Party with a Lion

just had a dream that turned into a nightmare. was at a party, with
other dancers, and a real live lion, full mane and all. He was
friendly to the guests hanging out in corners and pockets of people.
I wanna say he even danced some. There was a lot going on at this
party. I had a plane to catch, back to New York or something cross
country heading east. There was some worry for no good reason about
the flight. I introduced some people to some old school games, back
from the Atari. For some reason, I think it was Allen Kerr's
consoles; maybe it was his house where this party was happening... he
lives in San Francisco. I don't remember seeing him, but remembering
the gaming consoles leads me to sense that they were Allen's.

At one point, I dance in front of the lion, not overtly at the lion, but
the African music I was listening to earlier continues to echo in my
head now, and I feel it was playing during my dance. The lion took
notice, but did not dance. I did not dance for long, some fear had
entered my being and the room's dynamic had shifted.

I decided to turn and go up the stairs to my left, and looked
towards the lion to find further clues of his reaction with each step until he was out of sight. I knew he was
watching me watch him. Moments after I was upstairs finding my way,
the lion came thundering up the steps, looking confused as guests
greeted him as if he was another guest at the party. He looked
around, with new misunderstood emotion, and pounced, roaring with his
leap, into some woman leading with his great paws. Panic spread
through everyone into my heart and I failed to resist to wake up.

the mystics at war -- coming home

what mystics that you speak only to me
you speak to me again in such sincere
tone. when you say me were he not once he
who come before me? was his his late masters?

and when we play for real in our dreams
tomorrow is come, and today is long
gone till tomorrow's morrow is hard to bone. seems
more real when we never play with our prey?

take your calm freedom, sharing honest steps
in your starlit drive, lit by dry biege lamps
glowing after into your slow, slow motion quick
stepping down right through your every real fear.

lest your words come before mi ne.
gain speak and not reveal to like.

rage

rage. clouds of unrest, tempestuous clatter, no pitter patter just rolling thunder.
why. not a question, nor a plea, and certainly no answer as it leaves you a lone.

see it coming? how could you not?!
this sky is full light and your eyes know.

again. and again. unzipping the air, exploding my heart, and slowly dying with pain.
no. that last flash, that very last flash, is all you get. echoes in memories stories retold.

saw it going, and things now smell changed.
only then when you are struck, may you grasp this. alas!

all day morning, and all day night

ash of substance; spirit free of air. in missing you, i never feel closer.

What is Inspiration?

So, here is the sister post...

The Ralph Waldo Emerson poem continues to resonate deep within me today. And for whatever reason I begged the question, "What Is Inspiration?" Call it a humble little tribute; call it a release of emotion; call it an explanation for some of the things going on in my life of late. Heck, I'll call it...

what is inspiration?
it's holding onto the space between the notes for as long as you can
it's stretching time long enough for an idea to blossom
it's believing that you have something within that needs to come out
it's a whole lot of fun. sometimes scary, fun.

I welcome your thoughts and your own answers to this question in the form of a comment below or a message within.

What Is Succcess?

Last Monday, December 27th, a good portion of my family gathered to pay tribute to Jack Morrison, my Grandpa. Very meaningfully, his two daughters asked if I would read a piece of poetry that they found to encapsulate him well. Nothing ever seems complete, but this poem kept evolving as I read it out loud again and again until I was in a very comfortable place. I could see how under the surface it related to his life story. The poem is "What Is Success?" and is written by Ralph Waldo Emerson. (check it out here)

There are countless connections. The way he would chuckle. The way he lived "here" representing Cleveland, Ohio. The way he was betrayed by one of his closest friends. The way he left this world. The list is endless. If you knew him, it would really mean something if you shared your own reasons why you feel this poem embodies his spirit... in the form of comments below.

My Mother is Just an Ordinary Person

Inauspiciously driving a Subaru, turbo-charged mind you, she gets to work on time, stays late, and still finds time for yoga -- three hour yoga with her best friend. She says some silly things, occasionally calling me Lloyd (her husband) or Lloyd, Michael. You can hurt her feelings with one sentence, just like anybody else. Always late to pick me up, her nickname became my "late mother," even though I always knew she'd be there eventually. And she's an ordinary klutz, thanks in part to her Morrison genes, of which she has ever so much more to thank.

Balancing career, love, and Michael-raising has been one rocky road at times, fraught with personal hardships to overcome. You always hazily dream of the reward from such endeavors, working hard to get there, and re-balancing when things begin to go the wrong way. Life is our lottery ticket, and the difference we make day in and day out with the people around us -- the world -- is our reward. That is the lesson my mother must have learned at an early age, and as any normal mother would she has passed it along to her child.

So, when she told me on Saturday she must go to Afghanistan via Scotland, that a tragedy had happened, it all seemed too ordinary. She does a job that no one else can do, at least anywhere near as well. "Soft targets" are the difference makers in the long run. They sink their roots into the soil below. Given a chance to grow, they bring food and stability to the homes around them. Fragile though they are, they yield the greatest sustaining power of all, and water and love is all it takes to keep them going. To a community they bring only possibilities, honest seeds for the soil -- nothing to kill or die for.

Even though we all breathe the same, eventually find sleep together, how we decide what is right is what makes us individual. Interestingly, at that very moment we invite everyone around us, and in time the rest of the spider web of people they have touched in the past and those still to be woven in the future. As I pull away from the airport and watch her, waving to me, it's the same person who needed a hug hours earlier. She's making a decision, a big one, wrought with emotion, and even though the world might not yet be ready, she is helping it to get there one step at a time.

She is my mother, a person we all share -- we all have to keep.