Creator, for you are that and more,
Of that precious life unknown before,
We celebrate, clap hands, and shower
With praises, for ‘tis you we admire.

The sounds of your child’s brazen cry
Do not dishearten, but with a sigh,
A breath, of acknowledged encumbrance,
And your power soothes into a trance.

As your child dreams on, you smile
A knowing kind of love, grace and style;
These are your modes of admiration
For the child of your creation.

Be godlike, preserver of nature;
Whenever your child is unsure,
Reassure him with your wit and charm,
Your tender care, to keep him from harm.

We might all be able to achieve greatness,
But there can only be one greatest.

That title doesn’t include the many.
It doesn’t include the we or the us.

Sure, we can all fight hard,
Take what's coming our way,
Become stronger because of it.
We might be victorious, now and again.
We might hold the trophy over our heads
And shout and scream our triumphs to the crowd
And feel truly, utterly, absolutely great.

But that does not make us the greatest.

The media might herald our names,
Praise us, speak aloud of our greatness.
Others might follow us, love us, worship us,
Wish to be just like us.
Flocks of fans, declaring us the favorite.

But that does not make us the greatest.

We might make millions,
Accrue and accumulate wealth beyond wealth,
Seize land, buy power, pay our way.
Show it all off, the glitz and gleam;
A man makes money,
But the money really, truly makes the man.

But that does not make us the greatest.

We might be consumed by adversity
Yet come out swinging on the other side.
We might beat back all the others,
Emerge with our heads high and our fists in the air…

But that does not make us the greatest.

Who sets the expectations?
Who writes the criteria?
Who upholds the standards?
Who is the greatest?

Incessant motion,
        Relentlessly back and forth
                Each and every day.

Allen Ginsberg, a raving madman, a man beyond the borders of normal
      once said, “Poets are ******, but see with the eyes of angels.”
His ranting howls, mere paradoxical clamorings (LOUDER).
His bootless, penniless, homeless cries, slight nonsensical musings.
His power subdued, his passion put-out, his well of enumerations run
      dry…

Can you hear him?

(LOUDER!!!)

Are you even listening?

What do holy angel-headed hipsters like he see?

A myriad of star-crossed artists, poets, gurus, and monks?
A tired and beat batch of street corner hustlers, homeless and hungry?
A drunk in the back-room bar?
A stumbling, shadowy silhouette in the by-street (an enigma...)?
An old man, philosophizing to everyone and no one but himself?
A juke box stuck on repeat?
A young couple, making love with their feet under the table?
A trio of jazz musicians out back for a smoke?
A bar maid making minimum wage, or nothing?
A priest who's losing his conviction?
A down-n-out loner, dreamy, dazed, dashed,
      staring at the bottom of his empty beer glass
      (who will buy the next round)?
A nosey cop?
A rosey fop?
A belligerent racist?
A beat runaway?
A child begging? (there are so many...)
A fed-up fanatic? (too loud, too loud…)
A would-be protester-rioter-anarchist, giving up and going home?
A giggling girl, flirting, with her skirt hiked high?
A show-off with an inferiority complex?
A shy recluse, too afraid to walk through the door?
A power-hungry politician, his propaganda blasting through the static of
      a detuned radio advertisement, paid for by (who are these people?)?
A struggle, never-ending, ever-renewed, always there, always alive,
      but only seen through crazy, mad, angelic eyes.

Who is not, cannot
        Be the inspiration of
                Those wanting to be.

I wish you and I could have a chat,
A little talk to put my mind at ease.
I’m going into this without any fatherly advice.
I don’t know what to expect.
All I know is, I want to be just like you.
Will my son say the same thing to me
When he’s about to become a father?
I will try my best (that’s all I can do).
I miss you.

I praise the reveler, the passer by who stops and shouts and sings.
There is much to revel in and much to sing and adore.
I too, despite my circumstance,
Revel and reveal my self.
My identity screams it, my little soul, being not so little, leaps over the
     boundaries leaving behind dust that was once bricks.
Sparks ignite, and more revelers see me and join in.
Ignite, ignite, ignite...the fireworks of myself explode, red, gold, white,
      red again, and blue to fade in smoke; a vaporous disappearing act,
      met by applause and thunderous recognition, a standing ovation,
      reverberating to my very core.
That, too, must fade.
Fade, but not disappear.
The rumble and aftershocks echo and last; myself lasts and lasts...

