Poems that I love

Peter Matthiessen, 1927-2014 You whose written words ushered so many Into the theater of meditation While all the while as restless as a leopard Confined to a soiled cage of his own making, Who sought connection but evinced a cruel Detachment from his wives, his family, What have you left for those of us who still Believe in prose, regardless of its author? Perhaps it’s nothing less than an open mind Teeming with unsummoned memories Of Himalayan vistas, the Serengeti, Greenland, Florida, a distant father. Little wonder that the title Roshi, However earned, rested uneasily On you, even as you sat in perfect stillness. By Ben Howard

If they gun me down in my own street someday may my crime be compassion. May the record show  from every angle  that I was helping a woman up  after they pushed her to the ground, that not even their weapons  could stop me from extending  my hand to those in need.  that I was a walking example  of the best my elders taught me --   that everyone is equal  and worthy of defending. If they tell the nation,  from the highest podium,  that I was a domestic terrorist,  let it be known that my radical act  was believing the best in people  when they wanted nothing more  than to divide us. By Michael F Dubois