Some Photos from Emmi

Renga IV

Cascading water
majestically falls to earth
God flows forth to me

Water is graceful
in nature it flows freely
let God's grace drench me

Simply beautiful
stunning as the rain that falls
God's quiet whisper

Great white waterfall
it roars as it falls to earth
all things swept away

Waters that cleanse me
immerse me in purity
free of all darkness

Pools of purity
wash my soul of wrongdoings
make me one with God

Renga III

Waterfall echoes
the supreme voice of our God
waterfall inside

Foam flows from the fall
dampened air; a mist so thick
Roaring endlessly

Exhilarating
an empowering presence
an impressive scene

Circle around me
it washes me of my fear
now reborn in Him

My soul drifts away
the river carries me on
a journey downstream

The journey is long
my troubles are washed away
cleaning my many sins

Some Photos from Emmi

Renga II

Light glows through the trees
the wind whispers in the leaves
in this I see God

A forest of peace
garden of sanctuary
new ways to hear God

A bird's song chimes through
singing sweet songs that I hear
the music of God

Deep in the forest
trickles and splashes a stream
Son on the water

murmuring voices
drifting over the water
writers fill the Glen

Pens sing the bird's song
paper rustles the trees voice
creative songs sing

Some Photos from Emmi

Renga I

Across the waves
brilliance illuminates
deep in the ocean

Seagulls' cries echo
the waves wash over the sand
the salty sea breeze

Moving water speaks
clear blue body of the Lord
He is here with us

The waves crest and break
resounding the voice of our God
saying "you are home"

Out on the blue waves
the Son's feet touch the surface
blessing the water

Wade in the water
Father, Son and Holy Ghost
Baptism renews

Untitled

Light is fading all too quick,
But there he stands pushin back,

Fighting with a simple stick,

Hurting from the Darkness attack.

But still he tries stopping it,

A simple and pathetic fight.

The Darkness laughs with its wit,

And it all goes on, deep in night.

Hoping til he hits the ground,

the passion keeps him clear,

to hear that one resounding sond,

the graceful voice of his dear.

But alas this is no story,

Our hero falls upon the ground,

and finally he has no worry.

Simply put he has been found.

Now as he slips away,

He finds a light and hears a voice.

Trying so hard, he attempts to stay,

but he knows he has no choice.

~Tyler

Tweet? Tweet?

I just found this brief article detailing a discussion within the ranks of The New York Times concerning the word "tweet."

Basically, standards editor Phil Corbett has advised the staff of The New York Times not to use the word "tweet" when writing about usage of the social networking and micro-blogging site, Twitter. His argument? "...outside of ornithological contexts, "tweet" has not yet achieved the status of standard English. And standard English is what we should use in news articles."

My initial gut reaction was to think that it's stupid to trade "tweet" for "use Twitter," "post to Twitter," post on Twitter," "write on Twitter," "a Twitter message," or "a Twitter update." But then I remembered my reaction when somebody on Facebook claimed that "interrobang" was a real word and challenged everyone to "look it up!" My response was simple, "If it has no hits on Dictionary.com, it doesn't count as a real word yet." So I plugged "tweet" into Dictionary.com and got not one mention of Twitter.

So maybe a "tweet" in the sense of utilizing Twitter is nothing more than slang—albeit helpful slang—and really doesn't have any place in The New York Times.

What do you think?

Rev. Josh

Storytelling is Important!

I ran across an article about Anne Frank today that talks about what she was like during that period of time not covered in her famous diary.

Specifically, the article talks about Anne telling stories in Bergen Belsen, the concentration camp where she died of typhus a mere two weeks before its liberation. But the tragedy of Anne not growing up to be a journalist or novelist is not the point I'm trying to make. The point is that Anne made an impact on Berthe Meijer, who's spirits were lifted through the escape of the stories Anne told. I don't know for sure if her storytelling impacted anyone else, but I would bet that she did—and I'm not a betting man!

It just goes to show that words are important! So keep telling stories...

Book Bannings

Check out this article about a school system banning a really surprising book...

Lost Generation

I just thought that all you poets and lovers of words would enjoy this.

Brendan's Subject/Predicate Workshop Result

Why did the 350 pound Buddhist monk fell down the hill while trying to climb it?

