Uncategorized

  • poetry

    The
    Infinite

     

    The
    Infinite is always silent:

    It
    is only the Finite speaks.

    Our
    words are the idle wave-caps

    On
    the deep that never breaks.

    We
    may question with wand of science,

    Explain,
    decide and discuss;

    But
    only in meditation

    The
    Mystery speaks to us.

     

               
    -- John Boyle O`Reilly

    Driving
    Home

     

    Minister
    of our coming doom, preaching

    On
    the car radio, how right

    Your
    Hell and damnation sound to me

    As
    I travel these small, bleak roads

    Thinking
    of the mailman’s son

    The
    Army sent back in a sealed coffin.

     

    (sorry, forgot the title)


    His
    house is around the next turn.

    A
    forlorn mutt sits in the yard

    Waiting
    for someone to come home.

    I
    can see the TV is on in the living room,

    Canned
    laughter in the empty house

    Like
    the sound of beer cans tied to a hearse.

     

               
               
               
    -- Charles Simic

  • not much going on today, i guess.  just trying to get ready for the peds boards in about a month, and also go over the exhibits for the upcoming custody trial.  the trial itself will only be one day, but will be very one-sided, since my ex hasn't provided any witness list or exhibit list, which means that she can't present any testimony besides her own, and no exhibits (exhibits become evidence if they are accepted by the court after meeting the rules of evidence).

  • update

    as i expected, there was no settlement at the settlement conference.  it's ironic, because last night i gave a talk on reconciliation/forgiveness, which requires remorse on the part of the transgressor, empathy on the part of the transgressee, and a process of achieving justice.  it feels like whenever i have attempted to be empathetic, i get kicked in the face.  so there is no trust left, leaving settlements that depend on trust difficult to achieve.  but at least the judge "convinced" my ex that she should allow my educational expert to testify by phone, rather than having him fly here, at 425/hour.  y'all don't want to know what this case has cost me so far.

    There
    is No Armor We Can Wear

     

    There
    is no armor we can wear,

    No
    wall or fortress we can build,

    No
    force of arms, no shield of fear

    To
    equal what the heart has willed.

     

    No
    wall or fortress we can build

    Can
    stop a soul on vengeance bent,

    Can
    equal what the heart has willed,

    A
    purpose pure, of dark intent.

     

    Can
    stop a soul on vengeance bent,

    Death
    for death, and pain for pain,

    A
    purpose pure, of dark intent,

    To
    kill for grace, and not for gain.

     

    Death
    for death, and pain for pain:

    The
    lust to purge oneself of grief,

    To
    kill for grace, and not for gain,

    That
    anguish might find some relief.

     

    The
    lust to purge oneself of grief,

    Must
    yield in turn an answering lust.

    That
    anguish might find some relief,

    We’d
    turn an Eden into dust.

     

    Must
    yield in turn an answering lust,

    Hate
    to hate set groove on groove.

    We’d
    turn an Eden into dust

    To
    turn away the face we love.

     

    Hate
    to hate set groove on groove,

    No
    force of arms, no shield of fear.

    To
    turn away the face we love

    There
    is no armor we can wear.

     

               
               
    -- Unknown

    A
    Little Morning Music

     

    The
    birds in the first light twitter and whistle,

    Chirp
    and seek, sipping and chortling; weakly, meekly, they speak
    and

    bubble

    As
    cheerful as the cherry would if it could speak when it is cherry ripe or

               
    cherry ripening.

     

    And
    all of them are melodious, erratic, and gratuitous,

    Singing
    solely to heighten the sense of morning’s beginning.

     

    How
    soon the heart’s cup overflows, how soon it is excited to delight
    and

               
    elation!

     

    And
    in the first light the cock’s chant, roaring,

    Bursts
    like rockets, rising and breaking into fragments of
    brilliance;

    As
    the fields arise, cock after cock catches on fire,

    And
    the pastures loom out of vague blue shadow,

    The
    red barn and the red sheds rise and redden, blocks and boxes
    of

               
    slowly blooming wet redness;

    Then
    the great awe and splendor of the sun comes nearer,

    Kindling
    all things, consuming the forest of darkness, lifting and
    lighting

    up

    All
    the darkling ones who slept and grew

    Beneath
    the petals, the frost the mystery and mockery of the
    stars.

     

    The
    darkened ones turn slightly in the faint light of the small
    morning,

    Grow
    gray or glow green --

               
    They are gray and green at once

               
    In the pale cool of blue light;

    They
    dream of that other life and that otherness

               
    Which is the darkness going over

    Maple
    and oak, leafy and rooted in the ancient and famous light,

    In
    the bondage of the soil of the past and the radiance of the
    future.

