it's not for you

when you sit down to eat

are you in bare feet

in the awful cold?

or dreaming on a summer day,

growing old,

holding friends

close to your heart

simply in no hurry to depart

or wishing for a fresh start?

well, there's so much more to say

and more to believe:

you can have your fortune

hiding up your sleeve

on the minute 

on the hour

pulling a reluctant weed,

planting a lovely flower;

or perhaps you're on the edge

with a bad case of vertigo,

losing balance,

no safe place to go,

and you're dressing well

or in tattered rags,

belly taut

or with one that sags.

well, look around

and take the grand tour

witnessing

the many desperate poor

on the bottom of their boat

with no hope

that they'll ever float,

and it's long after midnight

when you shine your shoes

and it's possible to hear

them singing the blues,

but it's not for you;

no, it's not for you

so what will you do

when they come wandering thru?

on the bottom of their boat

with no hope

that they'll ever float.

the fellowship of dance and voice

along the shore

the tide was coming in

and it was midnight;

there were stars above

and nervous laughs below.

the tallest mountains were far away,

stripped of sentiment,

exposed to the persistent winds

and rains and snow.

the heavy grinding of ice

from millions and millions of years ago

sculpted and shaped.

and it was warmer than the recent past,

but among the distant city dwellers

there was a noticeable chill.

their newspapers printed front page stories

of calamities and charity bake sales;

local libraries were seeing books 

tossed and turned,

banned and burned.

i could't tell why i found old folk songs

so sad,

especially as the visible fellowship of dance

and voice

seemed vivid

and spirited,

like wild horses on a wild range

where no corral would ever be built.

that crazy horse

i saw you riding that crazy horse

underneath a starry sky,

maintaining a steady course.

you were looking for love and a quiet night,

singing your own song,

welcoming the light.

and the road was long

and the road was tough,

with many temptations

but you knew you had enough.

in a frontier town,

tired but satisfied,

you were resting but alert

and clear-eyed.

simple and sweet,

taking a front row seat

and happy to be back home.

the city of Trieste

walked the streets

of the city of Trieste

the sun was doing fine

heard people talking in tongues

and the name i heard most often was mine

when a woman with darkest hair 

in the bright light of mid-afternoon

strolled into my life

shaking her Bulgarian fork and spoon

said she lived in the Rhodope mountains 

and would i like to take a private walk

but i didn't know

if she only hoped to talk

or was there a boat she wanted to sell

i wish i knew 

but i couldn't tell

her flowers smelled fresh and there were hints of sweet grass

looking low down but feeling high class

my flag flew stiffly in the sea breeze

i saw two peaches at the market that i wanted to squeeze

but i didn't know

if that was the way i wanted to go:

she sat for a drink at the inner harbor bar

waited for me to play a love song on my old guitar

so i bought her a meal while we discussed the deal

well, what would be the cost

considering that i was in a foreign land and terminally lost

but she didn't know

if that was the way she wanted to go

and the music and the dancers in the square

made me wonder if i should be somewhere

kneeling on my knees 

asking for forgiveness, please

looking into her eyes

where i saw a woman's comfort and surprise

but i didn't know

if that was how we should go.

We are what we pretend to be?

But then, who am I if I'm not Ulysses

on the turbulent seas

fighting against the GODS?

Who am I if I'm not a great king

leading a great army to vanquish my enemies?

Who am I if but a mere mortal

clinging to a raft

floating between birth and death?

What is my intention if I intend

to discover an unchanging,

unalterable core of Self?

to find a center that remains steady, regardless of the changing

circumstances of my natural life?

am I what I pretend to be?

I have a hunch!

and that at any moment there are countless universes

within us and we make choices:

to be busy; 

to experience stress;

to be joyful.

to 'see' oneself being drawn toward 

or being repelled away from.

as the world turns,

How do I want to be? 

I've found that by being truthful & loyal & loving,

I attract others who value those attributes.

They are not taught.

They are integral to what it means to be the best of Oneself.

and I am equally drawn to those who express the integrity of those values.

A flower does not feel it's pretending to be a flower;

it simply blooms.

and any fragrance is beautiful and timeless.

Maxime de la Falais

the death of Maxime was of natural causes: 

at 86 it wasn't considered extreme 

her life was colorful artful in fashion and exquisite 

with really good friends and food 

she fed the Warhol brood 

in her loft apartment 

she lent 

Mapplethorpe encouragement in New York City 

she was a rare English beauty 

and silent lover 

lived her life proudly without unnecessary cover 

worked for Vogue magazine where she was often seen 

writing long lines for columns 

she moved to France to dance 

to write her memoirs in her golden hours 

when she died 

high society sighed 

in Provence where she was buried 

in rhythm and completely unhurried.

Pavarotti knew none of this

Pavarotti,

dressed like the bass player in Pink Floyd,

sang for his breakfast

in a deeply melodious tenor voice

and was given a plate of eggs and German sausage

along with a grande cup of foamy espresso.

there were originally three singers on stage

when the audience applauded,

but a famous magician made two disappear.

when the Greek diva rose from her box seat,

all eyes watched her grab the arm 

of a small in stature shipping tycoon

who had another First Lady in mind.

Pavarotti knew none of this,

so finished his breakfast and asked for a second,

which was served immediately.

he said life was a miracle!

the cabbage rolls

in a year of magical thinking,

when music from the 1960's

kept sinking

into the past along with Elvis and his slicked-back

Mississippi hair,

children looked up at the stars

and wondered what was there?

as do i.

the land upon which i walk,

the oceans and the sky

remain intriguing,

as do you!

and the grey owl

on her perch listening,

eyes glistening,

sat wondering why new houses were sprouting

high on her hillside 

above the free-flowing mountain stream.

and as if in a dream,

at high noon,

the Maasai danced in a colorful circle,

holding sticks and jumping to the moon,

imagining the black rhino in herds

of incomprehensible numbers

near the heights of Kilimanjaro.

and the Japanese,

in their ancient heroic voice

sang lustily to the Emperor,

like wrestlers undiminished by an opponent's 

relentless advance,

gaining advantage by giving ground.

and as the cabbage rolls

rolled across the enormous dinner tables

like lucky gypsy coins

and were caught by the smiling mouths

of ten thousand spirited Romanian dancers, 

the holiday music began to play,

in a year of magical thinking.