in the zone

zone of anxiety

I’m in the zone
of anxiety
here in the Northeast,
sleeping in the dark
searching for the light

flood zones
fire zones
survival zones
grace zones

faith zones
music zones
hope zones
spirit zones

calling me to
eternity

 

 

How Can You Live In The Northeast? «
Lyrics:
We heard the fireworks


Rushed out to watch the sky


Happy-go-lucky, Fourth of July
How can you live in the Northeast?


How can you live in the South?


How can you build on the banks of a river when the floodwater pours


from the mouth?


How can you be a Christian?


How can you be a Jew?


How can you be a Mulsim, a Buddhist, a Hindu?


How can you?

Weak as the winter sun, we enter life on earth


Names and religion come just after date of birth


Then everybody gets a tongue to speak


And everyone hears an inner voice


A day at the end of the week


To wonder and rejoice


If the answer is infinite light,

why do we sleep in the dark?

How can you live in Northeast

?
How can you live in the South?


How can you build on the banks of a river

when the floodwater pours 
from the mouth?


How can you tattoo your body?


Why do you cover your head?


How can you eat from a rice bowl?

The holy man only breaks bread

We watched the fireworks ‘til they were fireflies


Follow a path of stars


Over the endless skies

How can you live in the Northeast?


How can you live in the South?


How can you build on the banks of a river when the floodwater pours


from the mouth?

I’ve been given all I wanted


Only three generations off the boat


I have harvested and I have planted


I am wearing my father’s old coat

© 2006 Words by Paul Simon, Music by Paul Simon and Brian Eno

E-Poetry

Who came to the Poetry Reading?

Every April, Jan Hutchinson stages a poetry reading of her April Poetry Month Prompts
with the help of Cecile at the Roe Jan Library in Hillsdale, NY.
From 230 writers, we gleaned some 30 who shared their work with us.

Some of them played and sang,
some strummed and intoned,
some recited lyrics hankering for a melody,
some read, carefully rocking us with their chants,
some made us laugh with absurdity.

Some shared secrets,
some tweeted scant phrases that fit in the cracks,
some whispered; some shouted,
some wrote; some didn’t,
some gestured in polka-dotted tights.

Jan read too, modestly,
elegantly pulling the whole thing together,
a wide track from Great Barrington to Hillsdale,
from meadows to ponds, from hills and vales,
reaching even to Armenia’s 16 year old bards.

Three years in a row:
seeds planted
poems bloomed:
poetry’s Boo-Peep
and her sheep.