Clutching softly in the throat.

 

May I see you in the evening?

May I call you when you're home?

Can you feel the quiet tension

In my voice and in my tone?

 

Aware there may be some rejection,

Growing taut to hide the fear,

Hoping still, a moment sensing

"It's ok, I'm here, I'm here."

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paris 1996          PLACE DU TERTRE

 

Looking at the sky, but thinking thoughts of love, even    

            longing.

New green -- trees mostly -- and so bright the green.

And warm red -- tablecloths -- on white plastic tables under

            the new green trees and umbrellas, also red.

Blue sky and gray clouds passing over making fresh and cool

            the place where I am sitting on the Place.

And all around I am distracted by creative art and

commercial

            enterprise and restaurants with their tables both inside the

            ancient buildings and outside in the park

When I would rather be thinking about new green, warm red,

            white,  blue and gray and passing clouds and cool breezes

And thoughts of love, even longing.

 

              

 

             

                                 NORMAN SPRING

 

Norman fields in Spring, schemes of yellow and green

Like a patchwork quilt that's bright and regular.

With rains that come, nourishing, frequent

            and wind that's sometimes Mistral warm, and

            sometimes cold like winter on the channel to the north.

These fields seem to promise they'll be there forever

            as they shimmer before my eyes,

            stirring, moving, heating, growing each day to reach their

            feverish peak of dazzling color.

Why is it always so unexpected

             to see those glorious yellow blossoms fade

            and find maturing seed and harvest in their place?

Why can't I claim forever that delirious union of soul and place

            that brilliant hereness with me in its center?

Is it really gone?  Did I really see it fade?  Must it really be

            enough just once to reach this awesome high?

I should find solace, I guess, in the perfecting of the cycle,

            the hand of God and the order of the universe.

But, instead I want to cry out "Come back, I want it all again,

            to feel the rush of color, the driving rain and the blowing

            wind

And thrill again to Norman Spring.

 

 

 

 

 

                               GIVERNY

 

We waited for the rain to pass, dashing into the new

American Art Museum, and finding there a delightful

sampling of American Impressionist paintings by the

American students of Claude Monet, students who spent the

summers with Monet and his family at Giverny. 

Then on to the famous garden where Monet immortalized

the water lily.  The sunlight after the rain was brilliant.  I sat

on a bench in the midst of the garden to catch my breath. 

The sun created a dazzling effect on the flowers.  The colors

were unbelievable, from yellows of the lightest cream to

deepest, warmest fiery orange and red.  Beds of small sky

blue flowers hugged the ground while graceful pink tulips

waved their heads  over the gentle blueness.  Iris, variegated

tulips both red and yellow appeared iridescent in the

incredible light. 

This is Monet’s light, almost blindingly white, sparkling,

dancing, highlighting and making shadow; this is what

Claude Monet that genius was able to see and capture first

with his heart and then with his brush at Giverny. 

 

 

 

 

 

                                          ALL THAT MATTERS NOW

 

I have an inkling now of what it means.  He has his love and that is

what makes it possible to go on.  It is all that matters to him now.  I

know a little of how that feels, though I miss him and the way it was

in the old days, the easy confidences and the interest in doing things

together.  I have told him I love him in letters, but I would like to tell

him straight that I don’t want to lose him.  But it has little point to cry,

“Don’t go, stay with me” when he has to go.  He has all the comfort I

could give and more.  I have heard the quiet, calm exchange between

him and his love, the question and the response, the earnest love and

loving which is all that really means anything now.  And I won’t

forget.  He has been well loved by me and cherished as a dear friend

and that is all I can give.

And now what of my loving, where do I place it?  How do I hold it in? 

Or can I offer it?.  Love is new and untried till it is offered.  But so

much risk.  To give and lose when it is deep and cherished.  And can a

new friend love me as I love him.  Even though I feel I could love him

forever, I know now there is no forever, only the commitment, the

commitment to love, now.  In this moment I would love him and

would never leave him nor turn him away.  That is how I love and if

he will have me as I am, I will have him as he is, cleanly, honestly and

honorably.  And all that might be between us will continue and

whatever can be will grow.  And finally, that which is to be will

become and that which is lost will be forgotten?

