Why do I want to
Learn Tibetan
Why do I want to
Lear dazongka
Why do I want to learn
Sherpa
And uyger
To connect to my
Ancestors.

I think foolish best describes an intellectual's ways
I know it sounds ironic, but I'll enlighten you on what the world says Or rather what the world thinks  

See, I grew up thinking that reading was learning  
And learning was knowledge
And that knowledge was born from logic
And finally that logic was wisdom  

Is it just me or did we all grow up in a society that was blinkered to view wisdom as education
With our minds blinded to see intellect as knowledge
Thinking knowledge is power, power is money and money is...well...everything
Well, money does answer all, but it is not everything  
You see, mankind's intelligence never satisfies
The more learned we become the more the world slips away
The more knowledge we possess
The more the world becomes complex  

We believe ourselves to be the I AM
With the power to know everything
We seek wisdom in philosophy
But it only makes us realize we are fools
That the wise don’t exist on earth
Unless we seek wisdom in the great I AM
And forget that earthly knowledge is power  

Well, knowledge is power, but WISDOM
Wisdom is ETERNITY
It is the eternal life that we're all working towards
The life that that thief on the cross had to look forward to
Only because he was wise enough to recognize his salvation and his Saviour  
So, dear stewards, the best that you can give your children is not a Harvard or Oxford kind of education
The most valuable gift is not the concept of making money  

The best that you can give to those in your care is wisdom
This wisdom is the knowledge of a man
Who abandoned His own kingdom
To die for foolish simple men  

A man who stood before so called high judges
Yet He was the Most High
A man who humbled the proud
And used the foolish things to shame them
For His word says that even His foolishness
Is greater than our wisdom
For His thoughts are not our thoughts
Neither are his ways our ways  

So, all I'm saying is
The most valuable legacy that you can leave
Is the knowledge of the One with all the wisdom,
The wisdom to choose God
For we only find wisdom when we realize, we are nothing but fools before Him  

Miss Fit

someday
there will be those who come after us
soft boys and tough boys
rough girls and fluff girls
and every shade of other in between
someday
they will sit where we have sat
and talk of what we said
and we will hand our world over to them
and they will take it
this fragile trembling beast
(we called it earth)
and it will be their world
and it will not be the same world
this earth-thing, this legacy
relies on every story
every creature that has ever walked across its skin
and I
for one
will tread lightly
softly
and paint flowers instead of trampling them

I vow to never let destiny get the best of me,
Life expectancy threaten me through questions of legacy,
Mentally wrestle me, never envious jealousy,
I'll measure every breath and beat and take them to the Nth degree.

My skin remembers your fingers.
My calm remembers your care.
I loved once and was loved.
Read this to me when I'm not there.

I met a man, a gardener,
Who told of an auspicious seed.
He worked the seed, carefully
Its flower never seen.

The villagers would glance at him,
In times when things were looking dim
His ambitious eyes and sallowed skin
Reminded them to not give in.

When his work-struck shoulder stiffened,
strained back outed,
He still worked his seed.
And it never sprouted.

Until one off-beat Thursday morn,
the man did not get out of bed.
He passed away that fateful night,
The patch was left an empty stead.

The village gathered for the mass
A crowd with eyes of glass,
They stood and spoke, with admiration,
Of his hard-laboured inspiration - unforgotten.

Outside the Church, in the man's humble patch,
A seed sprouted, flourished - hatched:

Eden would have paled to see
The tree that came from this mere seed,
Hard work and dedication-
A tribute to his legacy.

I always look
my most beautiful
when I cry;

the bags under my eyes
burn as poignantly
as waning crescents,
lips plump as they quiver
with the same multitudes
of Artemis' bowstring,
chest heave-hoeing
against the tempered
vessel of my soul.

I wear sadness
remarkably well,
you know.

Like black lipstick.
or short hair.
or poetry.

(Cleopatra's got nothing on me, baby)

My reflection tessellates
against the swell of my tears,
evolves into
kaleidoscopic fractals
of smouldering thrones
and howling queens--
into images most
strange and terrible.

(But, oh, how I welcome them.)

A delicate curtsy of words
respires from my mouth,
forms upon my tongue
its homage--
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom
hail thy shattered kingdom.