Armpits

twin earths

hidden holy
lands, in hungry
times

your pilgrim's lips
and tongue 

return night
after night

to linger in fields

of dank tobacco
and jasmine

blossoming
in secret,

together.

armpits

twin earths

hidden holy
lands, in hungry
times

your pilgrim
returns to night
after night.

dank tobacco
and jasmine
blossom

in secret,
together.

The Baltic Sea
in deep November
shimmers like a stone
I remember perched
atop the wobbly
cherry dresser
next to a knob-less
chipped credenza
of my boyhood
home years
before I stepped
to roam.

The Baltic Sea
in deep November
shimmers like a stone
I remember
atop the wobbly
cherry dresser
of my boyhood
home.

Easter Meditation

We are always home

We are always lost

We all vanish into the vast unforeseen

Beyond the lofted stars

Beneath the crusted earth

Before the simpled words

Between all and each

We all wonder

We all worry

We all wander

We are always home

We are always lost

Into that vast unforeseen we all vanish

Beneath the crusted earth

Beyond the lofted stars

Before the simpled words

From mystery unrecalled we all arrived

Out of all into each

Slimy crying bedazzled longing found

And may again arrive to leave and arrive again

Within silence within sound

Bound binding

Becoming unbound

                Restoration

Suddenly you notice 4 or 5 stalks of grasses,

golden and green, each one unique,

swaying and nodding, surrounding your head

as you laze on this earth near the lake

on Sunday alone. They seem modest,

standing at attention in unearned service

to you.

Thanks are offered, once they’ve been seen,

for their protection and care, their

restorative dancing in breezes

and beams of sunlight so thin,

while smiling quietly you inhale sky, 

swallow cool air, praise these birds

of water and trees for their ongoing din,

turn your bony skull over and over

searching for comfort, for home, 

on edges emerging from half-buried stones. 

      Next

Sometimes the next  

necessary step to take

is to stop,

not to step at all,

but to lie down

on cool grasses

near the edge of a lake,

eyes closed, listening to clouds,

tasting wind, cradled by earth,

or to stand still at an arched doorway

next to a tall stranger,

a woman with short brown hair,

where together you face

an unseen inside of perhaps

an ancient church for as long

as it takes,

until either Silence whispers

its subtle language of trembling delight 

or every footprint is swept away,

erased finally in rambling floodwaters

of surprise as a river of fire arises,

wildly flows rousing every cell,

muscle, and shy desire

of your bodies’ once quiescent futures

towards whatever happens
to become
next.