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| A Nation Rocked to Sleep by Carly Sheehan Have you ever heard the sound of a mother screaming for her son? The torrential rains of a mother's weeping will never be done They call him a hero, you should be glad that he's one, but Have you ever heard the sound of a mother screaming for her son? Have you ever heard the sound of a father holding back his cries? He must be brave because his boy died for another man's lies The only grief he allows himself are long, deep sighs Have you ever heard the sound of a father holding back his cries? Have you ever heard the sound of taps played at your brother's grave? They say that he died so that the flag will continue to wave But I believe he died because they had oil to save Have you ever heard the sound of taps played at your brother's grave? Have you ever heard the sound of a nation being rocked to sleep? The leaders want to keep you numb so the pain won't be so deep But if we the people let them continue another mother will weep Have you ever heard the sound of a nation being rocked to sleep? |
| Casey Sheehan, a U.S. soldier, was
killed in Iraq on April 4th.
This poem was written by Casey's 18 year old sister, Carly, and brought
to the Arlington West in Santa Barbara, CA by Casey's mother on Mothers
Day, May 9th. Casey Austin Sheehan, born May 29th 1979 ~ died April 4th 2004. Beloved Son, Brother, Grandson, Nephew, Friend. Sent to us by Toni Flynn. |
A POTENTIAL LOVER by Patricia Lynn Reilly face to face, acknowledged, known an impulse to hide a longing for connection eye to eye, exposed, seen an impulse to turn away a longing for transparency deepening, unprepared, unpredictable an impulse to control a longing for surprises |
| IMAGINE LOVERS Who smile in each other's company. They say a strong and sensual YES to each other. Their YESes meet and fill their experience. Who tell the truth about what works and what doesn't. They co-create solutions for their shared challenges. No truth is too hard for them to speak or hear. Who spend purposeful time together. They cultivate life-affirming friends and experiences. They share the everyday details of life with ease and grace. Who guard each other's solitude. They cultivate spaces in their togetherness. They delight in each other‚s individuality. Who turn toward each other with heart-full attention. Their sexual and orgasmic impulses are moistened by their emotional connection and flow naturally in each other‚s presence. Who support each other‚s creative impulses and expression. They welcome and encourage shared creative adventures. They aren‚t afraid to color outside the lines. Who share a spiritual practice of silence and reflection to stay in alignment with the essence of their love. Gratitude for ALL THAT IS fills their relationship. And so it is! |
| Excerpt from "Words Made Flesh." |
THE SINK-HOLE OF THE WORLD by Tito Martin I live in the sink-hole of the world. Today the clouds and the waves run in the same direction, as if hurrying, fleeing. The clouds don’t pass by, they flee, heading for the world’s sewer, for the void of the other side, as if having covered their eyes no longer wanting to be this side of life. This sink-hole carries everything away, the good, the bad, the least good, the least bad. It is boundless, everything will pass through, the water will carry everything away. From above and from below, the clouds and the waves run fleetingly, heading for the void, for the other side, while a hurricane wind, in one blast, sweeps away every tenderness and only allows the silence and the cold to inhabit this halfway house, this suffering, of seeing how everything flies away in this desolate wind, which proceeds from no one knows where but which everyone knows will never return. Because there will be another wind with other ruins coming from afar, from all over the world, all the tears, as well as the caresses, that oblivion always carries away. Everything takes this direction towards the void, towards oblivion. Human masochism, the screams of Africa, the impersonal cry of Asia, Western arrogance, all together, together with the cold, on the path to oblivion. And nothing remains but the impotence of seeing everything pass away. Welcome to this so-called life, where everything has a one way ticket, for a return, as we all know, is always more expensive. But this sink-hole doesn’t care. It’s the sink-hole of the world, big enough to withstand all floods, the passing of all the microworlds down its throat, a throat cracked by the centuries, like a smoker, with neither taste, nor smell, who makes no distinctions. There is nothing to prohibit the passing into oblivion of that which moves the world (or which should) no one to request the entry papers of tenderness, nor of the men who lived for others, nor of the mothers (who did enough). No one speaks of compassion in the sink-hole of the world, neither remembrance nor justice will come this time to set things straight. There is no safeguarded right, no memory no affection. There is no tenderness at the nadir of the world, which here loses the right to that word, and surrenders the licenses of love to oblivion, to nothing, to the unilateral treaty that the world made with life, knowing that everything which began would some day end up heading for the world’s sewer, passing through the sink-hole in which I live today where the waves and the winds run fleetingly together, waving no white kerchiefs, without farewells, without embraces, running desolate and united aware that all the good, that all the bad, sooner or later will pass through here, in this place where I live, aware that I will see everything pass through here, through my home, in the sink-hole of the world. |
| MARTÍN. (translated by T. Sullivan) Copyright 2005 |
| At Callahan Creek by Jim Doran At Callahan Creek those years ago Our children’s laughter floated in tufts Of cotton spun of trees in midsummer, Like cold clear water tumbles over stone; Our bodies and minds in love with time. We slide, collide and laugh; clasp hands Lean against the current, knee high, In white tennis shoes you slip and fall And float and shiver and clamber out. At Callahan Creek we were wild; By ourselves in the mountain cedar forest. I said I was surely once a rainbow trout. You mixed a daiquiri apiece with English bitters; Sun dreams and snow peaks, timelessness and sand. We sat on rocks, slender bodies, bronze in the daylight. Smiles and smiles; glorious to be alive. Stream-songs. With nothing to hide. At Callahan Creek we made love Until the tent stakes pulled loose. We washed under the full moon In gooseflesh cold Callahan Creek. Bodies suspended like salmon in pools We lightly bump each other With a tingle before we die. |
| Jim Doran April 2005 |
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