October 12, 2020
The apocalypse isn’t coming
You and I will still be here tomorrow
We will still have work to do
Tomorrow and the next day
We will continue putting one foot in front of the other
There is no far off future and no far off past
There is just you and me
And work to do,
I will be with you for all of it
September 26, 2020
I went and laid down in the grass on my stomach and spoke to the flowers gathered there.
“Your highnesses, the ambassador will be arriving shortly,” I said to the buttercups, daisies, lillies, roses, orchids, lupines, mallows, sedges, irises, gentians, and magnolias.
Just then, a procession of acorns fell and landed on my back.
“Ah, the dignitaries!” I shouted, “They are arriving!” as I hurried to prepare the state residence. “Wait right there,” I said to the acorns.
A great kiskadee flew in. “They’re here!” he whistled.
Just then, a turquoise-browed motmot swooped down and landed with his long, royal plumage of turquoise feathers.
“Your majesty,” I said, bowing low. “We haven’t had time to prepare the palace for your stay yet. I hope you don’t mind waiting.”
“Oh, it’s fine,” said the turquoise-browed motmot. “I can just get a hotel.”
September 2, 2020
OBSERVATIONS OF RAIN
I sit and look out over the green hill country
As rain is driven across it,
This rain is like me
Like so many feelings passing over my synapses
Happiness, sadness, love, fear,
People say that the poems about rain are about sadness, but it is not so,
You see, the rain nourishes all
It nourishes the land into its verdant beauty
It falls on all alike
The old, hard-hearted crags,
The twisted boughs,
The tender, green shoots,
Dappling the petals of daisies,
Our emotions guide us towards actions more in line with our true feelings
If we are willing to listen,
The rain offers another chance
To get it right
I know that the grace of rain is never ending
August 24, 2020
You can say anything
You know all the words
July 24, 2020
“Old man!” I whispered.
He motioned with a downward wave of his hand for me to scoot forward and take my place next to him and his friend in the hunting blind made out of gold grasses and palm leaves.
We had been waiting all week for the dark beast to appear, and now its great black furry rump could be seen just above the golden grasses, which were taller than a person. I would guess that the beast stood eight feet tall at the shoulder. The old man silently drew back his arrow, pulling it right next to his eye in a maze of grizzled white beard. With a whisk, the arrow was loosed, a scream went up, and the beast went off crashing through the brush. Soon all sounds ceased altogether. It was a good shot.
Standing above the beast it was vast, and it induced an almost out of body type feeling in me as my mind tried to dissociate itself from the horror I felt. It’s many arms and legs splayed out in all directions, its body covered with eyes, its one great paw facing upward. We stuck it in particular places with a knife to drain its blood, and I took the great paw and observed it in my hand. The enormous lobed triangles of its central pad were black and soft to the touch, and the hair covering it was soft, smooth, and black.
We loaded it up in our cart pulled by two donkeys, and began our slow trip up the hill to the old man’s house on the sea cliff that would take the rest of the day. We arrived after dusk and began unloading the beast.
The old man’s house was a glass dome that stood above the cliffs and cliff islands of the sea coast. Once we were inside of the glass dome with the beast, the old man began demonstrating to me how we would preserve the food so that it would keep. Taking out the beast’s organs one at a time, he demonstrated.
“Cassiopeia” he said, taking one shiny organ and hanging it from the ceiling.
Taking out another organ, this one longer, “Draco”, and placed it on the hanging rack nail in the ceiling.
As we continued taking out organs, he continued naming them so that I would learn.
One by one they were all placed to hang on the dome.
Taking out the large intestine with a glint in his eye, he motioned me right over close so that I could see what he was pointing at.
Pointing to three lacunae, he said, “See how these first two lacunae are farther apart?”
“The second two lacunae are closer together,” he continued.
“That’s how you know that this one is major.”
He held the organ up to his mouth and blew into it. It made a sound.
“Ursa Major,” he said, placing it in the ceiling.
He took out another bit, this time from the small intestine.
Pointing to three lacunae, he said, “See how these first two lacunae are closer together?”
“Yes,” I said.
“The second two lacunae are farther apart,” he said.
“Yes,” I nodded.
“Ursa Minor,” he said, placing it in its place in the ceiling.
We continued to work throughout the night, placing all of the pieces in the ceiling.
“Tomorrow they will dry in the sun and be preserved,” he said. “We can enjoy them in our own time.”
