When did the listening stop?

How long?
When did the music seem
to slip from the page?

The harmony, the rhythms,
the beating of drums—
a hollow ache
re-awakened.

Hidden in the trees
a voice…
A guttural sound
split the skeletal branches
of the barren trees.

The solitary song of
the owl carried on
like a ripple longing
to greet the shore.

Listening,
but then it was gone
AGAIN…
Lured ‘into’ so many
things to do, to accomplish,
to get done.

Can you hear yourself?

Listen…
sinking softly into
the nest of being
the dawn preparing
its rise.

A red-bird hits a
high note….
it matters not
if anyone takes notice.

Today…I AM
listening.

A Lemon Drop

A sea of froth
swirled in a
bottomless cup that was
the sky.

The blue blanket
pulled the creamy white
clouds increasing in majesty.

A soft aroma stirred—
The sweet savory scent of
a lemon  drop—

Was it my imagination?

Rising from the cup—
steeped with a million and
more flavorful vapors

It rose.

The sky, the clouds ‘stopped’—
there was a silent moment as if
‘all’ creation paused to genuflect…

Night was around the corner,
but the moon promised to give light
in the beauty of darkness that
would carry its glow.

Leftovers

He was a child…

in his basket, he carried
a few fish he caught beside the sea.

A boat arrived
and, as it did,
a multitude of persons
stood at the banks of the shore.

A man stepped
off the vessel.
He felt the ‘pangs’ of hunger
in each ‘pupil’ his eyes cast.

“Is there any food here?”
the man asked.

The boy
nameless—
without hesitation
handed over his fish.

He did NOT say,
“If I give these to you
I will go hungry, my family
will starve.”

He handed them to the man.

THIS—when the miracle
happened.

Everyone fed—
and there were baskets of leftovers.

Adapted from John 6:1-15

Unfolding

The velvety skin
of each fragrant petal
curls back
then leans as if
longing to kiss the sun
warming the tender
flesh moistened
in the morning’s dew.

Only NOW have
I begun to grasp
the significance of
the rose’s intricate
dance of blossoming.

In younger years
when I held this flower,
I believed I KNEW,
I understood
its mastery.

Glancing back,
it was my self-made
mastery I beheld.
No…this was NOT at all
bad.  It was my
unfolding.

My coming to be—
I see now how I
unfolded the petals
pushing the process of ripening—
thinking ‘this’ was the plan
I was following.
I tried or hoped (THIS plan)
was ordained by ‘something’
higher than myself.

Deep within,
I watered, tended—
pursued ‘that’ which
would ordain the trail
I chose to walk.

This present moment
I am learning how to hold the
rose…differently than before.

I know where to place my
hands so as not to get
pierced by thorns.

Often times I reach
attempting to take back
what “I” know…
A subtle jab and I begin
to bleed.

I can still choose my
path as it unfolds…
but, the garden of life
has surrounded me with
the most exquisite flowers
which slowly are beginning
to fade.

I watch—
their elegance in aging
captures my breath.
They seem to know an
unfolding that is timeless.

The sweet succulence
they have given to life
expanding

as their dance
draws nearer to completion (HERE in this NOW).

No longer soft to the touch,
there is a willingness to crack,
dissolve— ‘forgiving’ yesterday’s
storms and, without preparing,
THESE flowers
await their descent…

a ripening
a rising

knowing
they never had to do
anything but reveal themselves
in the morning’s sun
and the moon’s hidden
cycles.

All…unfolding.

This Garden

In a garden—
I tread lightly
every footstep placed—just so!

The path between all that
was—ALIVE
and beckoned me…’come, come!’

Walking, I held
the fragrances—far too many
to name.

Intoxicating, the blends
but not at all overwhelming or
cumbersome.

I pressed on…
often times I knew my soles
crunched upon a place I was
not meant to step…
or perhaps I was?

My eyes captured a yellow rose in
the distance—
its beauty lured me like no other—

I rushed to meet ‘this’
elegant flower…

I stumbled—
I fell…

Is this supposed to happen in the garden?

I reached the place—the bush
ignited with soft petals.

I crawled on my knees
until I finally arrived at the
standing bouquet lit like the sun…

BUT…what I noticed were
the thorns.

The ‘blood’ of the piercings in my
life dripped from the pools of my heart…

The thorns seemed to ‘seep’
them inward.

Then—as if pulled—
My ‘roots’ trusting the ground
they found themselves in…I rose.

Life’s trials, moments one could
never plan for—these are what
have allowed me to blossom.

ALIVE in this Garden

I’m home in Eden…
Really—I never left.
Its soils have always been
the place I call HOME.

Evil

Someone asked,
“Write, will you, of evil…
bare its long projected fangs…
reveal the traces of blood it
leaves on doorposts, lentils,
and hinges.

Leave nothing out—
how it drapes itself
over the most ‘crafted’ pieces
shattering into numerous specks
never to be placed again—‘together'”

A heavy request—
I felt the weight as I lifted my pen.
The tip touched the paper—
words ‘dropped’ only to disappear
one by one they vanished.

I was ‘lifted’ not from the page
but, instead, from the enormity of the
weight I was asked to ‘reveal.’

Certainly, I know the stings
of pain, suffering—
those encounters one does not bring
on oneself (unless one chooses—
consciously or unconsciously).

I have entertained those moments…
I have learned to become a sort
of ‘host’ to them, for them.
We have sat together—
lengthy encounters.

As the host, I knew to wait.
Whatever was would leave, move on—
but, first I had to ‘dine’ with
the guest…(I suppose one could name
the encounter just about anything).

Freely, I pen these words.

