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I can Hear the Angles

I can hear the angels
Sing songs only the angels
Sing songs of being
Neither here nor there
Angels and those
Close to death
Sing songs often sweetly
Sing songs below hearing
For all those
Neither here nor there
Hearing the songs of
Angels and those
Near to being angels
Sing songs I hear
Everywhere.

 
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Posted by on November 20, 2017 in philosophy, Poetry, psychology, Religion

 

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James 2:14-26

 

Praying is what you do
When you pick up the shovel
and plant a tree,
Surrounding the roots with mulch,
Dirt under your fingers.

Prayer is what you have
When you cook a meal for someone
Who is ill. Give respite to a
Caretaker. Take on a task
Someone else would usually do.

Praying is visiting hospice
When you are tired of death.

Prayer is cleaning a toilet that isn’t yours,
Building a house you won’t ever live in.
Sow seeds for food you will never eat.
It is the knock on the door,
The letter in the mail,
The call on the phone.
Marching in the street.
Chaining to the door.

Praying is holding someone else’s hand,
Listening to someone else’s story,
Holding space after they have left.

 
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Posted by on November 17, 2017 in philosophy, Poetry, Religion, Social

 

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Ode to the Philly Cheesesteak from Pat’s

Just because. Just because.

Just because I miss Philly. Just because someone close by got a local (Indian Harbour Beach, I think) cheesesteak and said it was the best anywhere.

Just because I want a cheesesteak with everything, and that includes ambiance and attitude.

Just because. Just because.

Ode to the Philly Cheesesteak from Pat’s

Oh my Philly cheesesteak–
I buy you
From Pat’s King of Steaks.
Fuck Geno’s across the street.
I order fast before
Counterman screams at me,
“Whadja want?
Dare’s people waitin’
In line!”
I order your divine
Slices of cow,
Yelling over the counter
“One Cheesesteak wid
And yo, don’t spare da sauce!”
He throws it at me,
Friendly-like.
Yeah.
Fuck Geno’s.

 
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Posted by on October 7, 2017 in Culture, Food, Poetry, Social, Travel

 

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Leaving

Adamus's avatarAdam Byrn Tritt

It is possible there is a perfect time to die. A time when the stories told of you would be of kind compassion and rambunctious joy. Those are the times. When you are filled with love.

Not when you are alone. Not when you are filled with despair. A time when people think of you and smile, not shake their heads and ask why. Not too late when you have been lingering. But when you are active and happy. Die dancing. Die walking the beach. Not in front of a TV.

But most people don’t get to pick their time, it seems to me. And those who do often pick the time of despair and loneliness, leaving more despair behind them.

The perfect time would not have been the time that I picked. And, realizing it in time, pulled back. No, that was two weeks too early. The prefect time…

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Posted by on October 5, 2017 in Uncategorized

 

Remembrance of Things that Never Happened

I remember the last kiss
like the first one,
like it was yesterday and
a thousand years ago

We met. You asked
is it ok that
you’re in love with me.
I said yes. You said
yes. And much of a century passed
of adjustments, smiles,
arguments, love, more love,
kids. Gray hair,

Trips to far-away places
we talked about, visits
for graduations, weddings,
births, grandkids,
the passing of friends, parents,
comforting, resting in
chairs around the warm fire
in Winter, old bones,
and I don’t remember who died first, but
Oh God, I hope it was me.

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2017 in Family, Poetry

 

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Eclipse

For the Eclipse, and, really, for love, without which I would certainly have gone dark.

Eclipse

The sun and the moon
Have been with each other
Since time on Earth began,
Each following the other.

The sun wants nothing more than
To light the face of his beloved.
The moon, for her
Sun to rest.

But he is a creature of duty,
and does not stop.

Except, on occasion,
When she catches up with him,
Instead of shining on her,
She covers him with her body,
And he rests.

He rests. And the world stops.

He rests.

So seldom.

 
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Posted by on August 21, 2017 in Poetry

 

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The Walk

 

I’m going to take a walk
Down the street with
My eyes closed,
And trust
The cars will do the right thing,
Whatever that is.

There are no sidewalks
Here. Ditches and culverts
On either side sweep deep
From the narrow swale.
The foot can feel
The pavement drop
To grass,
Drop.