 

 

 

 

 

                                      

  QUARTIER LATIN

 

The 24th of May.  I felt the one great difference today between the

left bank and the right bank.  I’ve known it always, I think, but

just today it became real.  The left bank is young.   Wynne and I

were people watching on Boulevard St. Germain.  We were out of

the rain, inside Le Solferino Brasserie after the Musee D’Orsay,

resting our museum weakened bodies by drinking coffee and

eating expensive patisseries. 

It was a very small ‘aahaaa’ as I caught sight of a thirty-

something couple on the corner exchanging a quiet kiss.  Not kids

I said to myself.  A camera was slung over the young man’s

shoulder.  Together, arms around each other, they moved on

slowly in the light rain along the Boul in the direction of the

church of St. Germain de Pre.  The sycamores arch over this

boulevard just like they do on the right bank where we  walked

earlier between the Madeleine and L’Opera.  But there is no

kissing there.  But the difference here is surely more than just a

kiss.  This is the Latin Quarter, the University is at home here. 

This may be the only the place in Paris where it is still ok to be

young at any age.

A discovery of appreciation today at the D’Orsay museum—

Alfred Sisley.  I’ve known there was an Alfred Sisley from the

beginning, but apparently looked right through him up to now. 

But I saw his paintings today, full of grace and delicacy in softer

images than even his brother painters Pisarro and Monet, the

three displayed side by side in similar sized works.  Monet still

towers over them all, I think, such a pleasure to know his paint-

ings, his home at Giverny, the collection of lilies at the Marmotan

and to see this broad collection of his works in this high vaulted

train station turned beautiful museum.

 

 

 

 

 

 

                                 AT CHARTRES

Cold wind blowing, friendly French older people helping the American

tourists figure out how to buy the ticket on the street for the “payant”

curbside parking space de riguer all over France.  Then walking against the

wind to the cathedral hidden to us from the winding street and then

suddenly finding it on its square, and feeling this surprising and awesome

view is how it has appeared to visitors for centuries.  Not offended as in

Paris at Notre Dame by aggressive auto drivers and hordes of people. 

Entering through the wooden door held open by a beggar woman, arm out

and palm up.  “Is this a gypsy,” asked Wynne.  Hans had locked all the

doors at La Noue the day before against the real or imagined threat of

gypsies who had made camp in Mondreville 4 kilometres away.

The church, impressively grand with buttressed walls, but warmed by

gorgeous stained glass windows: a small one in yellows introduced in the

15th century, others in blues, lavender and the grand rose colored rosette

over the nave.  The “Assumption of Mary” beyond the altar revealed by a

floodlight which gave the statue mystery and shadow, a quizzical angel

almost pushing Mary heavenward from the base of the work.  The “Tresor”

of gold chalices and richly embroidered robes.  A frieze in stone of three-

foot three-dimensional sculpted figures  north of the chancel, standing for

centuries to tell their biblical stories.  A small candlelit chapel on the left

behind the frieze.  And above the altar sits a stately madonna and child in

Byzantine gold thread robes.  The altar, a table with a small gold statue of

Christ crucified, honoring in one place both the birth of Jesus and his death

with hundreds of 10 franc candles all burning and casting a twinkling light

in this small place in this dark and cold and beautiful church.  An invitation

to prayer on the sign “This chapel is reserved for those who wish to pray.” 

If not on knees, at least in the heart I said to myself.

Outside again, in a cafe I had visited years before drinking cafe-au-lait and

eating a buttered baguette a foot long, talking with Wynne about life.

Then, on to Versailles.  Versailles was a hunting lodge for Louis XIII and

then remodeled and expanded for his son Louis the 14th who wanted it for

his court.  The gardens are huge and regular and precise in the French

manner but too daunting after walking through the royal residence which

must be at least 50,000 sf.  We entered through the chambers before the Hall

of Mirrors literally shoulder to shoulder with tour groups and visiting

children.  But enjoyed most the gallery with the huge paintings of the great

battles in French history from Clovis and Charelemagne to George

Washington and Lafayette at Yorktown to Napoleon.  After Versailles spent

one of the extra hours resting in our little Renault, eating apples and cheese

we had bought at Auchan in the morning and brought with us.  Wynne

curled up in the backseat and snoozed for a while and I listened to Alan

Jones tapes from the 1990 All Saints’ Festival of Life.  I made notes from

the tapes and transcribed two of the poems the speaker recited.