July 14, 2020
Piled high on the beach
Rhapsodies of the eternal song giver
July 4, 2020
THE SINGER’S PUPPET SHOW
While the singer keeps singing
Tattoos and signs are scrawled across his face
His beard grows, lassos are thrown,
And all manner of obscene things occur around the place
An incantation, a revelation, a testimonial of sorts,
Reeling verses from diverse sources to make play and sport
The puppeteers bring forth their puppets for the puppet show
The solar disc in the center, bright golden in its glow
Swaying layers of stacked waves, are bobbing to and fro
Round a tiny boat with a joyous garden
Of gold grass in its hull
The fisherman sits in the boat, his line arced over yonder
Beyond the trim pool of slabs of red and clear green water
For what is it that’s brought us here?
For what are we all gathered?
As his line is arced beyond the shelter of our swagger
The marionettes are like a heaven, visionary and homespun
The tale it sits in people’s laps while babies hit home runs
The fisherman reels in his line, his hat made of won ton
While others slept, and some forget
You went fishing for the sun
June 29, 2020
I am the servant of a very strange mistress
She asks me to play invisible guitars
And wear invisible hats
That are ridiculous looking
She asks me to strum invisible lyres
And sing silent songs
She likes sweet songs
She tells me to sing quieter
But I can’t
When I am singing silent songs
How does one please such an audience?
That asks you to play songs
That no one expects to hear
She likes to make the hidden known
June 29, 2020
I’ve assembled the musicians for you
I’ve placed the baton in your palm
Towards the horizon
This is the staff
These are the scales
These are schools of fish
This is the running river
Those are the mountains over there
These are the great tufts of grass
I can’t keep breaking my heart open again
If you are not listening
When I want to reach out and touch you
There are never enough silences
The slender shaking boughs
Of diaphanous cacophonous leaves
That come trickling down
Who has heard of the slender willow wand
That bends in repeating circles over still pools?
That can stretch out in mirror worlds
Underneath the water
I haunt the slender pools but I don’t know where they are
I am always eager to gaze into their depths
Where shafts of light illuminate strange stones that I cannot reach
Though I’ve seen myself throwing them
In photographs that purport to record the event
I suppose I picked them up but I don’t know how I did it
The lion’s mane pool of grass is pocked with the haunches of the lion
But its step-son is nearly as pale as the zebra’s whiteness
Without its stripes the zebra is a pale white horse
And the stripes can be used for other purposes
Not wholly unknown to people in the business
If you prick your finger with these delicate roses
Sweet blood pours forth
Roses have come into this world with a vengeance
Not merely content to show their beauty
They wish to visit their beauty upon you
In their way they ask that you loosen your grip
I have but one purpose on this earth
And it does not involve roses
June 7, 2020
I wanted for you a paradise of storms
Where from out of its heart sweet music pours
Angels know nothing of the sweetness of your eyes
As your majestic melodies ruffle even my closest feathers
And your bull’s tail disappears in the mist surrounding your darkened visage
What a gaze!
The release that follows leaves all in tranquil beatitude
Your brow slackened, your arms and shoulders release their grip,
And light winds dance on the waters, quiet after storm
Wave upon wave come in from the ocean
In clean and organized lines in a procession fit for kings and bandits
Azure waters ruffled by only the slightest dance of breezes
As white foam rolls in in perfect designs
The beast in your heart is sleeping
The fish can return in great number to be caught in yellow fishermen’s nets
Splashing and flashing their bright perfect scales
May 19, 2020
Me quería una tortilla de mi tía
Me encantan las tortillas en sus sillas
Las tortillas brillan y los niños se ríen
Se caen en sus sillas riéndo
May 15, 2020
I have set your temples, palaces, wardrobes
With a new bonnet I wish for you to wear
Crumpled, it has the rainbow in its folds
Expanded, it howls and whimpers and begs for no more
Bedraggled, it is trailed out, long beyond the sea
Scraping the ceilings into a world that is without color
Of what resonances have the ladies been speaking?
Whose voices resound within these halls?
Whose whispers will give breath to new bodies?