I’m told
Everything happens
For a reason. So let
Everything happen that will
And let there be reason made of it.

Frogs in one ear,
Cars in the other.
Streetlamps through eyelids,
And a slow steady gate into
Who knows.

 
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Posted by on July 26, 2017 in Poetry, Suicide

 

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Stars

In my room,
3am, I have woken to
The awe of the black heavens.
Eyes closed,
the stars are
Beautiful. Bright,
Filling the sky
On this cloudless night.
I scanned the far reaches,
Constellations unnamed,
Clusters, and lone lights,
Galaxies, Nebulae –
The glory of the dark
Whose depths are infinite,
Ineffable. And, all at once,
Gone

These stars
Only I got to see.
For however many minutes
There was a
Universe of one.

 
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Posted by on July 25, 2017 in philosophy, Poetry, psychology

 

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Pride

It is not through my own efforts of will, creativity, invention or industry that I was born here. This is true of all people who are not immigrants, as truly, only one who has risked pain, suffering, and life can count pride in such. Hence I have no pride in  being an American, as there should be no pride in the color of one’s skin, gender, preference or any other accident of biology or birth.

Different dictionaries will define pride in slightly different ways, but each has at its core the same sense – a deep pleasure or satisfaction which comes from one’s own achievements or those with whom one is closely associated and can say one had a part or influence. My citizenship is no achievement, as it was for my grandmother, nor is the color of my skin. And any sense of pride in such matters is misguided, at best, used to bolster ego, or, at worst, a week device to create cohesion in a group which wishes to set itself apart from others, to divide, and all too often, for the purpose of establishing or continuing dominance and power, whether that power is imaginary or manifest.

Yet lack of pride does in no way decry, does not extirpate, a sense of duty, and that deep sense of duty is all the stronger for being born of love for the Land, and the principles for which it stands than if it was born from a false idea of pride or, in a sense, to expiate for that lack. A sense of duty to this Country, as evidenced in concern, compassion, for the welfare of the Land and the People, will do more for our common good than any concept of selfish pride, and pride is always, at its core, selfish. Duty in action is patriotism.

Thus, in that sense of duty, and the honor which grows from it, it is only right that we tell the truth where we see it. That we are loyal to our Country, but not to the transitory holders of power, as they are only the agents we set in place for the good of our Country, and their powers and authorities as we have granted, and are to be removed when it is clear the best interest of the Country is no longer served by their borrowed powers. That speaking the truth to those who hold power is a patriotic act, surpassed only by acting on those truths. And if acting on those truths can be done so within the confines of the law, that it be done so, as the law, in a free Country, is but a vehicle to codify, to ensure, equity and justice, but when acting within the confines of the law is contrary to justice, which is the higher law, to compassion, which is the higher law, that patriotism demands those laws be broken. Duty demands those laws be not obeyed. That it is better to suffer for justice and compassion and truth, for one’s Neighbours and Land, than to live falsely for pride.

If one can do this, then, at last, there will be something of which one can be truly, properly proud.

 

 
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Posted by on July 5, 2017 in Culture, philosophy, Social

 

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Passover and the Industrial Revolution

Tomorrow is Passover. Each year I think next year. Next year I will have a sedar again. But the tablecloth stays in the closet.
I feel, I think, better with the memory of making matzoh with my daughter, the house filled with people – friends, family, students far from loved ones with no Jewish home to celebrate in – all reclining, talking, singing, eating. We wrote our own hagadah. I even “painted” the lentil red. All who entered, safe. May the Angel of Death pass us over.
We celebrated with song and merriment as a spring holiday. We celebrated it as freedom from slavery. We acknowledged that it was our place, the place Jews are supposed to hold, to make sure the world has justice. To make sure no group is taken advantage of. To make sure no people are victims. That we understand while one is enslaved, all are enslaved.
We celebrated Passover as a holiday of social justice.
Often seders end with “next year in Jerusalem.” We never said that. The work was always here, always at hand.
How long ago was that now, the days of P’nai Or and knowing our neighbours? The days of music and laughter in the house.
Now Passover is a day on a calendar and a bag in the closet I move aside when looking for other things.
Read the poem. pass it around if you like. Let me know what you think. And Happy Passover.

Source: Passover and the Industrial Revolution

 
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Posted by on April 9, 2017 in Uncategorized