I could have responded
differently to the request,
but then I would be ‘captive,’—
held against my will to write
what is NOT of me.

The one who
fills these blank canvases
is inspired by all life’s experiences.

My roots dip deeper
into the ground of all being

AND

even if I’m dug-up
from THIS place,
I’ll grow again
in the darkness.

No matter how silky black
the night sky prevails…
the richer the void of seeing—

STARS have a way
to shine.(All Saints Day)

Alive

it was…

You could hear its pulse.

It was growing in tempo
shades of blue
bled from the sky.

Rising from a source hid-den
it furled its face

it brushed the surface.

Holding ‘a’ moment
it began to arch
like a feral cat spotting a mouse.

Then a curl—
Spun around absolute nothingness
it held
weightless permanence

    —-then—

into the rocks
it stormed
spraying infinite drops

cascading in fathomless directions…

True North seemed to wield its reigns.

All was still…

In the not so distant distance
it was making its way
again and again.

Contained—how?
This living, breathing ‘flow’
will never be held back…

Its breath holds no ending.

Dawn’s Arrival

Hidden ‘between’ satin sheets of
fading ‘blackness’—dawn positioned
itself like a leopard in the trunks
of trees fanned behind green
stalks—their color mattered little
in this hour.

Stars hung over spools of tapered
clouds…eyes adjusting—
but, to what?

A few street lights flared their rays,
but the night held like an abyss…
Deeper, like a knife peeling back the
skin of an orange…what do I smell?

No, it is not citrus, but
instead the sweetened moisture
of dew drops splashing what now
was becoming visible.  How?
It mattered not…pupils diminishing
in size, color streaking the skies
like an artist’s pallet running
before a brush stroked plate.

This is dawn.

Dawn…YOU arrived unannounced, unexpected
yet how you wind your way ‘in’—
only the poets can tell, only the
musicians can play you and the
chorus carry your tune.

Dawn, your presence incomplete yet
it is your perfection—
It cannot be mastered.  Your reign is
eternal…before all things and
after all living beings.

The leopard now lays in the
standing grasses—
its prey linked in its paws.

Dawn has made its way—
The darkness shall pave its way
again tomorrow.

Nothing-ness

The branch
grasps an array of green
leafy silks

dangled as if hung
from an exquisite
‘made to order’ laundry line.

Holding steadily
like fingers reaching
for ‘anything’…

Silent—
they are held as if
in a posture of prayer.

Out of nowhere,
an invisible source
permeates what
has appeared undisturbed.

The wind
pushes the veins
held in the ‘gloved’ body.

They begin to ‘touch’
one another—

a sound echoes in
what was
hushed ‘nothing-ness.’

Prayer has unleashed
itself…actively
speaking in a voice
made audible
by the harmonic perpetrator
who entered this
realm.

For a long while
the chorus ‘plays.’

It never will
re-play the same
rendition.

The song lives on.

Each leaf a note
that eventually will FALL

creating ‘space’
for a melody—

From a source
some might call God
or a conceived place
of Nothing-ness.

The Bank of a River

Oftentimes, I am held by my thoughts.
Filled, am I,
by drops of rain
until the river I am discovers
I am flowing over the crest.

Everything I have carried
from countless pathways
now seeps onto the landscape’s
endless pages.

What once was—
changed by this ‘spillage.’

Days pass and the waters recede.
Weeks slip by.
Months surge and the mighty
waters rush, ripple and settle.

In my later years,
I have gazed from the bank of the river
mindful how I arrived
to this place, to this time.

‘Thoughts’ gather once again,
and then, I look.
I see a tiny flower…

It has broken through the body of creation
that was once dripping from
the flood of so much unknown.

Unfolding in the sun’s radiance,
the flower unfolds.

It needs not ask
‘how did I come to this place?’

It matters little that no one notices
its miraculous beauty—
its soft perfumed earthy scent.

It becomes in the moments
of its existence, the dazzling
flower it was meant to be.

Nothing asked—
Nothing gained.

The flower did not have to do
anything except ‘grow’
into what it eventually became…

Ripening happened.

Now, a garden of flowers
lays silent along the shore—

A tender thought rises
and drifts on by.

Papers of Identity

These papers
line by line
question after question…

reveal who I am!

THESE papers
do NOT come close…

Each day
I am surprised
by life’s joys and sorrows

THIS is who I AM.

Daily I ‘Become‘
as I step out beneath stars
as I lay adrift in clouds
as I walk beside a stream
or spread my arms soaring alongside a hawk.

My identity
is anything but a distinct heap of facts.

My SELF is a backpack
carried along on adventures.

Each moment planned, unplanned
guiding me on life…

FULL, broken, unmasked, tangled, spectacular!

You want to SEE my papers?

Go outside—
Feel the wind in your hair.
Get drenched in the rain.
Bake in the sun…be touched by the rays.
Catch a snowflake on your tongue.
Allow a furry friend to dab its muddy paws in your arms.

THIS is my identity.

If ever you wish to meet—
climb a tree…

I AM sitting in a branch.
(Look closely)

Maverick

“Courage is not the absence of fear, but the capacity for action despite our fears…”
In Memory of John McCain..A Hero
(August 29, 1936- August 25, 2018)

Single Point (Burning the Candle at both ends)

There is a silent place
like a single point between
a candle burning at both ends.

No matter the winds of change,
the chaos swirls
the clamor increases outside.

Go to that place—
You will hear the soft voice
speaking…

Like a delicate feather
un-tethered from a bird in flight,
it will envelop you—
comforting you

lifting any weight
that might be keeping
you down.

Stay in this shelter—
You’ll know when to rise.

Already the light is in your eyes.