Writing Poems.
change is gradual then it happens all at once— somewhere, something tips.
to find joy lose time
Today I’ll play the day away— here along the rocky shore of this prehistoric toy store where free joy can be touched and toppled, balanced and borrowed, toyed with and tempted into latent shapes of sacred possibility. Today I’ll pray the day away— belly full of childlike devotion, all flutter and butterfly, all inner child singing hymns of eager anticipation, songs of sacred splendor. Such joy and magic teems within this endless present. Such force and beauty brims within this infinite gift. Such awe and wonder summons from this sacred self— this body full of blissful, wishful, joyful living this spirit steeped in eager, pleasing, exquisite giving this mind alight in the bright white presence of life.
Love is wanting what you already have, tending what has already been, nurturing what may someday be. Love is a verb-- unraveling always into becoming. Love is kind, compassionate, tender, understanding, inclusive, gracious and graceful, expansive, embracing, sheltering, patient, forgiving, regenerative, eternally evolving and energetically pulsing. Love is cosmic-- complete truth, absolute openness, total belonging. Love is a force-- attractive, complementary, tidal. Love ebbs, flows, comes, goes elsewhere, returns. Love is presence, present, here now. Love is...
listen gently finding guidance without words listen gently sensing preference within quivers listen gently feeling stillness between movements listen gently resting center towards the other listen gently breathing magic from belief listen gently trusting balance into being listen gently grounding self amongst creation
Do NOT let them— fix you to their broken language attach you to their static habit task you with their tragic ask: to live cold and frozen words in this dynamic, verbing world
rarely will a man find occasion to voice a lifetime worth of loss within a single moment “they’re all just glued together!” he assures her as they vanish beyond the bend leaving me to wonder under a lie he tells in earnest how hurt must the hearts of men be to so easily explain away life’s magic how shrinking must our souls be to succumb to such an urgency for answers how sinking must our spirits be to forfeit wisdom from our wonder how dim must our light be to sacrifice our wholeness as penance for our birth how massive is the loss— for him for her for all of us still needing to trust in something larger than just us.
most see patience where there is little few see prayers where there are many only one ever saw what truly was a man playing with gravity
look slowly unto this unfolding a pink dawn drifts towards purple morning as rock piles awaken to their sacred shapes look humbly upon this unfolding a hundred million mornings all tumbling into now— as undanced splendors assemble from this stone look long unto this unfolding a prehistoric poetry blinking into existence— as magic we may witness
dance one stone atop another sense it settle into center fingers quiver on release linger longer than feels needed ego always wants to let go early yet collapse is always closest in the moment of surrender
strange are the ways both poets and the cosmos tell themselves into being i, the poet addled and adrift it, the universe grounded and whole found ourselves together along the rocky shore of irony i, the poet desperate to reach bottom it, the universe certain it could hold me we gave ourselves over to the other, trusting that something good could come of this that something pure could be made from pain that something worthy of our devotion would be found among rock piles willing to hold our sacred vision— if only i, the poet were to ask and it, the universe kept on listening
I think when I am lonely I leave myself behind— traveling elsewhere into a field of despair always taking good care to send back harsh remittance to the body-mind I leave behind. I think when I am lonely I need only to invite myself back— from the brink of an existence happening anywhere but here. I think when I am lonely I have wandered only moments from home— and may sail home on the wide wake of a deep inhale whenever I choose.
Some nights a man knocks down rocks I’ve cared enough to balance. I only know so because he tells me the next morning. I did not ask him then what I know to ask him now. What difference can be made between he who returns to earth what wind and waves will do anyhow? What difference can be made between the urges of a man whose bounty is destruction and a tide which claims the same? What difference can be made between a man’s solid, wounded urging and the silent fury visiting in the wind? What difference can be made between man and (his) nature— are they not together lashing out? Ripping limb from ancient limb, leaving unsuspecting beauty crumbling in their wake. Are they not together asking— what difference can be made between the hurting of this earth and of ourselves?
can we please celebrate life’s original quirk what we’re casually calling BIRTH— is actually a spontaneous initiation onboard an eight thousand mile wide spherical spaceship named EARTH! whether we asked or not we’re all born astronauts riding atop a sacred spaceship trying to take as many great trips around earth's nearest energy supply ship SUN! each and every one of us woven from exploded star stuff we’ve got stardust in our bellies churning since our birth. we feel it swirling in our hearts as we yearn to serve the earth we feel it blossom in our mind as we seek to find a why we feel it pulsing in our hearts from where love may always start we feel its presence in our breathing present in our being— as an urge to understand and an impulse to make meaning from this mysterious experience pulsing within all of us urging, yearning, calling us to live the gift in all of us to trust the source that’s asking more of us so we may bring forth the beauty, joy and awe in us and free the genius stored in us!