A Nation Rocked to Sleep

by Carly Sheehan

Have you ever heard the sound of a mother screaming for her son?

The torrential rains of a mother's weeping will never be done

They call him a hero, you should be glad that he's one, but

Have you ever heard the sound of a mother screaming for her son?

Have you ever heard the sound of a father holding back his cries?

He must be brave because his boy died for another man's lies

The only grief he allows himself are long, deep sighs

Have you ever heard the sound of a father holding back his cries?

Have you ever heard the sound of taps played at your brother's grave?

They say that he died so that the flag will continue to wave

But I believe he died because they had oil to save

Have you ever heard the sound of taps played at your brother's grave?

Have you ever heard the sound of a nation being rocked to sleep?

The leaders want to keep you numb so the pain won't be so deep

But if we the people let them continue another mother will weep

Have you ever heard the sound of a nation being rocked to sleep?
Casey Sheehan, a U.S. soldier,  was killed in Iraq on April 4th. This poem was written by Casey's 18 year old sister, Carly, and brought to the Arlington West in Santa Barbara, CA by Casey's mother on Mothers Day, May 9th.

Casey Austin Sheehan, born May 29th 1979 ~ died April 4th 2004. Beloved Son, Brother, Grandson, Nephew, Friend.

Sent to us by Toni Flynn.



by Patricia Lynn Reilly

face to face,
acknowledged, known
an impulse to hide
a longing for connection

eye to eye,
exposed, seen
an impulse to turn away
a longing for transparency

unprepared, unpredictable
an impulse to control
a longing for surprises



Who smile in each other's company.
They say a strong and sensual YES to each other.
Their YESes meet and fill their experience.

Who tell the truth about what works and what doesn't.
They co-create solutions for their shared challenges.
No truth is too hard for them to speak or hear.

Who spend purposeful time together.
They cultivate life-affirming friends and experiences.
They share the everyday details of life with ease and grace.

Who guard each other's solitude.
They cultivate spaces in their togetherness.
They delight in each other‚s individuality.

Who turn toward each other with heart-full attention.
Their sexual and orgasmic impulses are moistened by their
emotional connection and flow naturally in each other‚s presence.

Who support each other‚s creative impulses and expression.
They welcome and encourage shared creative adventures.
They aren‚t afraid to color outside the lines.

Who share a spiritual practice of silence and reflection
to stay in alignment with the essence of their love.
Gratitude for ALL THAT IS fills their relationship.

And so it is!
Excerpt from "Words Made Flesh."




by Tito Martin

 I live in the sink-hole of the world.

the clouds and the waves
run in the same direction,
as if hurrying,
The clouds don’t pass by,
they flee,
heading for the world’s sewer,
for the void of the other side,
as if having covered their eyes
no longer wanting to be this side
of life.

This sink-hole carries everything away,
the good, the bad,
the least good, the least bad.
It is boundless,
everything will pass through,
the water will carry everything away.
From above and from below,
the clouds and the waves run fleetingly,
heading for the void,
for the other side,
while a hurricane wind,
in one blast,
sweeps away every tenderness
and only allows the silence and the cold
to inhabit this halfway house,
this suffering,
of seeing how everything flies away
in this desolate wind,
which proceeds from no one knows where
but which everyone knows will never return.
Because there will be
another wind
with other ruins
coming from afar,
from all over the world,
all the tears,
as well as the caresses,
that oblivion always carries away.
takes this direction
towards the void,
towards oblivion.

Human masochism,
the screams of Africa, the impersonal cry of Asia,
Western arrogance,
all together, together with the cold,
on the path to oblivion.
And nothing remains but the impotence
of seeing everything pass away.
Welcome to this so-called life,
where everything has a one way ticket,
for a return, as we all know,
is always more expensive.
But this sink-hole doesn’t care.
It’s the sink-hole of the world,
big enough to withstand all floods,
the passing of all the microworlds
down its throat,
a throat cracked by the centuries,
like a smoker, with neither taste, nor smell,
who makes no distinctions.
There is nothing to prohibit
the passing into oblivion
of that which moves the world
(or which should)
no one to request the entry papers
of tenderness,
nor of the men who lived for others,
nor of the mothers
(who did enough).
No one speaks of compassion
in the sink-hole of the world,
neither remembrance nor justice
will come this time
to set things straight.
There is no safeguarded right,
no memory
no affection.
There is no tenderness
at the nadir of the world,
which here loses the right to that word,
and surrenders the licenses of love
to oblivion, to nothing,
to the unilateral treaty
that the world made with life,
that everything which began
would some day end up
heading for the world’s sewer,
passing through the sink-hole
in which I live


where the waves and the winds run fleetingly
waving no white kerchiefs,
without farewells, without embraces,
running desolate and united
that all the good,
that all the bad,


or later

will pass through here,
in this place
where I live,
that I will see everything pass
through here,
through my home,

in the sink-hole of the world.

(translated by T. Sullivan)
Copyright  2005

At Callahan Creek

by Jim Doran

At Callahan Creek those years ago
Our children’s laughter floated in tufts
Of cotton spun of trees in midsummer,
Like cold clear water tumbles over stone;
Our bodies and minds in love with time.
We slide, collide and laugh; clasp hands
Lean against the current, knee high,
In white tennis shoes you slip and fall
And float and shiver and clamber out.

At Callahan Creek we were wild;
By ourselves in the mountain cedar forest.
I said I was surely once a rainbow trout.
You mixed a daiquiri apiece with English bitters;
Sun dreams and snow peaks, timelessness and sand.
We sat on rocks, slender bodies, bronze in the daylight.
Smiles and smiles; glorious to be alive.
Stream-songs. With nothing to hide.

At Callahan Creek we made love
Until the tent stakes pulled loose.
We washed under the full moon
In gooseflesh cold Callahan Creek.
Bodies suspended like salmon in pools
We lightly bump each other
With a tingle before we die.

Jim Doran April 2005

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