inseparable

Substance

I recall in the Early Days of My Life …

I was Looking for Something, without
realizing I was Looking for Something.

In high-school, I hung out with a group of distracted mischevious trouble-makers. One evening, I sat down with a good friend amidst beer, cigarettes and Jim Morrison, and we began to talk. Somehow, our conversation drifted from the ‘usual’, high-school-age-kid-stuff, to stuff a little more ethereal and abstract.

We began talking about Time, about Space. About our place in the Universe. About the Apparent Emptiness of Things, the Vastness of the Unexplored.

I remember my Ears pricking up, like a German Shepard who finally hears a long-lost Voice.

Bliss

Bliss

You are unending

You make me smile

and serenade you

I am a feather;

if I don’t breathe out

I will lift up

elevate

You are the light

that turns on

when the mind

turns off

You are the gift

that keeps on

giving

but doesn’t give up

You are the laughter

that

softens the

colors of time

You are everything

And you are nothing

Lucky You

lucky core
big inside you
flannel & gold
a weave that is true

lucky bird
inside that cage
seasons have passed
and so we age

Peace (poem by Tony Edwards)

If Peace fulfills my heart’s desire,
While Past and Future both conspire
To harm me and mislead;
If Peace can warm me when I’m cold
And comfort me as I grow old,
Then Peace is all I need.

The Road to Tel Aviv

It is the end of another business day, school-day, peace-keeping day. Soldiers, school children, a handful of tourists, Hasidic Jews all pile on and empty off the bus in drips, droves, coughs and sputters, as the bus navigates the stew of the afternoon rush.

Soldiers are everywhere in Israel; more pronounced in Jerusalem, less visible in Tel Aviv. They are all young. College young. Just- out-of -high -school young. A period of military service is a mandatory part of the young Israelis’ journey into adulthood, for both men and women. This rite-of-passage speaks of the reality of a societal burden as old as the stones in the temple walls here.

what kind of love?

what kind of love do we know
is this a love of holding on
or a love of letting go?

what kind of love, is this love that we have;
is it a love of doing, or a love of being?

is this a love of imagination, or a love of seeing?

what kind of love is this love that we’ve known?
a love of looking at maps, or the journey going home?
a love of believing, or a love of knowing?
a river dammed up – or water that is flowing?

a love that we’re saving, or a love that we’re showing?