We Ride in the Rain

We Ride in the Rain.

We are happy, we seldom complain.
Something about moving, the quenching,
the drenching, the Softness of Nature’s Hand
on our parched linens.

The Gladness of Man
the moving of the Seasons,
the Ancient Rhythm of commerce,
the Hum of the Marketplace Mantra.

Aromas of Humanity sustain us
as we move sideways, vertically
frantically, erratically, measuring carefully
our pace, our dance, our stance.

We Ride in the Rain.

Love captures us once again.
From old withered hearts,
parades of Color will start;

and who knows the Art?

Sitting in the Saddle
of the Smile of Krishna
the Benediction of Buddha
the Mercy of Christ
the Wisdom of Allah

We live for the Color of Love.

the Season of the Dove.

the Warm soft hand of God

inside our Velvet Glove.

This Small Version of Now

Everything happens “now”.
The Attention Span is “small”.
This Small ….

(as if you know what you want …)
You grew up around the block
on some different corner
but you didn’t really grow up
and all your friends
who were not really your friends anyway
all left for college or took a different train
and now it looks like rain
or it doesn’t quite feel the same
and you’re stuck with one curious umbrella
but you’re self-conscious, and get soaked instead.
and through foggy glasses, everything looks like home
but you feel so very alone
(is that friendship up ahead, or just a different colored bed?)
and you know they want your money
but it’s looking kind-of funny
like you’ve been playing “monopoly” too long
and sold Park Place for a song
and you still don’t know the Real Estate
where you belong
because all Life’s Love
is hidden in a simple song
(and that song is inside of you)
but the broken cookies and colored balloons
spoke too soon

and so, your attention span is small.
“This small”.
(as if you know what you want …)
This Want.
This Voice.
This Train that goes nowhere …
Except Home.

Everything happens “now”.

Remembrance in the Naked Kingdom

This is Remembrance Day.

Sometimes called Armistice, this day commemorates the War Dead.

Through my progression of life, it has meant different things. As a child, it was simply a holiday from school; perhaps a day imbued with ritual dour parades and gatherings in the auditorium – something we all fidgeted and complained through, waiting impatiently for that half-day of freedom that followed.

Later in my adult life, it was a creative photo-op, a chance to watch human expression, a chance to take in the curious and fantastic actors in the Human Movie.

Now I watch it with different eyes. Now, that means – in a literal sense – that my body cells have been largely replaced over the past year, and indeed, these eyes are different eyes. But this also means that my perceptions, values, realities, neuronal network, has all transformed, evolved, shifted. I see and feel, not only the pulse, the longing, the full and empty cups inside of me, but the same in all the humans around me.