Poets (and stories) for Peace

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Hi6yPJvCFU0&NR=1

or bamboo or ear on flute or nose on cherry blossoms Window as in opening Willow as is in dancing in the wind by lake Window on bamboo in rain Drops tumbling down window like cut crystal glazed by the sun mirroring greens ear as in listening flute as is in song of the reed from bamboo Nose as in tasteing the smell so absorbed and falling gracefully like pink snow petals Window on willow Longing for fields of bamboo till you are not all here or there but somewhere across lines in between parallels unseen

Does anyone want to hear the stuff that they might be in agreement with? It seems not to me. What ever the plan is are people going to be able to afford health care who can not now or are the premiums just going to go up higher to cover no pre-existing conditions and less distinctions upon what we can or can not have as care. If we never got involved with the Middle East calamities, would there be money for health care. Let's see there is less money for how many things now and yet there is always money to kill. What does that say about us, really? I thought that these games were supposed to be given up in childhood. You know back when you learn to share your toys and not break those of others. Did I miss something here?

Those who can not forgive stare at the candle standing tall—well lit. Unhuman reflections of the fallen one encase their heart. They can not care. My memory travels to an old woman's hands carved as the bark on the branches of a tree, to her face that is like an ocean with many pathways. Steamliners have coursed these waters, some over and over, some ravaged by pirates, some were pirates. (Unnavigated before— fates Virgin, with few charts made of her own doing— a fragment of the divine compass rests in her hand to guide her.) Each path moves like the waves of the ocean when greeting you with her smile. Her eyes— small flowering seeds of light that wait for you— will catch you up like that raccoon on a pitch black road with high beams on. Frozen, you can not turn from what she sees. Already she has forgiven you.

I do not want to plot my thoughts against another generations demise, hoard gold, buy stocks in silver mines. If I view it all like a body, where are the blood lines and what is the oxygen? Can you see it from that view each of us pumping our thoughts into to this giant organism and deciding what we will make happen? Can you see it swelling and contracting like a heart like a heartbeat kicking out new born souls and aberrations. What if we are doing that and being watched? What if there is some saline solution that we savor ourselves in? In 9th grade three things happened to me. I realized that though taught to name, maybe we don't see the same color looking at red or blue or green. Or maybe twelve inches is a yard for you or a different math system would work better. And, that the most important things were not the atoms, waves or particles but the space between.

I want to know: How you smell uncologned with sweat on your body when the time table of life dims to where the space is between the words that spill over where we can meet. And in that meeting know know you/me know me in you you in me. Maybe, that space says nothing or something or silence that hears, Because there are people with worse stories that sting their life's music-- we both know that the words don't tell it deep enough. I want someone to hear the spaces between the notes and not get stuck on words or form or past lies and detours. Someone I can say the truth to who will sit beside my soul and want to know its journey and not get stuck in my misgivings but will open their door to the rooms they live in, and say, I know that road you walked on I recognize the trees the scent of pine needles and cones shed across the floor. Yes, when the line winds came there was that tree uprooted and sprawled out on the ground I cros