When vapor has gone out of them and choruses bend over
Once more will proceed their fanfare
Returning to the land of their inheritance
Spreading garlands of sweet smelling perfumes
Their bouquet full, their basket empty
Rescinding in a glimmer
Just as the bonnet has come to sit
May 14, 2020
Standing in the sun,
Where children play
Where priests pray
Where fishermen catch some,
The flocks are flocking
Flocking here in great number
Flocking with abandon in from the tundra,
Under the island is
Sand, sand, sand
Nothing but sand,
Cool waves formed the island
And cool waves will break it
But not yet,
For now it is the longest unbroken barrier island in the world
A marvel of peace, tranquility
And the Earth’s spin in action
April 19, 2020
My oikos is home
My kitchen is a river bank, that’s where the good snacks are
There’s always plenty of fresh water flowing by
The bathroom is a wetland, be careful not to get stuck
The living room is an open prairie, with it’s high blue ceiling and wide open spaces, pocked with stars
My bedroom is a forest, with big drifts of leaves
It’s cozy and dark with strong walls
The laundry room is the beach
I’m thankful for the tides that sweep the sand clean
April 10, 2020
I like it when the sounds hit the other sounds
When the board slides up into the curl of the wave
Like a feather floating on its own circles of air that go rushing down
Providing lift, from nowhere
To go soaring in the sky
I like it when the sounds hit the other sounds
And the harmony is created
I would send this sound to hit that sound
And see what happens
When they collide together
God wondered what the magic of sound is
And he made music
His children are always playing with it
To delight their father
He likes our sounds
Our joyous flight into the unknown
With just a wing and a wave
And a silent wink
And a goodbye
Into the unknown
March 11, 2020
While you were out
We came in and set up shop under the awnings,
We built out a few of the stalls
We checked the walls and the timbers,
Those ones over there needed propping up
We shook dust out of the rafters
But we found it will work just fine
We hope you don’t mind
February 28, 2020
The hunter, with his belt of stars, taught me to fix my gaze
The water-bearer brought me visions of the after
The crescent moon said, “I’ll be here in a little while”
The north star told me not to worry
The bear’s ass is very big
Counting stalks of corn rustling in the field,
I await harvest
Listening to my friends’ stories
A campfire beneath the sky is never boring
February 28, 2020
Smooth sand is cleared by the water
Old utensils are patched and their holes are filled
Worn clothes are bleached by the sun
Skin is cut by movement, and scars are healed with time
Dead leaves and branches are cleared by the wind
Grace is acquired by practice
Strings are tuned with dexterity
Time goes marching on
Leaving no memory
February 28, 2020
What color am I today?
I am red like the setting sun
I am lavender like the scent of so many orchards
I am orange, like citrus
I am green, like leaves
I am blue, like lost footsteps
February 28, 2020
My ragtime rituals have placed
one beautiful step below my feet
One below, one above,
One to walk on, above, below,
In the sky.
One step in the sky
In the spheres
Among the spheres
I am like unto the other bodies
Facing east, facing west
Containing the light of several suns
I am vast in my similitude
Like a point that cannot contain its essence
I dance among the heavenly bodies
February 25, 2020
A tear is like the sea
I have salt in me
I have the Ocean in me
in my blood
In all of my salty secretions I am like unto the Sea
I carry the Sea in me
The story of my origins as life
formed in the oceans
The entire story of evolution
from fish to man and the journey hereafter
As all rivers move towards the Sea
My destination is in me too
I am the compass hairs by which I steer
And still on and on I sail
February 25, 2020
I wrote you that letter
Remember home? Do you remember school?
Do you remember the kid who sat there and said we will conquer this world and show them the magic that exists?
I’ve been hiding out for months, for years on my particular shores,
Bottling waves, bottling cosmic energy, and sending them around the world.
Sending the story of our loves, our triumphs, our struggles, our humanity.
Dreams have been broken, life-flighted out in helicopter, taken in ambulances
We sat in waiting rooms,
In birth rooms,
In church halls and ashram floors
We have travelled the lengths of the world
I still dream of that kid’s dreams
I still listen to his favorite songs
His yearning is not lost on me.
My temperance has taken me far
My desire to be close to you, friend, has taken me far
But I still dream that dream
Take heart friend
All has gone according to plan
Even when the train was off the rails
Even in the dying light of setting suns
And in new dawns far off and close at hand
A journey never-ending
A longing to be close to the light
A life lived according to one’s truest compass
Even as these words were scrawled across this page
Even as this hand goes ceaselessly scraping to capture that light and show your light to you
I make it my charge
To realize his dreams
February 25, 2020
I wish I could bottle up the ocean for you
That I could package the way the light shines through the green-blue lip of a wave from below
The spray of the offshore in the breeze
The rainbows that go cascading down
In the hiss
The pelicans that fly so gracefully
The hissing of the foaming eddies
A bottle of the ocean would hold in microcosm the swirling mysteries of all in one small tear
There is salt in me too
Of God, of all, of one in all
November 24, 2019
Rain falls softly on all
Nourishing the grass, the trees, and the prairie alike
A soft, sweet, ocean wind
That graces the fathers of the mountains
And the mothers of the sea
I have not found the source of rain
But as yet I think it is neverending
Its grace is neverending
Its song will never end
November 7, 2019
THE CATHEDRAL OF SOUND
The cathedral of sound;
Valleys of sound
Quiet mountain peaks of sound
Rivers of song
Village streets of sound
Vibrating massifs of sound
Quiet drops in pools of sound, reverberating
Tremendous, braying, laughing, pacific,
Lapping in long melodious twirls
The sound goes on and on
I will not die no untimely death
I will be met with epiphany and rapture
In the hearts of the brave
My playing is true
And from seashores wet
In hearts like dew,
I sing, I sing, I sing
October 12, 2019
I came into the world like a fish in a net,
Thrust from the sea,
My scales still wet,
Gasping for breath,
Pleased by the faces of many hungry fishermen,
Take my body
I will make a dinner for you and your family
Dipped, battered, baked, and fried
Throw out my scales,
Forget the bony bits,
And know, yes, this is the taste of the salty sea
October 11, 2019
THE JEWEL THIEF
I haven’t come here to pick daisies
I have come to steal the jewels
Long ago, a king took down the stars,
Emerald, sapphire, blood stone, jade,
And setting them in place
in his royal hall under the sun.
