Missing pages:
a poetic libretto
Dean Okamura
Come,
explore urban domains
where missing pages
from their book of lives
clutter the alleys
Miraculous
spark of life
precious gift
melted in the forge
of bitter experience
it's a wonder
that we all
are not destroyed
saint of the bus stop
waves at the bus driver
blessing them on their way
shared humanity, we see
wrapped in a blanket
like liturgical vestments
saint of many mirrors
looking circumspect,
seeking understanding,
poverty, honesty, vulnerable,
illuminating grace or mercy or justice,
us through tragic accident
light out of darkness
Missing pages
from a notebook
discarded
unfinished scribbles
feeling
still brewing
impossible
to shake
experiment upon
experiment
the pen runs
out of ink
we're no closer
to leaving behind
fossils of
our experience
some record of
existence
for others
to consider
perhaps not
insights, but
hints of
what it meant
to be human
Tiles on the wall
set side-by-side
they appear to be
split into communities
segregated, clearly
separated by design
but communities are not
units cemented on their own
we are a stacked
interplay of pieces
interlocking puzzle of
invisible design
May we find grace
the strength to overcome
the challenges
posed by our bodies
on a collision course
with death
may our hearts and minds
rise, lifting our spirits
lest we sink
into depression
Sometimes
we cannot finish the race
not glory for one
but a long relay race where
each hands the baton ahead
we honor
the efforts of all runners
giving their best
as destiny's fickle choices
are cloaked in ocean fog
cold winds
push us to seek
shelter
limits of humanity
finding strength for tomorrow
Credit: Bansky, "Girl
With Balloon" (2002)
I went to Church
looking for a Savior
who talks to a little child.
Just one loving word.
Just one heaven-sent beam of hope.
Just one.
No buckets of blessings.
No mansions on earth.
Oh, look
down, Savior.
Take my hand.
Pilot my ship.
Though life seems hopeless,
with no refunds in sight,
the Prophet inscribes
on the wall by night —
"There
is always hope."
Hey, parents.
Don't feed us fries.
Don't put soda in the baby
bottle.
Those things
are like a sun
that does not warm our bones.
***
The original stencil at Southbank, London,
England,
was accompanied by a quote that read
"There is Always Hope".
Before you know what kindness
really is, you must lose things,
feel the future dissolve in a moment, like salt in a weakened broth.
You must travel where a white poncho lies dead by the side of the road,
see how this could be you, how he
too was someone.
Before you know kindness as the
deepest thing inside,
you must know sorrow as the other deepest thing,
speak to it till your voice catches the thread of all sorrows
and you see the size of the cloth.
Then it is only kindness that
makes sense, tying your shoes,
sending you out into the day to mail letters, purchase bread,
and then going with you everywhere, like a shadow or a friend.
— Derived from
"Kindness" by Naomi Shihab Nye (1980)
And so this day of grace …
each day the cock crows,
last night becomes a faint memory,
the creatures of the field stir,
they take unique places in nature.
I need to find my place.
What would this college degree do?
That first professional job so elusive,
to take my unique place in society.
It's not a conscious effort,
but we are courageous to do our jobs,
then to sit back,
and when we've disappeared, …
Marvel that the world keeps spinning,
and the cock keeps crowing.
Try not to draw conclusions.
Avoid the temptation to see
a global pattern in our little
lives. Our crisis of confidence
is our daily burden to bear.
I ask myself to pause, let
the panic ease out like
the tide. We’re okay. We’re okay.
In this cacophony
of crows
of rush hour traffic
flashes of windshields
the scattering
of tree leaves
this scene
a menagerie
they opened the cages
we believed that order was divine
a well-kept zoo, best
illustrated lives well-lived
but life fought back
struggled to be free
with each flap of wings
virile wild birds preach
freedom
creation
before
the subjugation
by greedy men
When we tried
to explain it,
we wrote words.
Never confuse idols
composed of
written words
with gods,
universes,
or realities.
What we make
is but a symbol,
a representation,
an invitation.
Truth lies beyond
things we create;
arts lead us
toward truth.
A word is
a finger
that points
at the moon.
Bless my weak heart, O Lord,
For it beats slow and life races ahead.
Now my guts feel twisted and tense.
These days I avoid traveling to do much.
Taking the next step has never been so hard.
Give me a word, O Lord,
A piece of daily bread to sustain me,
One to lift me out of my stale bed,
Something more than a distraction,
A precious spark to start my day.
Calm my fears, O Lord.
Show me fountains of strength,
Enough for today and beyond.
Though shadows press and doubt binds,
Desperation can open the eyes.
Lead me to grace, O Lord.
Amidst my tangled thoughts,
Show me how to find peace.
Give me life’s portion for each day's journey,
And compassion to embrace the struggles of others.
Live
with deep compassion
as there are layers in the litter
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