All of life is a poem

:a series of original quotes about what we are and how we do this thing we call life.


All of life is a poem
And we, her syllabic truths

-billie marie

There is a coyote living in the park where I walk with my dog, Zora, many mornings. We saw the animal, what looked like a coyote, walking out on the frozen lagoon one early Sunday morning. A co-worker confirmed a sighting while driving to work a couple of days after that. The next day, during another early morning meander through the park, Zora decided to play copycat and walk out onto the ice. She seemed right at ease, like she belonged. When I saw her out there, I didn’t see her as a confined house pet. I saw her as the coyote, without her leash and collar – free.

What is a poem, but an expression of life. And what is life, but a beautiful poem; spoken and chanted, built and picked apart, constantly being written by us all. How do we live it? Do we live in fear? Or, do we chose to live free?


Poetic Permission: We are Vultures

we are vultures

Bush 1 died last week. The presidents were all there in the front row with their wives. It’s crazy to see it. In that one snapshot you’ve got it all –  the old ways and new, conservative and liberal, black and white, those who come from money and those who came from love. I wonder, could every member of this nation look to one of them up there and feel represented? Probably not. We’re a country of mutts and mongrels, mixed and bi and trans and poly. We’re all hyphenated and made of the stuff of LOOK AT WHO THE FUCK i AM!

But, there was something comforting about seeing all of them on display like that …presidential ducks in a row … having to do this thing that, more than likely, none of them wanted to do. Cuz, who wants to go to a funeral? Even worse, having to do it in front of all of us, their constituents, their citizens, fans, critics, supporters, haters …their nation. To be set up for viewing like a product line, with their liquid insides churning and gurgling, and forced to smile and fix their faces to look pleased as punch to be there. For some reason, that put me right at ease.

We are vultures.
We are fools
We don’t love
We love too much

God bless this nation
bless us all
blessings seem to have run out
flood worn down to an anemic trickle
blessings are flecks of gold rush scattered along wagon trails
blessings can’t make bail
blessing are paving the road to a great migration
blessings can’t come when you got no idea how that rope came to be tied ’round your neck
blessings can’t unbury themselves
blessings been shot in the back by a Chicago cop
blessings been rotting away in a torture cell on the west side
come on over here, step right up and get your blessings
I got 40 acres and a tax break with your name on it.

-Billie Marie Moore

Points of contact 4

People sacrifice the present for the future. But life is available only in the present. That is why we should walk in such a way that every step can bring us to the here and the now.

Thich Nhat Hanh

This poem is a dialogue, a conversation between two beings about relationship. When I’d finished writing it, I realized that each stanza was strong enough to stand alone. This is the last of a series of four posts featuring each section of the poem.  See it below in it’s entirety.

points of contact

We are points of contact upon the plane of one another’s existence.
I am from the 9th dimension, and you can’t see even 10% of me;
just a tiny sliver.
It isn’t my choice.
I didn’t make the rules.
I’m trying to show you all of me.
Really, I’m just being me.
Just being.
But the laws of the universe, ya know?
You keep getting upset with me because you can’t understand.
Closed and withheld, that’s what you say.
I can hear you now …

“You know what you’re like? You’re like a prized can of jellied cranberry sauce; an unexpected guilty treat, long forgotten since the last of the wrapping paper was put back into the attack and then discovered once again while freshening for spring. You’re there, and not. You’re here, but absent. You’re with me, and yet, so so far away.

I’m yours. I can feel that. You know I’m yours, right? But you? Somehow you’re mine and yet, you’re too much for me to claim. And I feel taunted. Yet, you are not the one taunting me. Who taunts me? It’s my own lack. My own inability to inhabit you, while you fully inhabit me.”

… You worry on and on about what you don’t know.
what you didn’t order.
the man you didn’t marry,
the job you didn’t take.
You think so much on the colors you cannot see
and the whispers you’re ears aren’t tuned to hear.
Just be here.
With me, my love.
And wrap you flesh in my flesh.
And bury your tears in my hair.
And let me love you
while our planes intersect.