I will continue my vagabond life,
Until his jewels are mine
I will again place them
in the heavens and say,
This is your inheritance
October 11, 2019
I make time to busy myself
with this and that
in the land of the strange
Some rich hobo
in a rich land of iniquity
Dreaming of stars, seashores,
my lost brother’s fishing boat
Some high island
In a land of misfits and children
July 24, 2019
I thought to myself,
“You have no more songs,”
But as I touched pen to paper
I found I had millions of songs
Millions and millions of them
All waiting to come out,
I looked down at my stomach and saw emptiness
I looked forward and my friend was gone
All I could see,
All I could taste,
How can emptiness keep on singing?
Is not a hollow gourd a great vessel?
March 28, 2019
I will dive down and let this wave pass over me
The memories of broken bones dashed on rocks are still too fresh in my mind
Of shattered dreams, and recompense,
No, I will dive down and hold on to the sandbar
A hill under starry skies
A curve of the earth beneath night skies
Knowing and unknown are all the same here
I will let winds whip across the land
Their fingers thrash at me
But tear me not
And with memory I will pass from this world beyond all knowing
I have time to wait
All the time
And there are other waves coming
Friend, it is wave after wave
March 20, 2019
There is wanton grace and power available at your fingertips
If you give in to fear
You will be left without a rope
Trust in hope
Trust in yourself
And you will have found a way through
February 25, 2019
I draped my darling in golden light
I took the song of a tiny, golden hummingbird
And placed it on her crown
In the afternoon light, reflections bounced off of the walls and the ceiling
My house was bathed in golden light
Dancing leaves and reflections
I quite forgot whether I was alone
Bathed in harmony
Shining in my own brilliance
February 2, 2019
I fell asleep in the dunes
Where grass grows and rustles in the wind,
Time has extended me a hand
And I am lost in wanderings
Of unquenched thirst
On vast horizons
Near and far,
Dripping drops incessantly
On tired heads and grass stalks
Too busy worrying about sunshine
To have much of a care anyways,
Grass will go on waving
Don’t you know?
Seas will play their tunes,
You just have to be there
When the time comes
To sing a note
November 21, 2018
It was a quiet night and all the stars were out
And the moon came to sit by a pool
“Why so lonely?” asked the pool to the moon
“Do you have any friends?”
“I am the only,” said the moon, “and this pool is my only reflection”
With that a great big tear fell down from the moon’s face,
It lingered on his cheek, that big tear drop,
It hung as if suspended,
And as it fell from his cheek, all of time stood still.
The cosmos, journeying near and far, began its spin,
Stars, galaxies, planets, meteors,
All came into being in an instant
Swirling and expanding,
All leapt into being
And the moon wasn’t alone anymore
It was a quiet night and all the stars were out
August 19, 2018
Where do hiccups hide?
As soon as you try to find them
they are gone
Lost, beyond even memory
You too can be this way sometimes
One moment, a flurry of work
The next, quietly sleeping
In deep repose on the lap of afternoon,
After all of this
I still sit wondering
What are hiccups?
May 8, 2018
I see now that they are attainable
The great in the past
Had nothing more
Than what you and I have
I will set to work
I will do, I will make
I will think for myself
What thou art
I will see my dreams through
September 13, 2017
If everything and everyone is a mirror,
Then what are we reflecting?
August 20, 2017
Early in the morning
Church choirs fill the airwaves
And the dust settles,
The sun has not yet bent around the curve of the earth
The air is cool,
Between the stars
There is space.
Space to wonder
To think, to do
When winter comes on that cool morning
I will rest
In bliss and infinitude
Wondering at the stars
That arc and change through my being
Delight at that majesty
Faint sea breezes
Carried on a dawn wind
The red cloud
A hint of salt
How I long to dive into that wave
Twisting and turning
To find my own
Like to like
I am a mist of dawn and dew
In the advent of dewdrops
June 21, 2017
It’s 100 degrees out, and traffic slows to a crawl. Goats are bleating in the distance. A lonely shepherd watches his flock above a sun-drenched sea.
