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August 4, 2002
The Poet's Pledge


Opening Dedication to the Muses

The light of my heart 
is in many ways 
   a darkness,
   a sadness.

It fills me with such hop-less-ness,
until the very light of day is blotted ouot.

But.

Then, I take pen to hand,
and write.



   Standing still...
   in the cold early morn,

   Standing still,
   awaiting....

   The day's routine....

   Standing still, abuzz with
   thought and commerce.

   Standing still, and then 

      the first one struck,

      a terrible accident?


   Standing still, and then

      the second one now...

   Shuddering, waiting:  The two,

      waiting for the third,

   (for in three is the pattern)


   The third is the five-sided one,

   But.

   The fourth -- deflected...

   But.

   At what cost?


   Our faith mis-guided -- a mad-ness ensues:

       The Christians want retribution,

       The Arabs want jihad,

       The Jews will not share their land.



   All forget the tennents of their faiths:

       All are one,

       All are love,

       All are compassion.

   For ALL suffer at times like this.


   And an old poet cries for an entire world gone mad.




The Artists' Pledge


    Of love's passions stilled,

    Of shop keep's stock scattered,

    Of children's schools closed,

To these we pledge to no god or nor flag 

   -- save our muses --

   these sacred vows:

We will continue to dream a better world for you,

to bear our pain,

to bare our hearts,

   so that your world will be enlightened

   by our visions

of peace, harmony, and love.




  Toggle was a noggle,

  a switch upon the wall,


  Toggle was a noggle,

  but now wires only 
  
      -- for there is no wall.

   
  Toggle is a noggle,
  
      -- for a world will re-build.

  Toggle is a happy noggle

      -- for when they rebuilt

         they left out hatred,
         and built only in love

   and in 

             light,

   For toggle is a noglle, 
       after all. 



A world is not a tower,

A world is not a belief,

     Nor a flag as well.


A world is many who are one -- many
who are not at all alike:

a canvas of many textures.




   Many pretend to tollerate,

   Many pretend to befriend,

   Many pretend a faith,


Many pretend too much:

     Integrity costs only the soul.




Some where an old poet writes and
scratches upon a page,

a hand withered with pain,

Somewhere a child cries out 
un-comforted,

some where lovers are lost by a war,

some where the land heaves its
breast for the torment upon its soil,

Some where I am in time and in space,
beyond all death:

    Never forget, 

          that I remember you,
          I cry for thee,

for as I have said when once I was 
what I am still now:

    "Send not to ask for whom
                      the bell tolls,

        it tolls for thee....."


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