RITUAL 

Reading poetry, a new book

first thing each day

selected from corner’s bookcase,

digested slowly with thanks

and thought,

is my morning prayer. 

May your prayer

nourish and welcome

true becoming,

a heart-strong dawn

vibrant with fresh arrival. 

Curiosity

 

Curiosity, one of the holy virtues. 

It flourishes in rich, dark soil

Of not-knowing where an astonishing 

Horizon arises forever before us

From this same brown fragrant earth. 

Your not-knowing will be birthed forth

Of course from images and experiences

Unique to you—your belly, brain and

Soul’s one of a kind meandering adventure 

Towards the ever arriving horizon 

Where sacred confusion, unexpected clarity

And crucial kindness are rambunctiously

Humbly married. 

     Morning 

Sunshine’s golden breath

Enfolds a swarm

Of pink roses

Haphazardly spilling 

From an old blue vase.

Morning’s unplanned

Happy mingling

Dazzles and perfumes

This sleepy room

Warmly.  

   WRITING

is a sacramental act,

alone and sitting still 

on sun-soaked stones

listening to a bounding stream

washing great blocks

of boulders clean. 

  IN-TEND

Tend and caress

without rush

your bruised tenderness

for holy flesh 

blood and bone

feeling more not less

are dear earth’s 

deep home

mirrored in grief 

and mirth

as waking up

we come as one

to allay all fear

and gently touch

our refreshed

clear souls.  

 Backyard Chorus

A libretto of orange

Blossoms sings

As one voice,

A new vibrant language 

Louder, juicier,

Increasingly more

Wondrous than I

Know how to hear,

And yet I intend 

To never cease

Learning to listen

As I taste,

Wholeheartedly

Savoring,

Springtime’s astonishing

Tunes. 

Cannon Beach Belonging, 1992

His two-foot tall daughter

scampers on packed sand

eyes wide 

alight with glittered surprise. 

Dad trots a foot or two ahead

with a just-bought pink kite 

starting to whip and upturn

in generous sea breezes. 

Wisps of blonde hair scatter 

across her sparkling face, 

the man loudly laughs,

an effervescence now

here, absent for weeks, 

likely much longer. 

A dozen white gulls 

sail above as if to say

“we’re with you too!”; the kite

trembles high higher and

higher 

while these two proudly

cavort to and fro

before them waves topple 

and rise, collapse onto shore

like thunder. 

Mom’s in a thick coat

arms wrapped around herself

standing some yards away. 

Embraced in their frolic,

she’s neither audience nor actor

on this noisy freefalling stage. 

A massive gray rock

beyond the breakers

that locals call ‘Haystack’ 

protectively watches 

their intoxicated play 

like a sober ancient sentry. 

Three decades ahead the man

re-lives this exalted day, 

running grinning, lost in

fluid delight on a sprawl

of windswept beach.

Here at this table 

images of his two year old Princess—

chasing to keep up,

her chubby hand clutching 

a dangling string 

of her first kite named ‘Jasmine’—

aloft swerving in space 

on such a lucky 

cloudless day.

A day erupting 

with pluck enough

to merge with wind, ocean,

hope and stone. 

Now she’s a mom

with her own small beauty 

to chase to hug

hold, tug and release.

They dance 

uplifted together 

on a rumpled couch

while Haystack 

nods then winks

towards Jasmine

and us, seagulls

in sky, my sofa

girls soaring 

gyrating freely

further, rising

and toppling,

like a store-bought kite 

trembling glee-filled

in love’s true

belonging, 

lifted and held

by what’s seen

and unseen, high and 

higher, yes 

ever higher.