“Yes my goats wander here and there,” he says to nobody and everybody at once. “Sometimes they eat grass and sometimes they eat hay.”
The heat bakes away all semblance of solitude, and the wind whips away all things to hold on to.
“Autumn is not far away.”
In this solitude, the shepherd watches his flock. Sometimes watchful, yes, but sometimes merging into an infinitude of silences. Puddles skip on rocks. Drops dance on infiniti. The lion lays low, and the watchful eye is sleeping.
Sleeping over the bay. Sleeping over the horizon. Sleeping over dawn and dew, and fluffy stuff.
Where in this silence can be found a word?
“Where can I find a raindrop?” asked the shepherd, languidly skipping stones across the bay.
Speaking from sparkles is easy enough, but dawn, that is a difficult task. Who can hold up the night? Who can hoist the sky above their shoulders and shout, “I see you dawn.”
“I see you hiding in the infinitude of the horizon. I see you dance in the crest of waves. I see you burst into tears that sparkle like raindrops. I see you bend low, a red slab, in pools. Let us not forget that it was you that called this meeting, dawn.”
Just then, a cloud eclipsed the sun, and the flock all drew near, the herd, resounding, shuffling their feet.
The shepherd lifted his weary head, and said, “Come down sun, and tell me what you have to say, or leave me alone forever more with my sheep.”
“I do not like this play.”
April 1, 2017
As a man, I stand
I’m a partner to lean into while dancing
I’m a rock
I’m a bearded man who can get my belly moving,
and kick around on the dance floor
I can be myself when other things around me are threatening to unseat me
And in that place
Where I stand
A moonlit pool
A deep watery eye
Which can hold you, make you feel safe
Tell you a story you might like
A true story
One that goes all the way home
And ends nicely
March 2, 2017
THE FLOWER-STREWN PRAIRIE
Heat plumes rise over land moistened by rain drops,
Their billowing majesty rising in the air
Oh the wide, lake-pocked prairie
As the lone wanderer in this land, I splash in its pools,
Gazing at the reflection of clouds
Rising over the grassy prairie, strewn with white flowers
Call to the ocean, saying,
Feel the warmth of my breath.”
And the ocean returns
With volleys of storms, gales, thunderheads,
Marching across the prairie
Burns the vapor of those marching clouds,
And freezes them gracefully in their forms
Over the flower-strewn prairie
February 11, 2017
You taught me a secret gift,
“Love me as I am”
January 30, 2017
As I cast my boat from the shore
I asked the soft white light,
How shall I steer?
“With your hands,” came the reply.
How shall I see?
“With your eyes.”
“This boat touches all shores of the Earth.”
Where, then, is my homeland?
“In your heart.”
I thanked the soft white light
And basked in its warm embrace
“I’d best be getting started,” I said
January 27, 2017
I planted a seed, in the depths of winter,
From out of my mouth,
And now you are tall, orange tree,
Your branches stretching towards the sky,
Now your fruits are falling to the ground,
Now they lie discarded on the grass,
With nobody to eat them.
November 26, 2016
I hung out with Lawton today
A ton of Pies
A bus ful of law
Blissful law bus colliding with you
I Forged it into a Key for a vine
Which we climbed to the sky
And we looked out on a cloudy scene
Above the mountains
And giggled a bit
April 13, 2016
My friends are like dandelion seeds,
Blown into the wind
One lands here, one lands there
One is in lakes in the north country, a land of many still lakes
One is like a fire on the mountainside
Where rain gardens make big puddles, in the rain
One shakes dates, makes salsa
With work gloves on, and his butt protruding
Well, I dream.
From beneath fern fronds
On the subway
January 17, 2016
COLORS GO ON SOARING
He sat there, looking out over the ridge. He was getting ready. He knew he would have to go sooner or later, and so it might as well be sooner. That was best. He looked out from his perch on the ridge, over the foggy and mist-shrouded valley. The trees were damp with it, and a cool breeze flowed in from the sea somewhere far away.
He looked down at the frog in his pocket, who asked him in perfectly plain and clear English, “will there be wind and rain when we make it there?”
“Probably,” he said. “Heck, what do I know.”
He thought about it for a moment. He had been wanting to go for a long time, but somehow had always managed to put it in the back of his mind, and he regretted that. He thought of something more to add to the frog,
“The wind and the rain have always been my home. I know it. And if there wasn’t any wind and rain, I wouldn’t have any home!” he exclaimed. “I’ve always felt like it was kind of sweet, ya know, the wind and the rain. The way they beat you, and caress you. It’s real.”
The frog looked thoughtful but didn’t reply.