     

    But
    now the morning is growing, the sun is soaring, all

    That
    lights up shows, quickly and slowly, the showering plentitude
    of

               
    fountains,

    And
    soon an overflowing radiance, actual and dazzling, will blaze
    and

    brim
    over all of us,

    Discovering
    and uncovering all color and all kinds, all forms and all

               
    distances, rising and rising higher

               
               
    and higher, like a stupendous bonfire of
    consciousness,

    Gazing
    and blazing, blessing and possessing all vividness and all

    darkness.

     

               
    -- Delmore Schwartz

    Poem: "The Summer Day" by Mary Oliver, from House of Light. © Beacon Press, 1992.

    The Summer Day

    Who made the world?
    Who made the swan, and the black bear?
    Who made the grasshopper?
    This grasshopper, I mean—
    the one who has flung herself out of the grass,
    the one who is eating sugar out of my hand,
    who is moving her jaws back and forth instead of up and down—
    who is gazing around with her enormous and complicated eyes.
    Now she lifts her pale forearms and thoroughly washes her face.
    Now she snaps her wings open, and floats away.
    I don't know exactly what a prayer is.
    I do know how to pay attention, how to fall down
    into the grass, how to kneel down in the grass,
    how to be idle and blessed, how to stroll through the fields,
    which is what I have been doing all day.
    Tell me, what else should I have done?
    Doesn't everything die at last, and too soon?
    Tell me, what is it you plan to do

  • today

    today i have the settlement conference for my custody litigation.  i don't think that my ex will settle, but i'll offer to take sole legal and full custody if she'll agree.  given, however, that she has de facto sole legal custody (she has made pretty much all the decisions regarding my daughter's education without consulting me) i doubt it, but i'll try.  i guess this is how i'm feeling these days, given the above and what is happening at work, etc.

     

    24.8.07 – 6.9.07

     

    the tail of the mo’olelo

    winds between the cells

    becomes the piko

    fades into the fragrant mist of the kupuna

    connects

    in the amniotic sea of

    rebirthing

    winds rip the surface

    lightning shadows

    wave mountains

    moving the deep

    in rumbling slowness

    i wait

    floating between unknowns

    waiting to surface

    to start breathing the electric air

    slide down the mountains

    and paddle back to shore

     

  • poem by ferlinghetti

      Pity the nation whose people are sheep,
      and whose shepherds mislead them.
      Pity the nation whose leaders are liars, whose sages are silenced,
      and whose bigots haunt the airwaves.
      Pity the nation that raises not its voice,
      except to praise conquerors and acclaim the bully as hero
      and aims to rule the world with force and by torture.
      Pity the nation that knows no other language but its own
      and no other culture but its own.
      Pity the nation whose breath is money
      and sleeps the sleep of the too well fed.
      Pity the nation -- oh, pity the people who allow their rights to erode
      and their freedoms to be washed away.
      My country, tears of thee, sweet land of liberty.

  • oli nahenahe

    E `Ike
    Mai

     

    I luna la, i
    luna

    Nā
    manu o ka lewa

     

    I lalo la, i
    lalo

    Nā
    pua o ka honua

     

    I
    uka la, i uka

    Nā
    ulu lā`au

     

    I
    kai la, i kai

    Nā
    i`a
    o ka moana

     

    Ha`ina mai ka
    puana

     

     

    A he nani ke ao
    nei.

    Behold

     

    Above,
    above

    all birds in
    air

     

    below,
    below

    all earth’s
    flowers

     

    inland,
    inland

    all forest
    trees

     

    seaward,
    seaward

    all ocean
    fish

     

    sing out and
    say

    again the
    refrain

     

    Behold this
    lovely world!

     

       -- Mary Kawena Puku`i

  • more found poetry

    Grant
    me the ability to be alone;

    May
    it be my custom to go outdoors each day

    among
    the trees and grasses,

    among
    all growing things

    and
    there may I be alone,

    and
    enter into prayer

    to
    talk with the one

    that
    I belong to.

     

               
               
    -- Rabbi Nachman of Bratzlav

  • more

    Choosing
    My Name

     

    When
    I was born my mother gave me three names.

    Christabelle,
    Yoshie, and Puanani.

     

    Christabelle
    was my “engish” name.

    My
    social security name,

    My
    school name,

               
    the name I gave when teachers asked me

               
    for my “real” name, a safe name.

     

    Yoshie
    was my home name,

    My
    everyday name,

               
    the name that reminded my father’s family

               
    that I was Japanese, even though

               
    my nose, hips, and feet were wide,

               
    the name that made me acceptable to them

               
    who called my Hawaiian mother kuroi (black),

               
    a saving name.

