The heart-work is in the hearing. The hearing is in the listening. The listening is in the legend that once upon a time a rocket ship made of words brought us to life and from pathos came ethos and egos and hard work and scattering and scavenging the ditches for ideas that will teach us how to touch the starlight that’s still left in us on this journey back home where it feels like our parents have locked us in a room full of brownies and scorpions.
Heroes, do not dim.
Share your light with us,
we who have lost the sense of place
and hidden in certainties
that lack the love of sinking
into life’s mysterious muddle.
I was the touch on the spoon before the mouthful, the moment between the songs, the anticipation between the tracks.
The experience for me was a joyful deep diving, an endeavor of feeling into those deep places within us where Art is born.
Whatever you say in a whisper holds my voice.
You’re on a dance floor, having the time of your life. You’re singing and jumping and no part of you isn’t bursting with ecstatic a life. It’s a massive celebration, everyone you know is somewhere on that floor.
We are not unlike the dew that decorates each new day, appearing one morning out of thin air, warming as the sun rises and then disappearing into the light.
Iceland Sheep speckling green countryside Towns that only know their name The drone of draining Waterfalls stuttering a shutter Black sand dark like Ashen wool of rams Bred for wildness by Frostbitten fingers Lingering in towns that only Know their name Sunset hues at noon Subside at the season’s Undecided hour Colorful painters Do not…
Last march I was joined by HEK, an Icelandic Singer/Songwriter and poet whom I had met in the previous year. He wrote the poem “Nowhere” right before he came to the US, and in Brooklyn taverns and late night jam sessions would recite it to whatevcer haphazard groups we’d managed to assemble. It has a…
Don’t Retreat Into Your Phone When the pondering barista slices fruit for smoothies When filling a frustrated space In line in a foreign New York neighborhood When the parks call your name and The sun has declared himself sultan of the Conquered grass, Yesterday called, wishing he had had more time During…