Seeking shelter under the moon,
                                       (pale, grave, unjust)
It seems unfair that we
                                       (the children)
Should suffer by the faults
                                       (too many to mention)
Of those responsible men and women,
                                       (elected or otherwise)
Quick to judge, lax in self-reflection,
                                       (do they care?)
But, whatever the verdict be,
                                       (pale, grave, unjust)
Here we are, alone, starving for remedy,
                                       (sorry, no prescription coverage)
For solace to our weeping wounds.
                                        (physical or otherwise)
Relief of the kindest human nature,
                                        (a helping hand?)
We earnestly need and need and need…
                                        (get a job, slacker!)
The voice of the Salvation Army speaker
                                        (what’s the verdict today?)
Echoes the length of the shelter hall,
                                        (a roof is a roof)
“No beds left, try again tomorrow,”
                                        (bad luck or a curse?)
Over the clamor of hopeful guests,
                                        (which was louder, his voice or the instant
                                        shattering of my hard-pressed heart?)
And he turns, and he goes, and I am out
                                        (the door)
Under the sheen of the moon, again.
                                        (pale, grave, unjust)
One passer by gawks with a phony concern,
                                        (should I ask with extended hand?)
But hastens his pace in planned evasion,
                                        (why bother?)
As if I’m a disease.
                                        (cough, cough…)
The moon looks down with a frown,
                                        (yes, he too is sad)
At his pathetic subject, meager and small;
                                        (where else to turn?)
He is the caretaker of us all, under his glow,
                                        (pale, grave, unjust)
But, he too, will leave us at dawn.
                                        (at the curb, at the end of the line)

What about them?

Do they know struggle?
Struggle that saps all you got, takes all you give with a hearty slap on the back…
Struggle and toil and trouble and loyal men and women digging and dragging through it all searching, searching, sometimes finding, but searching hard and long and harder for that elusive light at the end of the tunnel…

Do they know heartbreak?
Heartbreak, that all encompassing down-in-the-gutter kind of heartbreak…
Heartbreak that shoves you around, all ragged, all disarrayed and disheveled, like a whipping boy, tied to a post, push, pulled, punished…

Do they know pressure?
Pressure that squeeeeezes the life of the building, the party, the place, here, there…
Pressure and persistence and powerful stuff all coming down around and circling above, a hurricane, or tornado, or tsunami sized catastrophe of whatever and wherever, yelling things like, “Who do you think you are?” and “Why I oughtta!” at me, at you, at most anyone…

What about these hands?
Not their hands, not even those hands, but these hands, here…

These hands are covered in conveyances…
These hands tell stories, not so many, but stories enough.
Here, these hands have sores.
Here, these hands have blisters, and cuts.
Here, these hands are *****, callused, crooked, bent, ****** name callers and spiteful shame shovers, scarred, split nailed, hang nailed, grievance and guilt-ridden givers and takers, knuckle cracking nervous wringers, making fists and holding whatever needs holding…

What am I to do with these hands, now?
What about you?
Have you looked at your hands or whose hands?

Whose hands?  Their hands…

Their hands are clean.
Polished.
Glove covered and protected, their hands do what they want, untouched, unscathed…
Or pocket protected in a deep, heavy coat, out of sight, out of mind…

But I’m not talking about them there,
I’m talking about them there, way over there,
Beyond those and them, way beyond…
Definitely not here, but over there, faaaarrr over there…
That’s the them I mean.

They tell us to **** it up…
That we can make ourselves, to leave them out of it.
Them over there think I’m not worth it…the trouble, that is.
They show their glove-protected hands, wave them in the air, showing the pristine cleanliness of those hands (not these hands) and wave and wave, declaring, “No sir” and “Not I,” turning their backs.

But, what about me or you…here?

What then?

When?

Now, then, whenever.

Who will help you…when you’re at the end of the rope?
No hope.
No line cutter, no savior, no nonsense, all business…
Feet dangling, body twitching, lungs gasping, all inches from the ground…
Hands knotted, head on the chopping block, axes raised…

Who will help you?

The insurance policy?
The friends and neighbors you avoided?
The family you forgot to send Christmas cards to?
The gods of wherever and whomever and whenever?
The politicos calling the shots, pulling the strings?
The big shots in the suits with the Rolexes,
                                               Rolls Royces, and riches?

Them?
Them way over there?

No, not them…
No way, no how.
Their hands are clean… Cleaner then these, here.

Where?
Right, right here.

I do not often dream,
But when I do, I view
An endless horizon
For which I can see far
Beyond my usual
Perception of a world
I desire to know
Much more intimately...

A pulse
And a pumping
Rhythm that beats throughout
Your body; the internal clock.
Heartbeat.

You’re brave,
Beyond a doubt
The strongest woman known;
A testament to your strength.
Mother.

Will the Earth rumble and crack?
Will the tides roll and crash?
Will time stop? Will fire freeze?
Will my heart skip a beat…or three?
Will my face go numb from smiling?
Will wars stop? Will walls come down?
Will the ovation last forever and ever?
Will all this, and more, occur
when I finally meet you?