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We are the Trees – J Raymond
I see now, growing old is a luxury.
We ought to focus more on aging gratefully,
than gracefully.
Life isn’t a tree we’re meant to carve our
name into the trunk of.
We are the trees,
and life leaves its mark upon us.
My body will betray me
long before my spirit breaks.
Each wrinkle, a well-earned reminder of all
the ways by face wears happiness.
I’ve lost too many people,
seen enough lights snuffed out early,
to walk these roads begrudgingly.
Or with envy.
Or with anything other than appreciation.
I’ll take every step left affectionately.
When the day comes,
feed the earth our flesh and bones,
knowing that from where we lie
love grows.
Poetry
Another Planet – Dunya Mikhail
I have a special ticket
to another planet
beyond this Earth.
A comfortable world, and beautiful:
a world without much smoke,
not too hot
and not too cold.
The creatures
are gentler there,
and the governments
have no secrets.
The police are nonexistent:
there are no problems
and no fights.
And the schools
don’t exhaust their students
with too much work
for history has yet to start
and there’s no geography
and no other languages.
And even better: the war
has left its “r” behind
and turned into love,
so the weapons sleep
beneath the dust,
and the planes pass by
without shelling the cities,
and the boats
look like smiles
on the water.
All things
are peaceful
and kind
on the other planet
beyond this Earth.
But still I hesitate
to go alone.
Millennium Blessing – Stephen Levine
There is a grace approaching
that we shun as much as death,
it is the completion of our birth.
It does not come in time,
but in timelessness
when the mind sinks into the heart
and we remember.
It is an insistent grace that draws us
to the edge and beckons us surrender
safe territory and enter our enormity.
We know we must pass
beyond knowing
and fear the shedding.
But we are pulled upward
none-the-less
through forgotten ghosts
and unexpected angels,
luminous.
And there is nothing left to say
but we are That.
And that is what we sing about.
Poetry
Squirrel – Lynn Ungar
Every day at the park
the dog goes mad chasing squirrels
that he will never catch. The busyness
of the squirrels is unending,
and so is his pursuit. He has no concern
for sense or safety, would gladly
follow his obsession
in front of an oncoming car.
And so every day we practice
coming back. I call his name,
and mostly, on a good day,
he circles gleefully around to me
before heading out again.
Every day, over and over,
that futile chase and the return.
Every day, a galloping dharma talk
on the discipline of calling out again
to my scattered mind,
to my grasping soul,
that it is time to come home.
Poetry
We will meet, don’t be in such a rush – Hala alShrouf
In twenty thousand years, when the dust settles on this earth
and the despair, and
its fires burn out, and it recovers from horrors that today seem endless,
and the planet returns to what it was twenty millennia ago—
green with blue water, and white clouds always—
then we will meet.
We will arrive as we did the first time:
without shields, without weapons,
eyes open to the soul,
whose question is a key,
whose answer is a haven,
whose language travels—like waves of light on ether—the distance between us,
beyond speech.
We’re going to need that time. Perhaps more.
For the volcanoes to cool,
and lamps to light the first, second, and third skies,
for the trees to reform into forests extending in all directions,
for light rays to return to their source—gold’s and silver’s light—and you and I:
You will see me and fall into my arms.
I will see you and fall into your arms.
West Bank, 2023
Poetry
Half-light – Dāshaun Washington
God said Let there be light
and we stood before the sun
shed the daylight from our selves
and donned dusk
God said Let there be light
and a moth emerged
from my molasses-black chrysalis
God said Let there be light
and we became
our blackest selves
God said Let there be light
and we became our own gods
God said Let there be light
and from the shade we watched
the sky shine her brightest
Let there be light
and day became
seemingly so
Let there be light
and night was never so black
Let there be light
and flesh became skin
and skin became colored
and the light was let in the house
and the cotton rose in the fields
and the master’s tools took shape
and an ocean kept us apart
and the indigo washed the coastline
and blue-black hands worked their fingers to the bone
and the rivers teemed with teeth
and barks ran through the woods
and the days grew darker
and the heavens rose beyond our reach
and God’s absence became apparent
and smoke poured over the mountain’s edge
and the fields filled with fire
and there was light
“This poem is the result of my interrogation of God’s role in the inhumanities of the world He supposedly created, specifically the dehumanization of Black people [which] laid the foundation for the transatlantic slave trade.” Dāshaun Washington
Poetry
The Moon is Full Tonight – Billy Collins
The moon is full tonight ….
It’s as full as it was
in that poem by Coleridge
where he carries his year-old son
into the orchard behind the cottage
and turns the baby’s face to the sky
to see for the first time
the earth’s bright companion,
something amazing to make his crying seem small.
And if you wanted to follow this example,
tonight would be the night
to carry some tiny creature outside
and introduce him to the moon.
And if your house has no child,
you can always gather into your arms
the sleeping infant of yourself,
as I have done tonight,
and carry him outdoors,
all limp in his tattered blanket,
making sure to steady his lolling head
with the palm of your hand.
And while the wind ruffles the pear trees
in the corner of the orchard
and dark roses wave against a stone wall,
you can turn him on your shoulder
and walk in circles on the lawn
drunk with the light.
You can lift him up into the sky,
your eyes nearly as wide as his,
as the moon climbs high into the night.
Poetry