ModPo

Unclothed we come into this world, possession-less, alone, The odyssey to reach each goal acquaints us with new pain, Each stumbling block, despite the odds, becomes a stepping stone, And every loss, a predecessor to a greater gain. Our meeting was revealed to me when I was but a child: A revelation of a form, a loveliness, pristine, Yet planted in my heart was that pure vision, undefiled, Someday to manifest itself just as it was foreseen. I found you when I lacked the wherewithal to make you mine, Distressed, perplexed, I felt compelled to spell my love that June. That summer’s love was but a glimpse into a world divine, A harbinger of better days, of times more opportune. We’ll meet again and then we must decide upon the hour When we’ll allow our destinies to intertwine and flower.

I’m torn between two sinking ships, Two jealous mistresses who hate. To choose one is to choose them both: The choice is clear; I hesitate Deciding and the moment slips away. New ships are landing at my pier From places strange, from shores untold. They beckon me to come aboard, I hesitate. Once more events unfold Revealing feelings that are blue. My pilot bids me change my course, Steer clear of danger, shallow shoals. I navigate the ship through storms To reach the resting place of souls.

every decision, it seems, is a trade-off, and each choice, a rejection of all other options. we oversimplify to mask our true feelings. we generalize to avert the difficult question. our friendship, our love is a complex being, a life all its own with wants and needs that test our resolve. is it a mistake, a crime to feed it, to allow it to blossom and grow?

broken pieces scattered all about, resisting silently their reconstruction. subatomic particles in random motion looking for the best nucleus to revolve around. mass confusion and disorder as the electrons collide, mix and split, rejecting organization, and responding only to light from a pure source.

Dear friend, I listen to your poems of late, And contemplate the dreaded thought of life Without the prospect of your fond embrace; I reminisce about that kiss one June: Too soon, too late to consummate; too true To be denied, too pure to not be sure That God intended for our souls to dwell As one, exclusive, all-embracing love--- No matter what the future holds in store, I did, I do I’ll always love you more And more; though distance separate us far, I’ll search the constellations for that star That shines in you. And should I die, too soon, Apart from you, we’ll meet again one June.

Dear friend I left our poems ashore to gain A clear and fresh perspective on romance So new, unfolding through these notes exchanged By mail. In some respects I'm at a loss For words that rhyme: these thoughts, sublime, contain The elements of hope divine, the chance That you might share, with me, again, unchanged Thrills sought and found that star-crossed night in June. It can't be as it was. It must be less Or more. Our lust for life has aged, matured, We've wined and dined on bittersweets, endured The loss and gain of joy's and pain's excess. And yet I can't forget that night in June, When we read Shelley, kissed, and touched the moon.

Dear friend, take up your pen again, compose Those works of art that live and breathe and sing The rhapsody of love and hope. Revive Anew in you the spirit of the Muse To guide, to entertain, and to enthuse. Restore the democratic art, the urge To write, embraceable, attainable By all. Take up your pen, today, obey God’s highest call: express the good, the true, The beautiful. Articulate in verse Life’s purest, deepest, noblest sentiments; Preserve in rhyme and rhythm secrets sent. Take up your pen again, the times demand Your words be heard, your dreams rise up and stand.

I return to Mother Africa an alien, my African blood thinned through generations of race-mixing with the Cherokee, and the Blackfoot, and the Scots and Irish of North Carolina and Virginia . . . . I go to the discotheques but the rhythms are far too complex for my sensibilities, too difficult for me to even imagine trying to dance to; but I fake it, trying to stay in step, consoling myself in the knowledge that, at least, I know . . . . With the women I find myself at a loss for words, not necessarily because they’d laugh at my broken Crioulo (or even at my flawed Portuguese), nor even because I know they know I can’t promise them a way out of their misery when I leave . . . . No, I’m awed by them because of their courage, because their mere existence is a triumph, a remarkable overcoming, an achievement that stands them alone, at least from we, who have known neither true poverty nor deprivation, who have always had access to clean hospitals, and uninterrupted electricity, and drinkin...

