WHEN JAN PHILLIPS CAME TO TOWN
   
She arrived in the rain                                       and she
left                                                         in the 
rain. 
And                                                                        in between,

we watered                                                         the 
gardens                                                        of our 
souls:                                                        as 
we                                                            made 
promises,                                            made 
lists.                                                      made 
ceremony,                                              closed our eyes 
and                                    shook out our negativity;

we visited old stories                                    and re-
awakened 
conversations                                                    to echo the 
lyric                                                 "I am the 
river;                                                 you are the flow."

We listened to music,                                      shared our 
talents                                          and our 
memories.                                         We laughed 
together                                    out 
loud                                                             in celebration 
of                                             the 
transformation                                         of Creativity.

During our time together,                           she talked about 
tears:                                   If you are 
crying,                                            you are one 
of                                                the lucky 
ones.                                             Tears let us 
know                                       we’re in the 
presence                                      of truth.

"We don’t see rain                                       very 
much                                                            in the 
desert,"                                                 she told me.

"Store it," I said.                                      Keep it for a 
memory                                         to draw 
with                                                  some 
dusty                                                rainless desert day.

So truth can dance.

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PARADES

i. Vientiane, Laos 1971
From the curb I watch them
march by, the annual Army Day Parade:
students from all the lycees and high schools--
legs up down, up down arms swinging in unison, heads
erect.
"Saturday soldiers" in their green drab--
teachers at my school, civil servants
--arms out-of-synch, bumping into
each other. They've drilled only
four Saturdays.
"Enlisted" soldiers in drab green, with mud--
most of their comrades up North
in battles that don't observe lines.
There is no music.
There are no bands.
Hey, look at that guy (I saw him before)--
the one waving his hat, grinning.
On a side street farther ahead
Army trucks keep loading
marchers who are driven around--unseen--
to join the parade again.
ii. Kirtland, Ohio 1995
I lie in my bed watching them
march by, the morning Thought Parade:
notions unbidden
from all my memories and day-residue.
Hey, get up!
Grab a pen, write it down.
Later, will I recognize a grin?
Will a friendly truck return my thoughts?
iii. Kirtland, Ohio 2004
Stop it! Stop the truck!
Open wide the doors! Let the words
hold hands as they circle-dance sentences
to the peacemaker's waltz,
into a crafted now
where gunpowder is only for fireworks,
muzzles are flowerpots, and gunstocks arm
the rocking chairs of my imagination.

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