He rose up from his seat on a pile of rocks among the scrubby trees, and walked back down towards the valley. He had a dry stacked stone home there, circular and polygonal in shape, and with light leaking out from inside. It sat in a high place, that, although it was at the bottom dip in a small bowl-shaped canyon, it sat high on a ridge in a steep side canyon. It was a reasonably weather-beaten place; you felt the weather there.
He entered the house. Various things were hanging from the ceiling: drying herbs, big bundles of dry flowers, a boat oar, and a beautiful shiny and weatherbeaten guitar. I lovely golden-wooded thing that kept a perfect tune. He pulled down the guitar and plucked a few notes from its strings. He thought about that land far away, the land of songs, and began to sing:
You are like the ocean, and I am your banyan tree
You are the sun, and I am reflected in your moonbeam
You exist in all minds, and you exist in me
I ride your blissful waves of infiniti, ever on shall I seek Thee
You are like the north pole
And I am a compass needle lying at your feet
Then he thought of that lovely Bengali tune his teacher had taught him. How did it go? He plucked a few notes to try and find the tune, and began to sing:
Tomare monone, nide jagorone, din more chule jai theme nahi royiioooyyy
O Lord, meditating on You, in sleep and wakeful state, my days pass without any pause.
In the resonance of vitality, in golden dream, colours go on soaring, without speaking a thing.
How many times did I come, I have forgotten. How many houses I built, I have no account.
The cremation places and birth rooms have dissolved into one.
The end of the movement path, I am unable to search and an endless song of movement I sing in the mind.
Thus I forget the difference between close and far. You are there and I am there.
Both become singular.
He pulled a large net down from the roof, and he slung it onto his back like a backpack, and began throwing all kinds of things into it: seashells, beautiful things, broken things, scary things, yes, and a million tear drops, yes they were all there.
“Sir, is everything going?” asked the frog, a little taken aback.
“Yes! Everything!” said the boy with vitality, piling on even more of his treasured things.
“They’re all coming with us… The frog, and the snake.”
He tossed them onto his back.
The fox scurried up him.
“The tooth fairy.”
She appeared, waving her wand, and then disappeared.
“A million grains of sand.”
These poured out of the ceiling and onto the bag.
“And tiny, tiny, snow flakes,” he said, scrunching up his face and holding his thumb and forefinger together close to his eye.
“Yes! They’re all coming!”
“I almost forgot the crickets! The crickets! They’re chirping!”
And indeed they were. The sound resonated like there were thousands of them, millions of them on a summer night.
He tossed in the sound of the crickets.
“What about the children?” exclaimed the frog.
“Or course!! They’re coming too!”
And the boy picked up all the little children that were standing around. Little girls, little boys, with curly hair, and straight hair, and giggling faces, and added them precariously onto his toppling large bag. These were real life children, mind you, and they giggled to be riding on top of such a bag. But they were light as a feather. The whole bag was lighter than if it were filled with air.
“We’re off!” he shouted, and ran out the door, walking stick in hand.
He emerged into a bright morning. The fog had lifted into a light and distant white haze, filling the sky like pollen. And the sun was shining, and the fog scattered the million rays of the sun.
The boy, with his big bulging pack on his back, made his way up the mountain, humming a tune: something about a road.
Now, when he had made it to the top of the Bald Ridge, the highest point on that shoulder of land, he stopped to rest only to realize that the fox– who had been riding on his back– at some point on the way had gotten down, snuck ahead, and beat him to the top, all without anybody noticing it. The fox was very smart. He sat there on the ridge on big loose boulder, awaiting their arrival, looking a bit like a thin old Japanese man with a mustache. You see, the fox was a master of shapes.
“You look like a gardener,” said the fox, with a slightly sardonic and mocking air. “I didn’t know turtles could be gardeners.”
“Well,” answered the boy, “I think I’m more of a guarder. I’m protecting these things. When new shoots and leaves are tender, they need a little extra protection, that’s why they wait until spring.”
“I’m sure that’s true in some multiverse,” said the fox, sarcastically. Then with renewed mirth and a chuckle, “Let’s be getting on.”
Everybody had a big drink of clear mountain spring water from a big glass jug in the boys net-like backpack, and then again they clambered onto the bag, and the boys light feet continued up the mountain.
They walked for most of the morning until they reached the top of the peak. It was surprisingly flat on the top, like a dome, with a bare rocky peak in the middle. It was still hazy and bright when they reached the top of the peak, and again, the fox sat there, waiting for them.
This time, he had begun to look a bit like a snake, but a good natured one, even a little bit silly. He sat there with his tail coiled and standing straight, rocking a little back in forth in joy and ecstasy at their height.
“Did you ever find out what was in that box?” the snake asked, lovingly.