Guine-Bissau is a land of sudden change: High tide rolls in and out within minutes; There is no dusk, no reflective moments between daylight and darkness; The dry dusty season follows quickly on the heels of the rains and floods, as if one can't wait for the other to get out of town; The calm coolness of winter begins while the heat and humidity of summer are still there with us...... When you leave, roll out like high tide, dramatically, instantaneously, leaving my beach bare, exposed and muddy; May your departure be as brief an interlude as the fleeting dusky twilight between afternoon and nightfall; Let the rains of tears you brought me evaporate, instantly, in the rapidly approaching, dry sun-scorching drought and coolness of dawn, The temperature of my passion dissipating while the heat of your madness yet remains.

Early, early in the morning just before the break of day, I arise, and count my blessings, and fall to my knees to pray. And I thank the Gracious Master and I praise His name so sweet, and I pour out all my troubles, and I leave them at His feet. "Prayer is better," said the wise man "than another hour's snooze, it will pick you up much higher than some other stuff you use." Late at evening after dealing With the problems of the day, All bewildered and disheartened I fall to my knees and pray. And I thank the Gracious Master for his grace in helping me through another day of passage on life’s cold and stormy sea. "Prayer is better," said the wise man "than that wine or weed or dope. It will soothe away your heartache, it will fill you up with hope."

( Rhia died way too soon. I miss her, I miss our conversations, the letters we exchanged. I deeply regret not having expressed to her, while she was alive, how much she meant to me. There is an old Portuguese saying which translates "Death has no remediation.") Each time I pass through Richmond I feel your presence, More strongly than I ever did when You were here with us, Sharing with us our laughter, tears and fears. Your departure was so sudden, so unexpected, So tragic. We miss you terribly and We've exhausted all attempts to fill the vacuum That your withdrawal has created In our hearts and in our conversations. My love for you was a helpless infant That, orphaned, must now fend for itself. From time to time I intuitively feel that Some quality in my life is conspicuously absent. I know what is missing is you.

Farewell to Luanda Dear friends and colleagues, We are packing out and already I am missing this sad, strange place.  Luanda.  No place like it.  No place like it in this world. Coming down with malaria is a pain that I won’t miss.  Nor will I miss that illness we get from time to time that fakes out the malaria test.  The locals call it catolotolo, while I call it total physical misery.  But I will miss the peaceful sunsets and late dinners out on the ilha, the hypnotizing popular music, dancing (more like watching them dance) the kizomba and the high-fives shared when one hits that out-of-sync step with rhythmic perfection.  I’ll miss the taste of zindungo (a spicy sauce made from peppers, garlic and whiskey), the smooth harshness of Angolan coffee, the sweetness of overripe pineapple sold at inflated prices by the women on the street who swear it will last until tomorrow, and the bitter-sweetness of gimboa (a type of local greens) fried with onions ...

You lose some things you cherish as you pass Through life's transitions. Letters you received May not survive a flood -- first drafts of poems You wrote get lost in shipments -- coffee mugs Disappear, book collections may not stay Intact when divorce or death parts the waves Of time. Friendships and associations You though would be there in your grayer years May only survive a season, or not -- And reasons for a friendship come and go Like tides that flood and ebb and flood again. The things that last a lifetime, then, are rare And few, and even random....so enjoy The fleeting now, breathe deeply, smile freely.

Dear friend, perhaps our paths may cross again: Perchance, we’ll meet together at the top, Or down below, beneath the crowds, inside The underground. Perhaps we’ll be united By a cause, a hope, a dream, a fantasy . . . Perhaps we’ll join together out of fear Or love for something we perceive to be. It matters not, my love, the force, the source That consecrates the ground on which we’ll meet; It matters not the place, my sweet, that destiny Prescribes . . . . we’ll meet! The Muses tell us so! Though circumstance as yet precludes the fate The gods have planned, I wait, I wait, I wait . . . Oral History - Ruminations on my 365 days in Iraq From Diplopedia Jump to: navigation , search (Editor's note: Raymond Maxwell , a foreign service management officer, served as Embassy Baghdad chief of staff and Exec Sec, Jan 08 - Jan 09) My service in Iraq , from January 2008 to January 2009, was a complex sentence that had, for me, several significant punctuation marks. A semicolon marked ...