I have to steel myself
against the onslaught of my desires.
I still dream of the city
with the crystal spires.
I want to go North,
canoe through the mires--
But not even a thousand oceans
could quench the fires...
~ Moscow, fall 2000
Sitting on a mountainside
drinking water that tastes like wine.
Kilchbalm, Summer '02
Ivy, poison green,
arches
unearthly lit
under glowing
sand rock,
deepest blue
over
and under
clear and
fading
to stars.
Main Quad, Winter '03
Hot stone
Wet body
Soft soap
Strong hands
Perfect peace
Ramallah Turkish Bath, Fall 2007
Ticky-tack confetti
On a green hill
Shredded white clouds
On softest blue
And the rainbow sea
Was never black
Novomikhailovsky, Summer 2003
In death
we foolish people try
to rise to the occasion
with silken words like
condolence and
remembrance.
But these words are false
and ceremonious.
They mean nothing
to the grieving soul
whose sole experience it is
to feel new emptiness
and hollowness
in the fabric of her life.
The smile that was just for her
no longer has a place on earth.
This tragedy
is greater than the oceans,
more dreadful than fear can touch,
as old as the First Life,
and as novel as any newborn.
Don’t water me down
with false,
ceremonious words.
The chasm can never be filled,
but we can reach across it.
We have to.
We still exist.
Palo Alto, Spring 2004
You are gone
and in your place
a newborn pain.
This child is mine forever
to raise,
God willing,
to a flower of maturity
full of meaning,
to bring your richness
in whatever ways I can
to the world
in your place.
If I kill this infant
or neglect it
or spoil it
or deny it,
If I try to bend it
to my furious will
or stray from the knowledge
in my heart,
I diminish myself
and you.
And I can’t bear to do that.
Palo Alto, Spring 2004
If all we ever do
is try to save ourselves,
maybe we deserve no other fate
than oppression and death.
Unilateral disengagement
from dim, joyless selfishness
gives our whole world
the shining chance
to redeem ourselves
and fulfill our promise.
No other honor
or elevation
of soul and body
can touch the warm inner stillness
of giving yourself
to something bigger, smarter, and stronger
than your mind, your will, or your passion:
your heart
and the Heart of all life.
Palo Alto, Spring 2004
Life is mostly
savage emptiness
unless we try to figure out
and follow impulses
that lead us to peace
and communion.
But even if we do—
If no one else does,
it’s just a knife in our tender hearts
forever.
Oh God!
Why do we get caught up
in the vortex
of death
and redemption,
tragedy
and justice,
when we could just be about nothing?
But then
such as we
would already
be dead.
You and I
will laugh all our laughter
and cry all our tears
and live forever
in each moment
we are given.
Palo Alto, Spring 2004
I laugh
at the car
honking at me
and say,
“Do you think I care
if you run over me?”
I laugh
at the soldier
yelling at me
and say,
“Do you think I care
if you shoot me?”
I laugh
because I have nothing left
except to laugh
and to die.
Palo Alto, Spring 2004
(Can you tell the spring on 2004 was a tough one for me?)
Cold river drops
pause to thrill my warm back
'fore they drop to the rocks
and join with the others; a million drops shine
with an ancient freshness that washes away time—
And even though it's all been here a billion times fifteen,
this vision before me has never been seen
by human eyes—I own what they lack:
my very own window before my demise
(because we are the reason the world has eyes)
Merced River, Summer 1999
Each year in the spring the gentry of Britain
Becomes kind of restless, and once it was written
How one group set out with a pious facade
To drink wine, tell stories, and perhaps worship God.
The variance among this group was prodigious
From liars and cheats to the devoutly religious.
A skipper whose life on the sea was quite treacherous,
The squire, the friar, and the Wife who were lecherous.
The friar begs money all over and claims
That he’ll use it for higher, more spiritual aims,
And if buying for girls is a goal that is higher,
You certainly can’t call this friar a liar.
He claimed to the world that he was a philanthropist,
But to me he seemed more like a TV evangelist.
The knight, on the other hand, was worthy of his title,
He was humble and true and brave and homicidal.
He’d crush a rebellion or put down a mob,
Happy that killing was part of his job.
The nun, by contrast, would never hurt a flea,
Though she’d pay a peasant’s life savings for a nice rosary
She wore the best clothing to sit in her pew,
And she loved animals in the woods or a stew.
The monk was an eager, devout little man,
Always quite willing to take food off your hands.
But instead of religion he preferred worldly fare
Like vacations and women and Matt Allen’s hair.
The parson is the one with whom I can’t fine flaws,
He called himself Christian and followed his cause.
And although people might not always agree,
At least he wasn’t guilty of hypocrisy.
While many in those days professed their convictions,
The rules that went with them were annoying restrictions.
It’s amazing how such a nice philosophy
Was so widespread yet ignored by so many.
Especially those who called themselves true devotees,
Yet went around doing whatever they please.
They pretended to be so penitent and gracious,
Then when out of sight prove to be quite salacious.
So the moral of this poem is to say who you are;
Hiding behind a proclamation will not get you far.
It might work for a while, but it’s all an illusion,
For the road to hell is paved with delusions.
OSSM, Autumn 1997 (I had to write this for my World Lit class)
Sometimes when I look up I see
No clouds, not even one or two;
It’s then I know deep in my heart
That someday I will touch the Blue
The lucky birds that fly above,
The happy ones that sing to you,
Are happy, really, just because
They know how to touch the Blue
Oh! If I could only fly,
I’d teach the ones I love how to
So we could share the wondrous joy
Of reaching up to touch the Blue
Astronauts, they just break through,
But I could surely touch the Blue.
Stigler, Oklahoma, circa 1993 (age 13)