One day, a Buddhist priest woke up after having a very disturbing dream. At first, he attributed this to the custard from the night before. He'd known he shouldn't eat it then, but it had just looked so tempting, drizzled with chocolate and gently wobbling on its porcelain dish, that he hadn't been able to resist. Now he'd gone and had an unsettling nightmare that would not leave his mind.

Several years ago, when he'd been young and hungry, he had climbed the hill that was very sacred to their monastery, for it was said that the Great Buddha had climbed that hill in his younger days and had sat up there and thought and meditated until suddenly he realized a new truth about the Universe, and so had been able to descend. Back then, this young monk had decided to journey up there and make his own pilgrimage. It had been a hard climb, and when he reached the top, he'd barely been able to take in the magnificent view laid out before him, before he collapsed on the ground and fell instantly asleep. While he slumbered on that hill, the Great Buddha appeared to him in a vision and offered him all sorts of good things to eat: sweet meats and pies and cakes and the most juicy and delicious fruits.

"All these things shall be yours," the Great Buddha had told him, and then he'd gone and the young monk had woken, gone down from the hill in silence and then returned to the monastery where he had told everyone he met of his wonderful adventure. They all listened in wonder to what he said and talked amongst each other in great excitement, saying that he had clearly been chosen by the Great Buddha to lead their monastery once he was older. Indeed some said that perhaps the old priest should step down and allow new and younger hands to lead them on to Enlightenment.

So the years went by and the old priest died and the young monk came to be the head of the monastery, and he had led it wisely for many years. However, he had never forgotten all the fine foods he had eaten in the Great Buddha's company and he said to his monks that none of them need go hungry anymore! So long as he was in charge, they would always have good things to eat, and plenty of it. They all cheered at this and praised him, saying the Great Buddha must have told him that over indulgence would not harm their path to Nirvanna after all.
And so new foods were brought into the monastery, and they were enjoyed by all, but mostly by their new priest, who ate enough for more than half the monastery. Gigantic portions of filet mignon, lathered in butter and practically swimming in its own red juices were placed before him and him alone, along with mountains of mashed potatoes, so fluffy they looked like clouds to the other monks sitting below their priest's high chair, save for the rivers of warm gravy that poured down its sides. Then there were the enormous loaves of sweet bread, freshly baked with a crust that was just as satisfyingly crunchy as the bread was smooth and soft. These their priest used to sop up the leftover juices of his meal before he called for dessert.

For this reason, he weighed over 350 pounds, and while this didn't trouble him much while he was sitting on his chair all day, saying all manner of wise things such as: "Wash your hands before you prepare food," and "Be sure to cook meat in particular very thoroughly," it did make certain other things rather a nuisance. Walking, for instance. However his dream had told him that if he was to remain priest and continue to eat all these fine things, he must journey once more to the top of the monastery's sacred hill. He wasn't entirely sure anymore where this information had come from, but he knew he would not be able to say any more wise things unless he did as the message had said. And so off he went.

It took him the better part of the day to reach the foot of the hill, by which point his sandles had been stretched to the point where they served him no more use and he had been forced to leave them in them in the mud that had formed about him as he went because of all the rivers of sweat that poured off his body. By the time he got to the hill, in fact, he was so short of breath that all he could do at first was lie in the fresh mud and breathe as deeply as he could, arms and legs splayed out to the side. Any passers by may very well have thought him dead, or at any rate so close to it that to end his life would have seemed more mercy than punishment. However, after some time had gone by, he felt restored enough to continue his journey once more.
Tentatively, he stood, his middle noticabely swaying from side to side in sharp lurches that disquieted him. He ordered it to stay still and put one barefoot on the incline of the hill. That wasn't so bad. He lifted his other foot to put it above the first, as one did when walking uphill, and promptly fell backwards and found himself flat on his back once more. Dismayed, and slightly embarassed, he heaved himself up and tried again. The first foot was firm on the hillside, sure enough. He raised the other foot, moved it forward and focused all his energy on keeping himself balanced. It was a huge struggle, but before long, he had two feet on the hill. Feeling slightly more cheerful, he took another step, and another and another until his breath began to run out again. He stumbled, slipped and fell flat on his face. Desperately he grasped at the grass as his great weight carried him back down the slick hill until at last he was back at the bottom, several green blades clutched in his fat hands and breathing for the air he knew was there but was for some reason eluding him.

