Mexico City

Are we continuing to write our own mythology?
I wonder if all the poets have become too busy
With the work that pays us to be able
To not beg on the street with a child in our arms
To obsess about internet access and dialing rates,
Air time and hang time, bank rates and show dates
Living outside the warming glow of nature
In cities of fear and prison-like minds

Going so long without communing with the divine
Prayers rushed, gratitude sincere, but without the quiet
To hear the messages from the trees
And the comments from the earth
To help us translate the story of man
So that another generation has it to pass on
In their own words, the same words, the same symbols
So that the truth doesnít reside in a dusty book
In a dusty language we never learned to understand,
Let alone feel…

We seem too scattered, busy cataloging the differences
Rather than reminding each other of what we share
With each other and with the past
How will we ever break free of the last
And get on to the next
If we donít take the time to be quiet, to listen, to write
And share the lockís combination
With those who search, who cry, who feel and listen?

Beyond the money and toys
Finance charges and brokerís fees
Those who acknowledge the hole within
That wonít be filled by material things…

Poets, perhaps your words will open the body
So that which can fill will fill
And we can pass the book on
To the next hungry souls

And they will find that they must write
Their own version so that they can collaborate
With the present, the past and the future.

Poets, you have work to do; put down your cell phone,
Pick up a pen and write!
Our mythology is waiting…