Your Word is Your Bond

“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.”

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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

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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

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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