We are high above
the World Trade Center site.
Every morning I wake,
and watch the workers arrive,
and every night before sleep
I meditate then dream.
I watch the corridors
of sunlight elongate
the foundations square.
It is easy to see the ground
just below me
being unearthed with love.
I picture this neighborhood,
then the entire city,
and the whole planet
bathed in healing white light.
Today I accompany my friend
on her early morning run.
I smell the dawn full
of fresh pizza baking
and coffee brewing.
We jog out the door towards
where the street ends
at a river running blue.
On the other side
New Jersey glows reflections
onto a piece of drifting metal
that ferries one segment
of population to join
the other now disjointed.
The persistent populace
disembarks into
the disassembled neighborhoods -
various states of disrepair
and recovery coexist
with other parts
of the city mending.
Rejuvenation and renovation
are the sunbeams
that catch the dust of respect,
forming and reforming
what matters into substance.
Bits and pieces
disperse, compose, recompose
and sting the air
with reverence
for a neighborhood dismissed,
to join other neighborhoods
in other parts of the world
now apart -
now a part of
our torn apart text –
world history constantly written
by a push of a button,
a pull of a trigger,
one flick switches on ego,
and many hearts are turned off.
My lungs fill up irritated.
I cough out the fibers
of something,
whatever currently now
makes up the ingredients of the air -
emotional bacteria in trauma.
I return home
and rest my feet
on a giant orca whale,
a child’s toy
laying by the window,
and at it's feet
the red ground zero construction cranes
landmarks bookmarking
the new landscape -
this space,
our planetary place in space.
It seems like everyone is asleep.
In one hour we will join
all the school children across the street.
I watch McDonalds beginning to fill up -
it seems everywhere in the world
there is one politically situated.
We frequented the McDonalds
by Tiananmen Square
during Martial Law in Beijing.
We sought comfort and shelter
under any golden arches
that might hold up half the sky.
I remember that I used to cough up
an energy so charged with emotion -
I had breathed too deeply
the smoky air of frosted coal
foggy wintery mornings -
my lungs had expanded
from the heat of political discussions,
and ever encompassing fire
that rose up in us,
which warmed our passions at night,
yet made us sweat bullets during the day.
I recall the debris
of the 1960s, '70s, '80s and '90s
bombed buses, buildings and walls falling -
within and all around
Central Asia and the whole world.
Explosive attacks discharging smoke
to obscure all the pressures of political agendas -
pro-independence that linked and united
all the ancient world's youth
expected to soldier
and carry the weight of rebellious battles -
the wars that the elders can no longer wage,
and the fights that the children cannot engage.
All over the world change,
transformation, formation, deformation.
Philippines, Palestine, Yemen, Somalia,
Kenya, Pakistan, Israel, Lebanon, Egypt,
Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia,
Libya, Niger, India, Sudan, Bosnia,
Japan, Tibet, Mongolia, Korea(s),
China, Afghanistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan,
Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Soviet Russia,
Thailand, Vietnam, Burma, Romania, Eritrea,
Ethiopia, South Africa, Italy, Greece,
United States of America, Canada, Cuba, Mexico,
Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala, Indigenous Americas -
Hawaiians, Native Americans, First Nations everywhere ...
Youth all over the world expected to fight the good fight
on behalf of something, for everyone, and every body.
So many martyred, old and young
died engaged in struggle -
vast numbers
of our future generation lost
in the bottomless well
of intellectual jousting
over borders and boundaries
of political will,
and whose rules should rule.
I still sometimes taste
the spiritual pollution
taking its toll on the lightness
within our body of citizenry –
covert manipulation
sinks my insight heavy,
until erroneous intent
mutates me blind.
I remember some words
from a song sung by many Souls,
over many years, in many countries,
in many languages, in many religions.
A song written in 1779 by a British man,
who used to be an African slave trader.
When shame weighted down his Soul
and tortured not only his sleep,
but every waking hour,
he then cast off worldly life.
He renounced all the riches
he ever made from other people's
money, blood, sweat and tears.
He let go, relaxed, made peace,
or at least chose to become
a peace maker seeking peace within.
He became a monk,
and eventually gained insight
at the expense of losing his eye sight.
He consoled himself through all the change
by meditating on the amazing grace of forgiveness.
"When we have been here ten thousand years,
bright shining as the sun.
We have no less days to sing God's praise,
than when we have first begun ...
I was blind, but now I see ...
It was Grace that taught my heart to fear ...
When this flesh and heart shall fail,
and mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
a life of joy and peace."
~ Other People's Fingerprints ~
Timbuktu manuscript entry
made after 1797 by El Hadj Oumar Tall;
“Tragedy is due to divergence
and because of lack of tolerance…
Glory to he who creates greatness from difference
and makes peace and reconciliation”
the World Trade Center site.
Every morning I wake,
and watch the workers arrive,
and every night before sleep
I meditate then dream.
