Hearts That Bleed

Who are you?

Does your heart bleed?

Are you angry at the right?

At the left?

At the way they screw us?

Is your life an argument, and are you mad,

at gas prices that go up.

and food prices that go up.

And this economy.

And in this market.

And the one percent,

and how they screw us?

And the angry men and women in Washington.

And the banks and our piddling bank accounts.

And what they do to us?

And the cost of our health,

And how the world is falling apart, and

the waters are rising, and our

resources dwindle, and the Greeks will pull us down,

and Armaggedon is the big story of the day,

in all of the news. Get ready to be angry and afraid.

And good luck to you.

Is that who you are? Is that who I am?

No, no, a thousand times not. Thank you so much.

I appreciate the offer.

I see that almost everyone has accepted it. It is, like drugs,

quite addictive. And what do you say to everyone in the world?

But no thank you. Really. No hard feelings, I hope.

Not me.

There is no them. There is only me.

And that is not who I am. Or will be.

So Damn Alive

“Where does the real poetry Come from?

From the amorous sighs

In this moist dark when making love

With form or spirit.

Where does poetry live?

In the eye that says “Wow wee,”

In the overpowering felt splendor

Every sane mind knows

When it realizes – our life dance

Is only for a few magic seconds.

From the heart saying, Shouting

“I am so damn Alive.”

-  “Wow,” by Hafiz

A poet once wrote that the heart is right to cry when even the smallest drop of love is taken away, and I believe this is so.

And  Simon says: if the heart is right to cry when even the smallest drop of love is taken away, then the heart is right to sing  with joy when even the smallest drop of love is given.

Simon and the animals have taught me – and I see it every day and in the photographs I take -  that every time we love an animal, our hearts sing a little louder.

The Angel In My Funhouse

I sent a text to my angel this morning,

And I got her automatic reply,

“Beulah is not available, she has taken a job

as a spiritual commentator,” and I shivered,

oh, not again. Last time she went to Wall Street

to manage a hedge fund.”

And I e-mailed her right away, and also left a voicemail.

What would God say about this gig?

And my Iphone pinged and she answered me

in seconds, as she always does, she sleeps with the

phone in her ear, and she said,

God is not easy to reach,

and harder to talk to. Like most men,

he is good at giving orders, but not listening.

Hey, I said, get out of Washington, it’s a hell-hole,

and come up here, to my funhouse.

This time, it took a bit longer for her to respond.

Funhouse.

Yes, my funhouse, I said.

Where chickens dance.

And dogs

Izzy

A strong wind came yesterday, surprising me,

rolling confidently across the pastures and winding roads,

calling to me, singing its enchanted song,

awakening me with anticipation, news of things to come.

Oh yes, she whispered, I am here again,

rolling across the open fields of your life.

I am, after all, she says, chanting now,

just a fairy, a spirit.

Why are you here?, I ask.

She wraps herself around me, caresses me,

Oh, to dance she said. To do the dance.

Oh, and yes, she whispers, softly, I may bring the gift of grief to you,

if you are alive, conscious, able to feel and receive it.

And she didn’t need to tell me that grief has many gifts,

the gift of love, it’s brother,

the gift of connection,

it’s mother,

the gift of meaning.

Grief is a teacher, experienced, strong.

You pilgrims, out there,

reading this, you all know the

gift of grief, have felt it,

have been opened by it,

as much or more as me.

In our disconnected world, grief

connects us, reminds us that we are,

when all is said and done, for all our foolishness,

the same thing. One thing.

The wind embraces me, touches me,

opens me and whispers to me, flirting with me.

She loves me, after all. Oh yes,

I am coming, she says, to make you feel,

to tell you that you are alive,

that you can love. And be reminded

of all the joy and beauty in the world.

Death is not different than  life, she says,

winking at me. It is the same thing, silly man.

And then the wind roared, and then quieted to a whisper.

Ssssssh, she says. Sssssssh. I love you so much. Be still.

Choose life, she sings. Choose life.

I smile, and bow to her.

I am a bit afraid, shy.

I ask her. Will you dance with me?