I'm too busy
Being in the present to
Remember the past,
Listening to the directions
Of the Divine
To go this way or that
Out of the building to
Go to the library…
Because a friend needs
Me,
So I am there…
And I am thinking
How in the heck
Am I gonna remember
What to tell my scribe
About the beginning
Of the week,
Let alone
What happened today?
So I throw my arms
Around Dana
Hair swept back
Glasses slid down her nose
A child stuck with an
Old lady's mentality
As her inner child
Is screaming,
Let me out to play!
“Your Manea is here!”
Unabashedly I throw my arms
Around her neck
& breathe
& hug her
until I can feel
her energy sink into the earth.
& give her some
sage advice,
nothing to me
the world to her
and go on…
The time comes
My scribe asks me
“What happened this week?”
I grasp at straws,
And spew my stories
About the past,
Both near
& far,
& before I know it
3 hours has flown by.
Here I am now
Trying to recall
The recent past
Only a few hours old
And the present
Is SO full
It presses out
What I am scrambling
To recall.
A room full of
Philosophers…
Word mincing
Over this,
Over that,
And in between
It all I do Reiki
For a friend,
To return,
With none in the room
The wiser,
As the wisest
I take down a notch,
“Watch your words!”
A Poem erupts
In the middle
Of Philosophers
And the room
Is never the same.
Turn the world
On its head & we travel
To the Merc.
So the wise man
Sits beside the sage…
“How do I change and give people hope?”
“Give them what you
want from them.
You don't have to
Point out the monster
We all know
Its there…
Pointing him out
Gives him power.
The only time
You need to point
Out the “death Machine”
Is to give people
A point of reference
To go in another
Direction.”
Turn the world
On its head.
Unabashedly I throw my arms
Around her neck
& breathe
& hug her
until I can feel
her energy sink into the earth.
And the music alive
Lives in us & we dance.
Turn the world
On its head
As my head lights
Up in Pink & blue…
I am my own
Blue light special.
Connect with a fiddler
Give hope to Haiti
Networking will save the world…
& in the end
is just another poem
full of memories
I will scramble
To tell my scribe
Next week.
By then I will be
Too full with the present
To remember now.
For me
This is why
I have poetry.