When at last he got up again, he was angry. The other lowly and underfed monks at the monastery could do this, so how was it that he, their religious leader, could not. Surely the Great Buddha who had singled him out from all the others at the top of this very hill wished him to succeed. After all, as everyone knew, the Great Buddha himself had been rather healthily padded as he must have been when he climbed this hill. If he was to demonstrate all of the Great Buddha's power and infinite wisdom AND serve as an example to all those starving low-lives at the monastery who lacked the wit to feed themselves, he had to climb this hill or else go without good dinners for the rest of his life.

Shoving aside thoughts of freshly cooked roast duck topped with cranberry sauce, he began to climb again. Sweat erupted from his pours and streamed forth down his neck and arms and legs almost instantly, soaking through his already drenched tunic. The hill became very slippery underfoot and he was forced to go forward on all fours, which made the going easier since it evened out his weight, for all that the grass tickled his drooping belly something awful as he climbed. However, it wasn't long before he was gasping and wheezing for breath once more. Each tedious, torturous step up the steep hill cost him an enormous amount of energy and he was forced to dig his nails into the soft turf in order to prevent himself from sliding back down to the bottom as he had before.

At last, just when he thought his arms were going to fall off, the ground began to even out. Huffing and puffing he scrambled up the last few feet in a frenzied rush and collapsed at the top, allowing himself to breathe in his triumph! He had done it! He had made it to the top once more, and so would be able to go home that night to his favorite dish of roast pork covered in sweet juices from various fruits, most of which he didn't even know the names of, beside stalks of asparagus that were taught straight as arrows. And for dessert, oh dessert! there would be a pie, no, a cake! Layers upon layers of the softest cake covered with luscious mounds of icing, cool and ever so soothing to his fevered body.

Suddenly, he remembered that he had not seen the view last time he was up here. He had gone straight to sleep after his previous journey and then been so wrapped up in pondering his dream that he hadn't bothered to look around as he made his way back down. The urge to see the valley where he had lived his life suddenly overtook him and he clambered laboriously to his feet. There it was! His home, spread out before him. All the farms and little houses where the ordinary people worked and over yonder was his monastery, the pink cherry trees waving at him in the breeze. Smiling broadly, he waved back as the king would wave to his subjects, then he turned, still waving and saw the hill. He looked up and saw, far above his head, the true summit. He had only made it to a lookout. He had not yet achieved the top, and he knew that he could not continue. There would be no more feasts for him.

It was probably this knowledge that caused his heart, already beating very fast from the climb, to suddenly stop. He teetered for a moment, then spun part way round until he was pointed back the way he had come and collapsed on his face. He rolled all the way back down the hill until he reached the bottom where he was soon found by his monks who had gone out searching for him after he missed dinner. He was quite dead, but this, as they reflected was alright. They now knew to cook their meat thoroughly and wash their hands, which was probably the knowledge the Great Buddha had asked him to impart, and now that they no longer needed to feed him, they could all eat quite well and did so from then on.

Some Poetry from Zach (WW Conferee 2008)

Truths

You,me can we see or are we just blinded truths of the world flash before your eyes a calamity of lies unsaid surprise
-on-our-faces-
look to the west where the red sun sets and darkness ensues at last
truths of the world once aparent now rendered incoherent
-through-lack-of-a-reason-
And the truth comes to the surface that their is no light merely an absence of darkness in an ever darkening world
but still we remain lights in the darkness , ever shining rays of hope


Insanity

You may call me insane but is their something wrong with me
you may call me odd,weird, the filth of humanity
but how dare you question my sanity
Not when you sit in this fraternity of uncertainty the truths of the world laid out before you -unbound- -unhidden- bit still invisible to your eyes
and words come to you as if from a scene of a dream so absene but unwavering in your attention
-allah- -allah- -god- -god- why haft thought forsaken me
and you think to yourself if god could abandon his only son could he be the only one
has god abandoned me or am i the one who is blinded to the world
my existence once so grand so bold almost overpowering
now diminished and nearly extinguished but still a flame remains waiting for fuel to a forgotten passion

Photos from Steev