Tag Archives: Wisdom

ONE FIFTY AND COUNTING

ONE FIFTY AND COUNTING

In the dream
Hal and I are sitting on the curb
at the corner of Time and Wisdom
In the dream having a nice long chat

It is one of many dreams
with Hal and Sidra in starring roles

If they were to charge us for this time
(as they sometimes threaten to do)
I mean even at their standard rates
never mind 2.5 for nights and weekends
how many many thousands we would owe

If they charged for the wisdom
the national debt would seem low

150th BIRTHDAY LIMERICK

150TH BIRTHDAY LIMERICK

The Event
In October 2007 a number of Voice Dialogue teachers and friends gathered in Boulder to celebrate Hal’s 80th birthday and Sidra’s 70th birthday. I was honoured to be asked to write a theme poem, then Larry said, “But not a Limerick”.

The Limerick

There were two therapists from Thera
Who were so wise they would scare ya

The were so darned smart
They could take you apart

And you couldn’t hide hide nor hair a ya

SACRED DANCE

SACRED DANCE

The Bushmen of the Kalahari
dance all night in a circle
dance a calf-deep trench in the sand

In a circle around the circle
sit those in need of a healing

And because it is a sacred dance
any dancer at any time may step
out of the dance and do the healing
and then return to the dance again

Knowing without knowing
that everyone is a healer sometimes
everyone needs a healing sometimes

You just keep dancing

THE POET LAUREATE AT NINETY FIVE

THE POET LAUREATE AT NINETY FIVE

The new poet laureate is ninety five
he’s been working on his demons
for a long long time

Six weeks before the poet was born
his father burns his demons out
by drinking carbolic acid in the park

Mother burns father’s pictures
forbids mention of his name

Young Stanley finds one in the attic
and asks about the man

She tears the picture to shreds
without a word
and slaps him hard
six decades later he still felt the sting

Bright boy gets scholarship to Harvard
okay but forget about teaching classes
these were not the days when a Jewish boy
could teach their ivy league asses

Marries a poet, move to honeymoon farm
she disappears never to be heard from again

The new poet laureate has had plenty of pain
each day he wakes as a poet
not a man of ninety five
still seeing everything new
still glad to be alive

THOUGHTS TO PONDER

THOUGHTS TO PONDER – a story from the internet

An old Native American grandfather was talking to his grandson about how he felt about the tragedy (9-11) and what should be done.

He said “I have two wolves fighting in my heart. One wolf is the vengeful, angry, violent one. The other wolf is the loving compassionate one.”

“So,” asked the grandson, “which wolf will win the fight in your heart?”

“The one that I feed,” answered the grandfather

SHAMAN’S STICK

SHAMAN’S STICK

When dead Shamans spirits
pick a new Shaman to carry the stick
they always start by making them sick

In every tribe in the natural world
they whisper and press the same old trick
you’re gonna be sick till you pick up the stick
you’re gonna be sick till you pick up the stick

Pick up the stick or your relative’s dead
pick up the stick or you stay in your bed
you’re gonna be sick till you pick up the stick
you’re gonna be sick till you pick up the stick

Life won’t be easy if you pick up the stick
life won’t be easy if you lay down the stick

You can’t teach a dead Shaman any new trick
so most times it pays to just pick up the stick
you’re gonna be sick till you pick up the stick
you heal the sick when you pick up the stick

REMEMBERING SOCRATES

REMEMBERING SOCRATES

Last walk on the Acropolis
Last look at the Parthenon
Last time through the door
of low roofed home
Last glass of wine at kitchen table
the tightness in the chest

Last talk with pupils and friends
comforting around the couch
Bitter taste of hemlock

Dead cold creeping from feet
up through legs, torso, chest

Spots of light leaps upward from brow

Where is Socrates asks the guide
did he die

Socrates is the light I reply

THE MAN IN THE DESERT

THE MAN IN THE DESERT

The man in the desert remembers
and a tear begins to form

A tear so long unshed
ninety percent of the water is gone

Dragging it’s a chain of crusted drops
it carves a white canyon
down his long and leathered face

A cracked tongue between cracked lips
reaches to taste it – Oh so sweet