I watch the corridors
of sunlight elongate
the foundations square.
It is easy to see the ground
just below me
being unearthed with love.
I picture this neighborhood,
then the entire city,
and the whole planet
bathed in healing white light.
Today I accompany my friend
on her early morning run.
I smell the dawn full
of fresh pizza baking
and coffee brewing.
We jog out the door towards
where the street ends
at a river running blue.
On the other side
New Jersey glows reflections
onto a piece of drifting metal
that ferries one segment
of population to join
the other now disjointed.
The persistent populace
disembarks into
the disassembled neighborhoods -
various states of disrepair
and recovery coexist
with other parts
of the city mending.
Rejuvenation and renovation
are the sunbeams
that catch the dust of respect,
forming and reforming
what matters into substance.
Bits and pieces
disperse, compose, recompose
and sting the air
with reverence
for a neighborhood dismissed,
to join other neighborhoods
in other parts of the world
now apart -
now a part of
our torn apart text –
world history constantly written
by a push of a button,
a pull of a trigger,
one flick switches on ego,
and many hearts are turned off.
My lungs fill up irritated.
I cough out the fibers
of something,
whatever currently now
makes up the ingredients of the air -
emotional bacteria in trauma.
I return home
and rest my feet
on a giant orca whale,
a child’s toy
laying by the window,
and at it's feet
the red ground zero construction cranes
landmarks bookmarking
the new landscape -
this space,
our planetary place in space.
It seems like everyone is asleep.
In one hour we will join
all the school children across the street.
I watch McDonalds beginning to fill up -
it seems everywhere in the world
there is one politically situated.
We frequented the McDonalds
by Tiananmen Square
during Martial Law in Beijing.
We sought comfort and shelter
under any golden arches
that might hold up half the sky.
I remember that I used to cough up
an energy so charged with emotion -
I had breathed too deeply
the smoky air of frosted coal
foggy wintery mornings -
my lungs had expanded
from the heat of political discussions,
and ever encompassing fire
that rose up in us,
which warmed our passions at night,
yet made us sweat bullets during the day.
I recall the debris
of the 1960s, '70s, '80s and '90s
bombed buses, buildings and walls falling -
within and all around
Central Asia and the whole world.
Explosive attacks discharging smoke
to obscure all the pressures of political agendas -
pro-independence that linked and united
all the ancient world's youth
expected to soldier
and carry the weight of rebellious battles -
the wars that the elders can no longer wage,
and the fights that the children cannot engage.
All over the world change,
transformation, formation, deformation.
Philippines, Palestine, Yemen, Somalia,
Kenya, Pakistan, Israel, Lebanon, Egypt,
Iran, Iraq, Kuwait, Saudi Arabia,
Libya, Niger, India, Sudan, Bosnia,
Japan, Tibet, Mongolia, Korea(s),
China, Afghanistan, Kyrgyzstan, Kazakhstan,
Uzbekistan, Turkmenistan, Tajikistan, Soviet Russia,
Thailand, Vietnam, Burma, Romania, Eritrea,
Ethiopia, South Africa, Italy, Greece,
United States of America, Canada, Cuba, Mexico,
Nicaragua, El Salvador, Guatemala, Indigenous Americas -
Hawaiians, Native Americans, First Nations everywhere ...
Youth all over the world expected to fight the good fight
on behalf of something, for everyone, and every body.
So many martyred, old and young
died engaged in struggle -
vast numbers
of our future generation lost
in the bottomless well
of intellectual jousting
over borders and boundaries
of political will,
and whose rules should rule.
I still sometimes taste
the spiritual pollution
taking its toll on the lightness
within our body of citizenry –
covert manipulation
sinks my insight heavy,
until erroneous intent
mutates me blind.
I remember some words
from a song sung by many Souls,
over many years, in many countries,
in many languages, in many religions.
A song written in 1779 by a British man,
who used to be an African slave trader.
When shame weighted down his Soul
and tortured not only his sleep,
but every waking hour,
he then cast off worldly life.
He renounced all the riches
he ever made from other people's
money, blood, sweat and tears.
He let go, relaxed, made peace,
or at least chose to become
a peace maker seeking peace within.
He became a monk,
and eventually gained insight
at the expense of losing his eye sight.
He consoled himself through all the change
by meditating on the amazing grace of forgiveness.
"When we have been here ten thousand years,
bright shining as the sun.
We have no less days to sing God's praise,
than when we have first begun ...
I was blind, but now I see ...
It was Grace that taught my heart to fear ...
When this flesh and heart shall fail,
and mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess within the veil,
a life of joy and peace."
~ Other People's Fingerprints ~
Timbuktu manuscript entry
made after 1797 by El Hadj Oumar Tall;
“Tragedy is due to divergence
and because of lack of tolerance…
Glory to he who creates greatness from difference
and makes peace and reconciliation”
"Invisible Cities, Urban Spirit" by Karin Lisa Atkinson