Chartres was the best, not just because we were fresh for it, but because it

was so beautiful and connected us so well with the past.  You could feel the

faith of past generations and appreciate their effort to glorify God and offer

thanks, such an enormous outpouring of thanks the cathedral represents.

The two poems which follow were from audio tapes I was listening to as we

rested in Versailles.

 

 

 

QUOTATION FROM JOHN CAGE

When you let it, it supports itself;

You don’t have to.

Each something is a celebration of the nothing that supports it.

When we remove the world from our shoulders,

We notice it does not drop.

Where is the responsibility?

 

 

 

ANGELES SILESIUS

“Ohne Wahrum”  (Without Why)

The rose is without why.

It blooms because it blooms.

It does not pay attention to itself.

It does not care whether anyone sees it.

(Comment by Alan Jones—“That is the

secret of living.  God made you out of

sheer joie de vivre.  Our being needs no

why, but it is our brokenness that

demands we keep on asking ‘Why’.”

 

 

 

 

                ONE MOMENT MORE

Let me be.  Jealously guarding moments alone when I am

quiet and looking inward and reaching outward into the

moment in which I am.  Sensing, feeling, touching;

alternately seeking coolness and warmth, experiencing

emptiness and fulfillment, marveling that it can all be true

in the same moment.  Deliriously aware, but tentative in

accepting the reality of this wonderful, deepening, finding of

me.  So, let me love me a little bit more, I whisper, so that I

can love you with all I hope to be, more worthy of you,

deserving of you.  But can it be enough for you, or is it too

unsure?  Can you love now that which is becoming, slowly,

slowly being revealed in its own time.  For still, quiet and

alone I long to be together.  Is this real?  Am I one or the

other or both of these --  wanting to be me and relishing the

aloneness still crying out to be with you at the same time? 

Are aloneness and togetherness a part of each other?  Wait,

wait for me.  Can you stay a moment longer?  Can you hold

me one moment more?

 

           

 

 

 

 

                AND NOW, WHAT OF MY LOVING?

 

I have an inkling now of what it means.  He has his love and

that is what makes it possible to go on.  It is all that matters to

him now.  I know a little of how that feels, though I miss him

and the way it was in the old days, the easy confidences and

the interest in doing things together.  I have told him I love

him in letters, but I would like to tell him straight that I don’t

want to lose him.  But it has little point to cry, “Don’t go, stay

with me” when he has to go.  He has all the comfort I could

give and more.  I have heard the quiet, calm exchange between

him and his love, the question and the response, the earnest

love and loving which is all that really means anything now. 

And I won’t forget.  He has been well loved by me and

cherished as a dear friend and that is all I can give.

And now what of my loving, where do I place it?  How do I hold it

in?  Or can I offer it?.  Love is new and untried till it is offered. 

But so much risk.  To give and lose when it is deep and cherished. 

And can a new friend love me as I love him.  Even though I feel I

could love him forever, I know now there is no forever, only the

commitment, the commitment to love, now.  In this moment I

would love him and would never leave him nor turn him away. 

That is how I love and if he will have me as I am, I will have him

as he is, cleanly, honestly and honorably.  And all that might be

between us will continue and whatever can be will grow.  And

finally, that which is to be will become and that which is lost will

be forgotten?

 

 

 

 

”YOU CAN’T HAVE AN AUTUMN DAY,  YOU CAN ONLY ENJOY IT.”

   C. S. Lewis

 

 

 

 

                    MEA CULPA

I have been asked to read the wonderful ‘I forgive’ of Monseñor

Romero, but before I do that I would like to make a personal

statement that explains a little of where I am and how I got there.  It

was because of All Saints Central American Ministry that I went to

El Salvador in the Spring of 1993.  It was my first visit in 20 years

since I had been in El Salvador working on a State Department land

reform project.  The visit in 1993 changed my life and this is my

confession and my resolve.

 

In the presence of these martyrs I wish to confess that I am ashamed

of the policies of the American government that contributed to the

horror of the civil war in El Salvador.

 

On a hot, dry, Spring day on a barren hillside in the village of

Ellacuría in Chaletenango Province, I faced the fragments of

American-made aerial bombs, dropped from American-made

helicopters on the unprotected women and children and old people

huddled for protection in a storage room in the village.  I burned

with embarrassment.

