Forgot your password?

We just sent you an email, containing instructions for how to reset your password.

Sign in

  • hey zida...did you hear? they called a war and no one came...i saw
    visions of picasso’s guernica coming to life in living color and my only escape...

    building some sort of utopia...gardens and bliss
    and music everywhere
    and more friends than enemies...
    somewhere at the bridge...

    and i keep wanting to go
    back to your poem’s place, warm and regular and tasteful...
    and all those dragons
    and theresa ...
    I share some of my madness here in the saint’s garden
    the blue jays stealing the goldfish bread
    [email from nina mera]
    ......................................................................................................................................

    Love’s half-life means this: there is fallout
    from beauty and love.

    Unfettered by space, time, logic, or law,
    sent love arcs in a wide confetti, sifting silently
    on unsuspecting soldiers, baby-faced and avid; and
    white haired ladies walking by, who remember too much to cheer battle; and

    old men on benches, trying to forget,
    their gnarled hands restlessly moving.
    It falls upon the fooling and the fooled the same;
    on women in their middle years, dressed for grief,
    circling in the rain like witches with drums;
    on the waters of the world (it drops like rain)
    (the ocean, as big as truth, they can’t hide that, can they?)

    Love’s fallout moves to mantle all creatures in sacred defense,
    the trees and bare sand, flowers on the roadside, entire
    cities,
    and our own children,
    who dream fitfully in their sweaty beds and come to us
    for safety from the dark, unknown landscapes.

    It sprinkles on babies whose mothers,
    to their infinite sorrow,
    cannot offer safety of any kind;
    and, indiscriminately,
    even onto those hard-faced men who bandy the slogans, fool the many:
    Lying is truth.
    Bombing is peace.
    Killing is kind.
    Power is violence.
    Freedom is this.

    I tell you, love is mightier than their tools and our own unwanted dudgeon.

    Summon these:
    will of a warrior, heart of a monk, trust of a fool, soul of a saint.

    We swallow the medicine love’s work requires, and boldly,
    brazenly,
    send.
    • Share

    Connected stories:

About

Collections let you gather your favorite stories into shareable groups.

To collect stories, please become a Citizen.

    Copy and paste this embed code into your web page:

    px wide
    px tall
    Send this story to a friend:
    Would you like to send another?

      To retell stories, please .

        Sprouting stories lets you respond with a story of your own — like telling stories ’round a campfire.

        To sprout stories, please .

            Better browser, please.

            To view Cowbird, please use the latest version of Chrome, Safari, Firefox, Opera, or Internet Explorer.