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This is a space where men can share their perspectives on their inner journey. The form can be prose, poetry, photographic or handcrafted images. The purpose is to stimulate, even minutely, the transformative process. All art strives to move us to a different place, that place of the soul, that initiatory space, where the call is heard and identity found. Please reverence the space by respectfully entering and sharing.

September, 2000

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Excerpts From "Homecoming" (A poem written in memory of my father)

First Excerpt:

I cannot follow the road home
Without crying
There are no tears falling from my eyes
But silently they drip from my heart

I remember very little
But it makes no difference
In the cemetery
I feel the spirit of their souls
Dark Irish faces shaped by the cold winds of harsh winters
And the chill of late autumn breeze

Great great grandfather came from a land of skeletons
Whose faces wore the fresh green stain of grass... the only food left for the dying
He came from a land of Irish saints who drank too much
A land of poets, charlatans and gamblers
A land of cruel men who would erupt suddenly without reason
A land of poor farmers with houses full of kind and sullen people
A land of churches ministered by angry and scarred men
Who once a week would lash out on Sunday to appease the pain
But a land where occassionally in the oddest of places
A prostitute would sing a sad song
That pierced the heart
Of even the coldest Irishman...

Second Excerpt:
I am sorry you had to watch me die
The coughing...The grasping for breath...
The respirator that everyone wanted to turn off
The nights without sleep
And then to see me
Without saying goodbye
Was not your fault
But simply the Irish way
It was peaceful to leave this shell
And finally let go
Of what I never controlled
You shed no tears, son
Till it was over
Then I heard your wailing at my apartment door

I can tell you son
Even though we did not touch then
My arms are around you now
Sheltering you from the storm
And I will not abandon you
When the darkness finally comes...

James T. Coleman