 

On another afternoon I stood in the garden of the residence of the

Jesuits at the University and wept silently among the roses after I

had viewed the record of the killings.   I didn’t know till later that

16 of the 26 officers and men involved in the slaughter of the

innocents had been trained at the School of the Americas at Ft.

Benning, Georgia.  I am deeply ashamed.

 

But it was there in El Salvador that I finally embraced the grief and

pain of those people and recognized my own guilt for my political

indifference to my government’s policies in those days.  I resolved

then  that I would do whatever I could in any way I could to make

things better in El Salvador.

 

Listen to the words of Monseñor as that gallant man speaks to me and you

today.  First in the language in which the words were first spoken and then

in my translation to English.

 

““He sido frecuentemente amenazado de muerte.  Debo dicirles que,

como cristiano, no creo en la muerte sino resurrección.  Si me matan,

resucitaré en el pueblo salvadoreño.  Se lo digo sin ninguna jactancia,

con la más grande humildad.

Como pastor estoy obligado por mandato divino a dar la vida por quienes

amo, que son todos los salvadoreños, aún por aquellos que vayan a

asesinarme.  Si llegaran a cumplirse las amenazas, desde ya ofrezco a

Dios mi sangre por la redención y resurrección de El Salvador.

El martirio es una gracia que no creo merecer.  Pero si Dios acepta el

sacrificio de mi vida, que mi sangre sea semilla de libertad y la señal de

que la esperanza será pronto una realidad.  Mi muerte, si es aceptada por

Dios, sea por la liberación de mi pueblo y como un testimonio de

esperanza en el futuro.  Puede Usted decir, si llegasen a asesinarme, que

perdono y bendigo a quienes lo hagan.  Ojalá, sí se convenzan que

perderán su tiempo.  Un obispo morirá, pero la Iglesia de Dios, que es el

pueblo, no perecerá jamás.”    marzo, 1980

“I have been frequently threatened with death.  I must tell you that, as a

Christian, I do not believe in death but in the resurrection.  If they kill me, I

will return again in the Salvadoran people.  I say this with no arrogance,

with greatest humility.”

As a pastor I am obliged by divine command to give my life for those whom

I love, who are all the Salvadorans even for those who may be going to

assassinate me.  If they should fulfill their threats, I now offer to God my

blood for the redemption and resurrection of El Salvador.”

Martyrdom is a grace I don’t think I deserve.  But if God accepts the

sacrifice of my life, may my blood be the seed of liberty and the sign that

hope will soon be a reality.  May my death, if it is accepted by God, be for

the liberation of my people and as a testimony of hope for the future.  You

may say, if they accomplish my assassination, that I forgive and bless those

who do it.  God grant they become convinced they will waste their time.  A

bishop will die, but the Church of God which is the people will never

perish.”      March 1980

 

 

                             

 

Agua Verde    1996

 

                                     ACCORDING TO MARTY

 

            She says, "Now listen with your heart to what the children are

                          saying and watch the children when they're playing,

 

            "For if you hear and see with your heart, you will know how to

              love and when you love you will know how to give."

 

            "But, how do I know what to give," I asked?

 

            "Just sit here in this prayer circle," she says, "and let the Spirit

              move in you here in Agua Verde just as it does in Pasadena.

            Then you will know the answer in your heart even before the           

              question.

 

            "You will find the way to give without taking and watch the             

              children build from within and your gift will be love, love, love."

 

            "And if you should pray for light along the way," she adds,

            "You will find it there, I know, in  the faces of the children,

               My beautiful children of Mexico.

 

 

 

 

 

                          WHEN IT’S READY

 

When it's ready, the hammock swings

On its own, with only the slightest help from the onshore breezes.

And the setting sun is our silver path, shining, exciting,

Reflecting from the beach out into the vast, vast, endlessly vast

            Pacific.

And I am lying here in the dark, looking outward with anxious

            adventuresome companions also waiting.

Waiting for the Spirit to move over this sea, this shore,  this land.

To help us help the children and change the land, if only for the

children, the people, for their dreams.

Quiet, quiet now  --  that’s much too much,

When it's ready, the hammock swings.