In Search of Meaning

Turning, Turning, Turning
The sun is shining
The moon is glowing
Turning, Turning, Turning
I wonder as I wander *
Turning, Turning, Turning

As a child I wanted to understand
This world I breathed
Now that I am older
I realize life is not just what we perceive
It is what we deliver and what we receive.
This is making meaning.

Turning, Turning, Turning
I wonder as I wander *
Turning, Turning, Turning

Some philosphers say we are not
Isolated beings but social individuals
Who bring perspectives to life
Shaping the world to be as it seems.
This is making meaning.

Even though our names go unknown
Our faces never recognized
Friendships never realized
Together we conceive the world
We breathe.

Turning, Turning, Turning
I wonder as I wander *
Turning, Turning, Turning

Channels on the television
Pages in the newspaper
Only to find materialistic realism
Advertised between war-torn landscapes
With leaders' forrowed brows and pointed fingers
Claiming protection against the enemy:
Making dangerous meaning.

Cycling propaganda tossed back and forth
Recruiting young and old to believe
The Other is against the self.
My head is

Spinning, Spinning, Spinning
Yet, the sun keeps shining
The moon keeps glowing
Spinning, Spinning, Spinning
I wonder as I wander*
Spinning, Spinning, Spinning

Sometimes life appears so clear
While other times, it is convoluted
Polluted with self-interests that
Reject peace and humanity.
Who is at fault for such inconsistencies?
Life is what we deliver and what we receive.
How are we to find meaning across manufactured borders?

We make life turn, we make it spin
We accept the sun, we reject its illumination
We acknowledge the moon's glow, we keep our eyes in darkness.
Don't you ever wonder as you wander
About the real life of the Other?
This is making.
This is finding.
This is meaning.



* title of Langston Hughe's autobiography

Like Any Other Stranger (revised)

Days pass like strangers on the street
Never looking behind as you walk with speed
Possibly missing that someone you should meet
Or the peripheral friend from the past
Whose specialness got packed away
With memories faded and frayed.

Looking left then right
It appears safe to cross
To the other side
For you hear destination's call to
Leave the moment without living in it
Persistent in searching for something without ever knowing,
Without ever seeing...

Watch out! A voice shouts as you leap
Out of harms way.
Heart beating like a hummingbird's wings
Soft melody with an underlying energy.
Swinging your head back and forth
To find the origin of the voice.
How unusual,
The city streets are empty.
For just this moment you exist:
The past lives in the present.

Then off you go like any other stranger
And the city bustles like any other day.

B-O-O-K-S

To Thalia,
This poem came to me as we walked home from the library.

We love to read books every day
B-O-O-K-S

With their colorful pictures
Imagining
Different places
Different thoughts
Many feelings
Many faces
All from the words that sing

Oh, how we love to read books every day
B-O-O-K-S

Open the cover
And we soon see
All the diversity
That makes our world
Exciting to be
A part of its magnificence

Yes, we love to read books every day
B-O-O-K-S

Now, close the book and your eyes
Take a moment to visualize
A place that is yet to exist
An idea no one has shared
A picture only you can create
Dream
Imagine
Believe
Of all the possibilities

We love to read books every day
B-O-O-K-S

Little Lady Bug

For my daughter, Thalia

Little lady bug
Little lady bug
Flying all around
Little lady bug
Landing on the ground.

Little lady bug
Little lady bug
The color of red
Little lady bug
Wearing a black dotted dress.

Where are you going,
Little lady bug?
Where have you been?
I wonder about your view
As you sit on the window sill.
Is the world the same
Where ever you lay
Because all the other lady bugs
Seem to dress in similar ways?

Oh no, little lady bug says,
We are not the same at all.
Even though we may jump and
Flutter our wings
Like each other,
You will see
If you get closer to me
That each dot on my dress is
Unlike any other.
And my flight path is determined
By my desired destination.

Little lady bug
Little lady bug
With quite a bit of perseverance
Little lady bug
Never again will you be underestimated.

Catching a Poem

Words j um p
S c a t t e r
B u R s T
P a R a d e to the beat
Of feet,
Of the heart,
Of the blasts of synapses
Bringing thousands of messages
Pressuring
The brain
To produce.

With a mental net
I c h a s e
These hyperactive words
To settle them down
To gain
An order
Within the cacophony
Of thoughts
Ideas
Images
Dreams
Racing in between
Fingers
Pens
Key boards
Lips tasting
Rhythm's sweet and bitter
Movement
This way
That way
One-way
No way
Unable to dominate
These words as they
Wrap their meaning
Around my waist.

Stuck in a chair
Without any grace
To wiggle around
A mind
Confounded by
Wishes and wants,
Hope and love
For a poem
That says it all.

Love Me Friendly

I have this recurring conversation
With myself as if I were talking to you
Who asked me to unravel my layered
Pain regarding friendships lost and few won.
It strikes me as pathetic, maybe even comical
That at such an age, I am still plagued by
The desire to be loved friendly.

Well, I sigh as my hand wipes the corner
Of my right eye, I have believed my title was
Friend when in fact it has been acquaintance.
There is a difference between the two, you know.
When you are a friend, the other person
Pulls you out of hibernation so you get fresh air
And not become so comfortable that you forget
To live; she does not toss aside your cares, even
When your correspondences lag.

Maybe this perception is what kept people
At such a distance, an unspoken expectation,
One that became too cumbersome to bare,
Oh, how I wanted to find others who dared
To show an inclination of respect and interest in
My personality, and when they did is it possible
I was not good enough for them?

At what age in life does one stop worrying about
Companionship in its variety of forms?
At what age does one cease protection from
Companionship's potential to do harm?
At what age will I stop returning to this
Conversation where I pick apart the layers
Of sorrowful regret that few truly love me friendly?

I ask myself...

little children (revised)

little children
little children
learning to jump with two feet
barely making it off the ground
only to fall to your knees
roll around and laugh heartily

little children
little children
you put hand to mouth
arms taut around mommy's leg
with clamorous wails breaking the glass
between the haves and have nots

little children
little children
boisterous in the park
drawing master pieces with chalk
and babbling to dogs
kicking balls and crumpling leaves
not realizing what it means as the sky turns dark

little children
little children
your pleas have not been delivered
successfully to Congress' soapbox
not persuasive enough
to bail you out of hunger
out of your home on four wheels
with over 100,000 miles

little children
little children
not understanding adult cares
dance to the chirp of birds
wave arms as the stereo blares
wrestless as your parents bicker about who
will watch you as they look for new jobs

little children
little children
with joy so pure
the potential for its loss
is catastrophically great
if our country does not heed your cry
salvation of the future could be too late

little children
little children
curled up on daddy's lap
as he narrates word for word
the story shared by his grandfather
of a future to come
when all the little children
gather together leaving out no one