Monday, June 15, 2009

Even Mother Theresa
A poem for a soldier 

Even Mother Theresa 
has chipped a nail every so often.
And Gandhi
with a splinter logged in his
left thumb, 
still found time to practice non-violence.

Virginia Woolf, 
in the early stirring morning 
between four walls
gave advice on how to live if you 
wish to really live; or 
how not to if you don't.
Quotes by Fitzgerald about ladies and
femininity, times and truth
and Austen's views on men.

I stand somewhere in between it all today;
thinking about the iconic ages and 
the day-to-day crossroads.

My mind jumps to an American soldier.
He could be my brother.
His bags packed, hiking twenty 
miles of Arabian desert only to get home.
I wonder what his thoughts are, 
"I can't even remember what a hot shower feels like?"

Still, Marilyn blew kisses, 
Churchill drank coffee, 
Kafka wrote vignettes, 
And I'm sure some nights, even Buddha thought 
laying his head down for sleep, 
"Man! I could have really stepped up my game today!"

We circle round, 
as a resilient flock.
Circumnavigate one another all day, every day.
Living out the same lessons over time.
passing down wisdom, tradition and 
recycling the same coffee stained photo album from
one generation to another.

Like a life line reaching out, I try to extend my 
arms out to you. 
Yet once again,  
the sticato of a Miles Davis' sax retreats, 
and pulls me back.

It's quiet beneath the soldiers' boot sole.
Halfway past the desert he is now back 
in his home in a N.J. suburb.  In the bedroom he grew 
up in, he will sleep well tonight.
The telescope is still set up near the window and 
the microscope is perfectly placed on a 
desk he has long outgrown.

Whose to say that a revolution can't begin
with a hangnail, a splinter, a kiss?

1 comment:

Anonymous said...

wow that was def one of your best wow is all i can say and of course love the photo pf marilyn.
love and old friend.