By the stream, they sang
as the waters of life flowed
and what grew by the waters?

I ask myself this question daily.
Rancid gutters, stench of rotting responsibility
passing problems forward
generation by generation
until the backs of our grandchildren
snap under the weight.

Just look at us now
buckling
faltering
searching for truth for healing for salvation
like every generation before
and I must ask myself
where are the waters of life
and what songs would I sing were I to drink them?

I believe it in my heart
that our song would be every moment
a chorus of peace
a chorus of love
looking into each other's eyes
no hint of displeasure or bitterness
haunting memories looming no more
forgiveness a currency of champions, we
and I cannot shake the mirth of it
almost oppressive - the laughter
I drown in it
aching at the sides
at first wondering, "What's in this water?!"
Then making it my daily drink - liquor forgotten
My daily bread the love of those around
and my gift to them the same.

Such a dream.
Lying back, sorrow at the sheer distance of that vision,
I stare into the ceiling
watching the cobwebs flutter
the waning daylight calls me to rest my eyes
bury my day's burdens
give control over to the weightless, mindless veil of sleep...
yet I lay awake all night
fearing sleep
because the beauty of that dream still clung to my soul
and should I have slept
the dream would die
and my grandchildren would have nothing
but this crumbling world we're building
while they'd wonder if I ever dreamt.

They'd wonder if I were ever free.

I did dream. I did hope to be free.
I will make this dream a reality.
I will find the waters of life.
I will share it with you.
Even if it were just a drop,
it would be ours.
You, me, and everyone,
for a drop of life is worth worlds of love.

Though I love you, I am not blind
To your faults, but I let them pass;
I find contentment in your garden,
Though a few weeds grow among the grass

I was not blind when the blight came
To our orchard, rotting the fruits;
Yet, our tree grew stronger than before,
For deep and unblemished were the roots

Love is not blind . . . how clearly I see
The beauty of your heart and your soul,
So I choose not to sort good from bad,
But view your love as the perfect whole

Love is too precious to analyze ---
If we're blessed with love, let us give praise
While overlooking our loved one's faults,
Judging not their flaws in measured ways

In a secret chamber of your heart
Let the flame of forgiveness burn bright.
What joy seeing love's tender buds unfold
As the bitter memories take flight!

And so I believe love is not blind,
Though at times it has to make a choice
To close its eyes, pretend not to see,
And be guided by its inner voice

I'm in a room without recovery area:
a room of intermission, a room
of collapse. Where are
the convenient little windows
to release a wicked bird of thought?
The quiet there is monk-like,
rogue, and slightly unpleasant, guilty
of moments spent with shadow.

I want to build a clock
that ticks once a year
—more dark than shark,

my confessional capacity
—time-stretched,
like the heavy intoxicated *******
of the witching hour. And I'll
make soup from the leftover prayers
of the day before, all in hopes
the rooms of me, then so clear,
will one day be faraway suns
in the temple of heaven.

Forgiveness will mean nothing
If you will not forgive yourself
Because it's okay if it's your fault.

Someday I will bring this world to its knees for everything that it has done to me.
And while it begs for my forgiveness, I will simply watch as it trembles at the echos of my laugh