The boy looked down to the black box. He was holding it in his hands. It had some golden inlay was shiny its surface. He held it back.
“No. And I probably never will.”
The boy brought down his backpack carefully on the earth at that spot. He set them down, and slowly unpacked all of his things. It felt angelic to be standing there, and he reflected, introspective, on what it had meant to him, coming there. He was like an angel, and all of his little friends and toys were looking back at him, shining and smiling, with fresh faces and anticipation.
“At last I no longer have to be a reflection. I can shine in my own light,” he said.
The boy felt like a snowflake, caught in bright sunshine. As he came forth and melted in the glory of that sunshine, he thought with a smile of all the love that he had ever felt, and knew it would never go anywhere. It would always be right there with him, because it’s who he was.
November 18, 2015
I stared into his eyes
And we discussed the love of our hearts
The love our families helped us to feel
We discussed the pain
The longing for an existence
Quite outside our own
I stared into his eyes
I listened, as we discussed blackbirds
Those painful, unsurprising moments, that drown us in despair and fear
And a longing for the unbounded
Like those blackbirds
Those blackbirds that said to me, “I will not leave your bosom”
“A dark spot in your heart
I will remain here, with thee”
That’s the mystery, you see
Of those blackbirds
Yet I can hear their sweet song ringing in your voice
I can hear their soft wings beating in your cries
I can see them sparkle in the soft light surrounding your cheeks, nose, and eyes
It’s a long road, you see
And there were so many blackbirds along the way
There are these victories, you see
Where I hear blackbirds, singing
I say, “hooray for blackbirds”
September 29, 2015
This is where I hide my shadow
Among the raindrops and the acorns
In the cool early autumn night
May 3, 2015
Shake the piano keys out of your hair: dischordant, heavenly harmonies.
Porpoises, dolphins, whales, are all dying to be backstage, close to You.
Look at me one more time with such Love and affection, and my heart will burst into song.
What a surprise! On your birthday, it’s my birthday too! Into my true nature: joy, harmony, and endless bliss.
April 14, 2015
A secret flower,
filled with tears,
dusted with pollen through the years,
the mystic bliss inside us all,
Whither, will you?
Blow out my candle flame?
I want to drift on a higher plane.
“The sensitivity you need,
no intellect can buy”
It’s heart’s intuition that’s love’s supply.
November 8, 2014
When you touched me
One petal fell.
One fragrant petal
Left resting still on the surface of the water
Water without end.
Betrayed the secret laughter of millions
And I laughed too!
You have made all of my crooked lines straight,
I am now in tune.
Won’t you play me?
November 7, 2014
YOUTH AND THE GOLD OF DAYS
Oh bird of dawn,
Sing to me your song
Sing to me your song of the dawn
As though it were the morning of the Earth
Of flower buds
Of dew therein
O rhapsodies of the eternal song-giver
What lights the dawn
Whence creation springs from flowers
Whence water trickles with resonance
Whence flowers bloom in harmony
Where is thy sky, bird?
Who sets thy song in my heart?
Who has taught you to go on singing in this way?
You know that love that makes the world go round
“Wait! What is it!?”
Birds were chirping.
“Is that it?”
The two waited silently on the side of the bank. What was it they were waiting for? The bank gently cradled them, like children in a womb. The song was sweet. The air was soft. Nothing but the truth spoke to them at that moment.
Then they were off. Although the gold of the air shimmered about them like a mist. Golden horseshoes clip-clopped beside them and GOD cradled them at his breast.
“It won’t be long,” one said. “The circus is coming.”
“Smell the mountain air?”
They had never smelled it.
It wasn’t just one day. It was all days. It was a day to end all days. It was the moment.
They didn’t have anywhere to go. Although one’s bedroom was cool and warm, there was no privacy in the home. Not the kind they needed anyways. But when their folks left town, the game was on. The candle was lit. Friends gathered round to stare at its flickering light in the room. So brilliant and pure that it threatened the very foundations of society. They looked around into one another’s pure and innocent faces, betraying mouthfuls of teeth. Their vision was not just a fantasy. Not just a pipe dream. A hope. A knowing. This kind of knowing that only a young man of 17 has. That what is right in the world, is there to be. It exists. It is known beyond a shadow of a doubt.
“This is the story I wish to share with you all tonight,” he began.
“A secret of my heart, that has been branded on it since time immemorial. A light of humanity. A spark. A flame of desire brothers and sisters, that I know you all share, even when you can’t find the words to think it.”
“That the ideals of love, kindness, of a close knit community of the earth, should be the foundations of our livelihood. That song and dance, that freedom, where the pinnacle of human expression is made known, that an eternal state of blessedness in body, spirit, and mind, were attainable for witless wanderers like ourselves.”
