Doug Anderson: We Get Old, We Get Sick
How we stumble, are glib
in the face of our fear
when we might show
our own raw heart
Doug Anderson: What if I wrote a poem
About being seventy-seven
and trying not
to speculate how long I’ve got left
Doug Anderson: Be Whole Again Beyond Confusion
The young blame us for everything that is wrong
with the world, as if we’d plotted it that way
just to torment them, as if poisoned
the very land we’re standing on. Some of us did.
Doug Anderson: Put Your Hand In My Wound
Jesus out of his tomb and wandering
among the rotting corpses in Ukraine,
dragging his bandages behind him.
Doug Anderson: Not a Buddhist Buddhist
I’ve been doing a Buddhist practice now for some years. I’m not a Buddhist. I’m not “enlightened” nor do I see myself as superior to anyone else. I would never … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: When the Soldiers Came
They found the old monk Cheng Liu
sitting in meditation at the Temple gate
and shot him full of arrows.
Doug Anderson: Questions
Won’t you take off your mask no, not that mask
but the one you’ve made with the muscles of your face
a shield of hide can you let it go
James Dubinsky: Veterans turned poets can help bridge divides
Today, there are approximately 20.17 million veterans – 7 percent of the U.S. population. That’s more than 20 million stories, along with the stories of their loved ones. Sometimes poetry is the most effective way to capture both the ambiguity and the story.
Doug Anderson: Monsoon
Up river, the rich
are counting their gold
and hiring armies to protect them.
Doug Anderson: The Gravestone and the Continuing Self
When I was in my twenties I thought old age was an island only accessible by a bridge I’d never cross. But I’ve crossed it, and at seventy-eight the subject … Continue reading
Doug Anderson: Negative Capability
…art that honors the art and artist as well as its content, and apprehends it as more than its socio-political reality. Art is hard to do and not everybody can do it. It is not merely a pretext for theory.
Doug Anderson: The Tyrant
The people beat him so badly
that afterward
they could not distinguish him
from the pigs the rebels slaughtered
Doug Anderson: Is this my hand?
Come home, prodigal,
and sit with me. We’ll watch
the film together and laugh.
Doug Anderson: Six-thirty AM
And the black lines the trees made at sundown yesterday
in one direction now point the other, saying
see what you missed in your life that was there all the time.
Vox Populi 