E Pluribus Unum

I.  
     
Writing is meditation, yoga—    
a morning mantra
of creative expansion
into the universe as love t
o whoever absorbs the frequency.
Today, over tea and silence
I contemplate what this truly means to me.      
       
What it means to be cooled by a fan
vs. no electricity. To have warm water
much less clean, or for housekeeping.
I know what being dirty means—
I know how being hungry feels—
even now my stomach twists
because I forgot groceries again.      
       
But, what does it mean that I can.        
What does it mean to drive—
to not carry a pole with laden baskets        
across my shoulders, or head;       
or, walk an alley with everything  I own      
on my back. What does it mean        
that I have enough money to eat —       
to not beg or barter my  paintings       
poems—or myself to survive.      
       
What does it mean to be healthy —       
to need no prescription, or suffer      
an illness requiring medication        
I cannot afford. What does it mean        
to not grieve loss today, when        
one friend's mother
and another's father
have both departed earth.      
 
II.  
       
What does it mean to be Native American        
on a reservation with a new generation      
of independence fireworks filling the sky        
with paleface colors; heir skin of white     
blood of red ancestors, and navy blue        
musket smoke, rising over bodies   
strewn across the Trail of Tears.      
   
What does it mean to be a middle east refugee    
fleeing terrorism, only to be met
by a concentration camp;   
or; a Mexican worker, walking  
the catcalls of 'Walls' and division 
or, an Asian immigrant ,fleeing    
a communistic country of oppression.    
   
I have walked the broken pavement        
of third world countries, earning daily        
bread by selling frozen water in baggies        
to tourists through their car windows.        
I know what it means to lie against        
an active volcano's chest, swallowed        
by the Southern constellation’s breath.      
       
I know what it means to be lost and used.        
To be found, hopeful, and appreciated.        
I could tell them where it's found—
but, they would have to listen
and too many cannot be silent enough       
to learn the Karmic lesson of contentment      
for fear it’s a “vain philosophy”.
       
I can say, as a farmer sowing seed,        
that no amount of searching the world        
or materialistic belongings, nor wishing        
will reap the peace that lies within war      
or breathtaking art made from trash        
the blessing in poverty,
or, pure truth of a simple life.
Of love. Of death.      
       
III.
 
What does it mean to debate religion    .  
or politics over dinner or at work.        
What does it mean to disown a child        
because of who they love, or a friend        
because of what they believe. To forget      
where our fathers came from, why      
they fled and how many died to survive.      
       
It all means we don't remember who we      
are, and why we returned to this dream        
we’re in. That everything in life is what      
we manifest for the experience of flesh.        
What it's like to hurt, to give, to seek        
but not find, then receive; to be, and        
ascend the tangible meaning of that being.      
       
Only through the contrast of who we aren’t        
can we learn who we are and want to be.      
But, instead of acknowledging differences        
as the path to attaining our dream, we resist.        
Label. Blame. Fight. Demand conformity,        
congregate with like-minded to avoid being      
lonely or the weight of being wrong.      
       
Listen, I will only say this once before        
finishing to enjoy my Independence Day;      
Here is the secret of a peaceful existence  
despite circumstance, the heart of Oneness,   
of E Pluribus Unum: genuine gratefulness.      
In resistance of what is lies unending pain;      
In acceptance and gratitude eternal peace.      
~