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Thursday, November 23, 2017


A window in my chest opens,
people below are reading
and thinking, occasionally
talking with one another

on green benches scattered
like rose petals across
a sunlit plaza, like fresh
sentences on first pages

of a novel where something
crucial occurs when least

A young girl, with golden braids
flying behind her, scampers
giggling into a fountain

as two old men, canes at their sides,
cradle cups of espresso, and together
nod toward the child’s delight.

Suddenly a breeze dances across
my face, turns this page

and you arrive
at my window,

First the rowdy adolescents
hit the sky--
three butterflies

spin, dive, and soar
in sudden flutters of ivory and orange.

Just below
their field of play
maturity holds sway.

Four diaphanous wings
touch stillness on a stem
the entire translucent

as tantric partners
glisten and sway,

bravely dancing
with what’s been
missing, holding

your absence close,
        yet still,
             at bay.

Wednesday, November 22, 2017

Mindfulness of the breath,

a single leaf of the backyard
sycamore falling
into earth’s open arms

today. Sense
leaf’s texture
in time between two fingers

alive, pulsing
in the hearth
of afternoon light.

Being present in the body, sensing
muscle and bone, skin and sinew,

locating what is real
in this moment’s
simple physicality

this moment only
found again,
and again,
and again,

in the small passageway
of your shimmering attention,
forever returning

to enter the temple of being,
with a gentle shift

each tree leaf
feeling body
breath infused thought

an attentive spacious home
of quiet knowing,
accepting care.

Saturday, November 18, 2017


The Elk majestic
on a high green hill

gazes forth and far beyond
the world of form and fact,

while Snake beneath sheds
skin after skin,

is earthy, sensation bound,
simply silent, tightly coiled,

and solidly intact.
May the interval we call life
between the secure ground of your being
and the hope-filled sky of your becoming
emanate spaciously abundant blessings.

Thursday, November 16, 2017

                                The Voyage

I am
           for my journey.

This canoe made of birch and ancestors’ bones,
laden with fleece, apples and rye bread, stuffed cabbage
and coffee, a map of charred margins, a rusted nail
ripped from Jozo’s Bosnian home, a ring of blue

lapis my other grandfather, and a photo of lovers—
they’re smiling-- on a great canyon’s edge.

Voices shine friendly through rain-fall and fog across familial waters;
these here in stillness those already gone, while grenades of stars
volcano our love through somnolent skies.

We’ll glide in silence over depths painted with eloping and cancer,
maples and moonshine, soup pots and opera, berry pie ala’mode.

Through silver waters black mud this voyage continues its flowing,
             woven and nourished by dark bread and story
          of Jozo and Ana, Ruth, Langley Raymond and Norma
                    to whom I am now bowing,

                   You are meat for my journey.


Yes, the bed was soft,
like silk, last night.

Sheets so cool they could
have been water. The pillow safely

under my head, a reminder of all
that’s good in the world.

Tucked in cozy and warm
under a nest of covers,

these welcoming layers
blanketed my mind

from drenching rainstorms
of thought.

The body thankful as it leaned
into rest, the promise

of sleep’s quenching

soothed like a friend
curving quietly beside.

As the day’s scattered
shouts diminished,

I fell slowly

easing completely
into dreamtime’s
green earth

of the sweetest unclenching.