“And we will take this flame fourth to the very corners of the Earth. Until its blanket has spread the light of stars over the skies of our heart like a clear ringing bell resounding in the distance, ‘freedom for mankind’. ‘Freedom for you, my brothers and my sisters. Freedom.’”
At just that moment the door opened, and three more feckless clowns of the heart fell inward in a heap. The room broke out with laughter. They could do it.
But we all know what bayous are like. They winder and the wander, meander still with golden-brown surface. Get lost in the flat country. Paralleled by the plane of God. Laid low like a mountain. Flooded by the foundries of light. Indescribably vast. They swallow one whole in the doldrums of summer, wading and wandering in mist. Chasing a distant flicker of a firefly. Was it a dream?
For on the banks of this Brazos River slept a dreamy wilderness, with air thick and heavy. Vines crawled one over the other in a tangle and scrawl. Bare naked breasts wandered from side to side. A question left limp on the lips of the dawn. It scrawled on the heart a lilt of a tune. Sang by the fairy godmother herself. How quickly the summer passes by. Oh Cosmia. A phantom of quintessence, thou art, bird.
They checked the sound waves, as they resounded up and down, above and below center: scanning frequencies- ringing though the air, pouring through in crystals onscreen. The circus was coming to town. This was all they had been waiting for.
They had been practicing in their own quiet way, its rumblings. Visiting the dawn, with its amber and crimson hues, when its golden light shone forth pale and quiet, over their dimly illuminated land, brightening slowly, in a way that was hard to keep track of. As its brilliance shone brighter and brighter: “How much brighter can it get?!” In their beds, their eyes staring from the window, jaw clenched. The sun beat a rhythm which screamed: THE DAWN OF HUMANITY HAS AWOKEN IN YOUR EYES. What saints, philosophers, mystics, had experienced (even what they in their past lives had experienced), was alive in them, it was happening. And they were on a quest to tell everyone. This secret was out of step with the quiet suburban world around them, with its entrenched simplification into easily quantifiable terms. This secret was too vast of an overflowing love to be contained by such. And they loved the joke that lie in the telling, the fear it awoke in the eyes of those unfortunate souls who called these brick buildings home. As he waited in the tire shop– with its doctor’s waiting room style cleanliness, magazines, and the smell of new rubber, our protagonist quietly thought over what all this must mean. He was awash in medieval and incorporeal symbolism of a natural and bucolic splendor. And the circus was coming to town.
Ah yes, smell the mountain air? Tents along the water, and beautiful women. What would the circus mean? Would everybody’s faces be painted? Would people be bedecked in pattern, pomp, and splendor? What would be its natural form? How big of a secret was this? They hoped it was a huge secret. Actually, as we’ve mentioned before, they wanted everyone to know it. But really, would all of it be there?
The man with the orange robes had come. He was wearing an orange turban. His eyes, fresh, and new. His entire face, seemed almost incorporeal, with the subtle and youthful spirituality and vigor that seemed to flow from him like a deep belly laugh, merging again into a focused calm, like springs in the mind. Sprigs of cauliflower were lightly licked into his lips as he sat on the floor with those gathered for the sermon.
“People of the Earth. I bring you glad tidings.”
“The Lord, our Guru, has returned!!”
This caused a reaction that the young man had been hoping for. Longing to understand. The Truth. The delicate balance of life and death, emerging from mystery. “Queerer lodgings have had you, than the One. But now this is your home. This is your palette on the floor. This is the shining mystery of the Divine inside you.”
Go eat some blueberries or something.
May 4, 2014
I want to apologize for the turmeric stain I left on the counter
I was trying to make that tasty dish we shared
And now its memory is etched in this streak of color
That the time will turn to white
We came, we saw, we dance, we love,
We grow stronger
We seek the truth
And the journey grows
Into inseparability of existence
Why did that meteor blaze across the sky?
For whom does its glory show, so brightly?
I hear beckoning to me, endless horizons
Singing sweetly, melodies of unquenchable longing
My Baba is saying, “Awaken, dreamer.” “Awaken”
January 16, 2013
Oh my mysterious love!
You speak to me of all truths,
And yet your designs remain ever a mystery to me.
I, as your instrument,
Am left singing of your comings and goings
Wondering where the next song will lead.
You are impervious to my demands
Deaf to my shouting,
Yet you listen like matchsticks to the beating of my heart.
One day I will capture you in all your glory
And spread you round about to the wayside
All exclaiming exuberantly “free at last”
But until that day, I solicit your presence in my heart
The continued joy of your divine presence
Over all obstacles,
Perceived or imagined
Asking only that you continue your dance in my heart
Continue your play in my mind,
To discover the truth of your song.
A longing, that is, as yet, neverending
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