     

    Puanani
    is my chosen name,

    My
    piko name connecting me to the `aina

               
    and the kai and po`e kahiko

               
    my blessing; my burden,

               
    my amulet, my spear.

     

               
               
               
    -- Puanani Burgess

  • I
    Am Asking you

    To
    Come Back Home

     

    I
    am asking you to come back home

    before
    you lose the chance of seein’ me alive.

    You
    already missed your daddy,

    You
    missed your uncle Howard.

    You
    missed Luciel.

    I
    kept them and I buried them.

    You
    showed up for the funerals.

    Funerals
    are the easy part.

     

    You
    even missed that dog you left.

    I
    dug him a hole and put him in it.

    It
    was a Sunday morning, but dead animals

    don’t
    wait no better than dead people.

     

    My
    mamma used to say she could feel herself

    runnin’
    short of breath of life.  So can
    I.

    And
    I am blessed tired of buryin’ things I love.

    Somebody
    else can do that job to me.

    You’ll
    be back here then; you come for funerals.

     

    I’d
    rather you come back now and got my stories.

    I’ve
    got whole lives of stories that belong to you.

    I
    could fill you up with stories,

    stories
    I ain’t told nobody yet,

    stories
    with your name, your blood in them.

    Ain’t
    nobody gonna hear them if you don’t

    and
    you ain’t gonna hear them unless you get back home.

     

    When
    I am dead, it will not matter

    how
    hard you press your ear to the ground.

     

               
               
               
               
    -- Jo Carson

    Where
    Everything is Music

     

    Don’t
    worry about saving these songs!

    And
    if one of our instruments breaks,

    it
    doesn’t matter.

     

    We
    have fallen into the place

    where
    everything is music.

     

    The
    strumming and the flute notes

    rise
    into the atmosphere,

    and
    even if the whole world’s harp

    should
    burn up, there will still be

    hidden
    instruments playing.

     

    So
    the candle flickers and goes out.

    We
    have a piece of flint, and a spark.

     

    This
    singing art is sea foam.

    The
    graceful movements come from a pearl

    somewhere
    on the ocean floor.

     

    Poems
    reach up like spindrift and the edge

    of
    driftwood along the beach, wanting!

     

    They
    derive

    from
    a slow and powerful root

    that
    we can’t see.

     

    Stop
    the words now.

    Open
    the window in the center of your chest,

    and
    let the spirits fly in and out.

     

               
               
               
    -- Rumi

               
               
               
       (translated by
    Coleman Barks)

  • thursday

    . . . So, friends, every day do something

    that won’t compute.  Love the Lord.

    Love the world.  Work for nothing.

    Take all that you have and be poor.

    Love someone who does not deserve it.

    Give your approval to all you cannot

    understand.  Praise ignorance, for what man

    has not encountered he has not destroyed.

    Ask the questions that have no answers.

    Invest in the millennium.  Plant.

    Say that your main crop is the forest

    that you did not plant,

    that you will not live to harvest.

    Say that the leaves are harvested

    when they have rotted into the mold.

    Call that profit.  Prophesy such returns.

    Put your faith in the two inches of humus

    that will build under the trees

    every thousand years.

    Listen to carrion -- put your ear

    close, hear the faint chattering

    of the songs that are to come.

    Expect the end of the world.  Laugh.

    Laughter is immeasurable.  Be joyful

    though you have considered all the facts.

    So long as women do not go cheap

    for power, please women more than men.

    Go with your love in the fields.

    Lie easy in the shade.  Rest your head

    in her lap.  Swear allegience

    to what is highest in your thoughts.

    As soon as the generals and the politicos

    can predict the motions of your mind,

    lose it.  Leave it as a sign

    to mark the false trail, the way

    you didn’t go.  Be like the fox

    who makes more tracks than necessary,

    some in the wrong direction.

    Practice resurrection.

     

                            -- Wendell Berry

     

    Ancient sun, eternally young,
    giver of life and source of energy,
                In coal and oil, in plant and wind and tide
                in spiritual light and human embrace,
    You kindle the heavens, you shine within us
    (for we are suns with hearts afire --
                we light the world as you light the sky
                and find clouds within whose shadows are dark);
    We give thanks for your rays, and clouds your rays draw up,
    for the sky route you travel faithfully as we traverse this globe,
                For our journeys of earth which draw us together,
                for our journeys of dream which sustain us when apart.
    Ancient of Days, you rule the nations,
    our birth and death: our journeys you have wrought.
                Loam we become for your fertile spirit.
                Your cosmic light penetrates our depths;
                In your majesty we are bound to one another.
    We gather this morning as did people of old
    with joys and woes, varied gifts and diverse needs.
                We offer you these in thanksgiving for life
                and share them through your generations on earth.
     
                                -- Congregation of Abraxas