“From a young age, our parents impressed on us the values that you work hard for what you want in life, that your word is your bond and you do what you say and keep your promise, that you treat people with respect. They taught and showed us values and morals in their daily lives. That is a lesson that we continue to pass along. And we need to pass those lessons on to the many generations to follow. Because we want our children in this nation to know that the only limit to your achievements is the strength of your dreams and your willingness to work for them.”++++++++++
American Dream
The Cheese Has Moved
To journey without being changed is to be a nomad.
To change without journeying is to be a chameleon.
To be changed by the journey is to be a pilgrim.
To journey without arriving is to be a refugee.
Bumper sticker: I’ll keep my guns, money, and freedom, you can keep
the “change.”
No man with four aces and a Smith & Wesson ever asked for a New Deal.
The cheese has moved.
My calendar is now in pencil
for a year or more.
Faint lines show where
a cheese moved.
“. . . we were left feeling
helplessly bypassed, as if
the processes of the present
did not include us. We felt
unheard, angry, and frustrated.”
This is a collage of sayings (Mark Nepo), bumper stickers, a mash up of folk wisdom, some original poetry, and lines from a Zen journal. I now understand the artistry of a good collage (even if I don't achieve it).
—Jeff Taylor
++++++++++
The American Dream, Betrayed
In American, anyone’s child
can grow up to be President.
Still, everyone knows they’re talking
about straight, white boys, but
someone forgot to tell that nobody,
or maybe she didn’t listen.
Now there's a Black man
in the White House and . . .
I mean, that’s not how it’s
supposed to be.
If a cynic’s an idealist disappointed,
what's the promoter of
the American Dream to do, when
the “wrong” person
achieves the Promised Land
putting the Unspoken’s
business in the street. Whatever
it is, the mark has won,
the con man's lost and the rigged game
is broken.
How true is . . . a rags to riches story
that's only open
to Harvard men?
—Jeff Taylor
++++++++++
Awesome Poem
I told my wife
“I’m going to write
a poem tonight.”
And then
Caroline brings this prompt,
and it didn't seem like a prompt,
at all.
At least, not one
to inspire
a poem,
at all.
I've started to notice,
more and more,
how some things tick me off.
As we read the prompt,
together in unison,
I found myself
somewhere between
being ticked off,
(very) supremely ticked off,
and wondering if
these words were part
of Michelle Obama's
wonderful speech
the other night (at the DNC).
Today
I read
she had no political intentions
in her speech—
unlike the others
she followed.
And yet,
after the speech,
many said,
”she ought to be president.”
The prompt seemed dated,
perhaps it was from
the Cleavers
in the 50s.
My wife said at dinner
something about how,
if we had better schools,
things would be different.
We ended up realizing
it would take about
three generations
to really make a change...
A profound
change,
that is.
I think this tirade started
with her
wondering
how so many people
could vote for
a bully.
I told her
that the odds were…
he'd win.
Oh….
My friend just texted me,
“write something awesome.”
If I didn't know better,
I'd….
So there,
I tried to write
an awesome poem.
And then I wanted to say
“I'd pick my nose”
and you can't say that
in a poem.
In high school,
did you ever read a poem
about nose picking? No!
Or even about bullies,
or the Cleavers?
I heard the other night,
on NPR,
a poet was told
he had a terminal illness.
He became very depressed
and wrote
the best poems of his life.
I thought, God,
grant me
a terminal illness.
Oh, just kidding, God.
Let me try again:
The lime I stole from
the Zen center was so
delicious, it made my
smoothie so great that
my friends drank it
with such gusto—
so much gusto,
in fact
that I didn't have
any left today.
That's a dumb poem.
Glad there are only
two minutes left.
I can blame
the advancing clock
on my not writing
anything close to awesome.
Or I can blame it
on my lack of
having a terminal illness,
Or maybe
I wasn't raised right,
like my neighbors,
who had their mouths,
washed with soap,
when they swore.—Kim Mosley
