The house creaks some

Bird squawks loud and long--

Both a form of sighing in relief

That all machines have finally turned off.

Now you can hear what nothing sounds like.

The silence is deafening,

So sweet a bird can’t help but sing,

The house a long exhale.

Black dark night makes ears ring,

Ushering in the changing of the guard.

The eyes, straining to make sense

Of nothing when even the moon has left

Its post, must listen harder.

Ears will do the looking now.

Some breeze

Rolling through town like a visiting pilgrim

Drops the credentials of a skunk

On it’s way by.

Noses twitch,

As if that could help

What isn’t heard and can’t be seen.

The house lets out another sigh

And even as these old bones creak

I never hear the stones cry out,

Until I lay me down to sleep.

You know what it is about a good poem?

It's not a good poem until you need it.

But when you need it,

it's there.

And then....well....

it's the best thing you've ever read.

And you are persuaded,

You'll never be hungry again.

I had a dream
My pens and various notebooks,
Lying randomly on the unused
Side of my bed, and my stacks
Scattered around the floor in my bedroom,
Had gotten together
And attacked me in my sleep.

The notebooks agreed
To hold me down.
The pens took turns
Writing in varied fonts and colors
Across my forehead, face, shoulders
And arms; any place not covered
By sheets and blankets.

They wrote implied,
And not so implied,
References to my abandoning
The commitment I had made
To write everyday.

Like a lover scorned
And neglected,
They had had it.
Now I would pay.
The permanent marker
Made sure the world would know
How untrustworthy I truly am
By tracing over
The most descriptive adjectives.

They all wrote things like
Hypocrite,
Traitor,
Neglecter,
Liar,
Bad Dog,
Even Misanthrope
And other terms I would have to look up
To get the message.

Was this just a bad dream
Or one of those fleeting,
Silent wakeup calls
We call premonitions,
That in hindsight
I should have, could have, seen coming
After it happens.

The way I see it,
I have three choices:
—keep a gun by the bed
—sleep with one eye open
—or change my ways.

Tell Me

If sheep can chase each other
    across the field and back,
    stop to butt heads and
    give chase again without
    a sound between them,
    save a pounding of hoof
    on grass and dirt and
    wooden planked walkway---
If two birds can play
    in the puddle splashing
    each other, banging breasts,
    flying to the eaves and back
    for another stirring of the water
    without so much as a peep,
    save the flutter of a wing---
If two cats can agree to licking
    one another clean and
    can decide who goes first
    without a wink or a nod---
Then tell me,
    what is so important about
    hearing I love you.

I believe in walking in a landscape of disbelief, of not believing in my beliefs.
I believe in walking in a landscape of admiration and wonder and gratitude for all I have been given, with which to be present.

I default to walking in a landscape of inner and outer knowing, that my Source and I are one. There is nowhere to hide in this territory.

The critters and the elements teach me where to stand and how to hold myself.

I am the landscape.
I am the one walking.
I am who I have been seeking.
I am that.
I am.

This is where a smart fellow would caution, "Patience Pilgrim".
Things that are trying to bubble up from below need their space.
Rome wasn't built in a day, and these creative juices need their measure of time.

I know you start to wonder if you shouldn't do more to make something happen,
but then you risk crossing into that no man's land. You start to say things, just to have something to say.

Be the rock.
Wait for it.
Wait for it.....

Everyone wants to be

A solo act.

Everyone wants to make

The world hum along.

But have you noticed

How many of the great and not so great

All have an entourage?

It takes a band

To be a band.

It takes a team

To win a game.

It takes a crew

To pull off a one-person show.

This whole idea

Of number one, the one,

The best one,

Always seem to require

Other ones

To support them.

Teams don't succeed

If individuals don't contribute their best,

And individuals are diminished

If they discount the value of the group.

By all means develop your skills,

Make a useful contribution,

And be your best.

When you add your best

To everyone else's,

Everything rises.

Everything is then experienced

In the white light

Of acoustic alchemy.

                                                                              Butt Darts


    Norton Buffalo was a virtuoso harmonica player with the Steve Miller Band for 30 years, but he was also a friend, a neighbor, and a member of my men’s team in 1995. Teams were formed and made up of men who had all participated in a mens 3 day weekend experience. These weekends addressed men’s relationship issues with family, women, and other men. The team idea was meant to keep alive, and put into practice, what had been discovered in the Mens Weekend.

    Teams usually consisted of 6 to 10 men, met weekly, and took on local community service projects, discussed personal issues with one another, and often went on short bonding trips together, which might involve camping, fishing, hunting, or sporting events. These trips were called Team Aways.

    On one particular Team Away, our team was headed to a high desert camping trip. Norton Buffalo owned a 1975 Winnebago Brave motorhome. This thing looked beaten, dated, and abused---inside and out. I hated the look of it, but Norton loved it and often drove it cross country to wherever the Miller Band was playing. It easily held the entire team and all our gear, so this faded green box-on-wheels was our transportation for this event.

    One of the symbolic principles from the Men’s Weekend, was to remember to be a three dimensional man. The point being, many times a day a man will be called upon to respond to varying situations with different levels of seriousness and maturity. The example used to remind of this, was to have fluid access to three parts of yourself, mental, emotional, and spiritual, represented by: Clint (think Eastwood), Curly (think Three Stooges), and Gandhi. Many men may have had trouble accessing either Clint or Gandhi, but most could easily default to the ridiculousness of Curly.

    Each man on a team would be responsible for various duties during any event. One man for planning food, one for picking a location or logistics, one for program scheduling, etc., but always someone had the responsibility for planning fun.

    We were in the Winnebago this day, settling into the rhythm of the road, reviewing our preparations for our arrival at our intended destination. At one point someone cracked a joke, and I reminded Norton he had been put in charge of fun and hoped he was prepared.

    Norton Buffalo was not known for one-word answers, He could talk the face off a donkey. He loved to pontificate or tell long rambling stories. Some people would say, if you asked him what time it was, he would tell you how his watch was made. But he would just as easily not settle for words, when a demonstration would suffice. Norton was at the wheel of the motorhome and yelled out to the captive audience, and to answer my charge to his assignment, “Butt Darts!”

    “What?” came the response from several men.

    “Butt Darts. I’m going to teach you all to play Butt Darts. Grab me a paper cup.”

    The motorhome had bench seating along both sides, running the length of the cabin, leaving an aisle in the middle, and access to the driver and passenger seat area up front. Norton got up from behind the wheel and stood in the aisle facing us. We were headed down a long stretch of straight two lane highway at 50 miles an hour. When Norton let go of the wheel and stood up, I leapt forward.

    “I’ll take the wheel,” I said.

    “No, it’s fine. I want you to play. Now pay attention.”

    I was paying attention alright. We all were, but mostly to the fact we were now riding in a vehicle going straight down the road, but had no driver.

    “Give me the cup,” Norton said.

    He placed the cup in the center of the aisle between us and proceeded to take a quarter out of the little case he had attached to his belt.

    “You take the quarter and place it between your butt cheeks while standing behind this line.” He pointed to the front edge of the two bench seats. “Then you walk up to the cup, stand over it, and drop the quarter into the cup. First one to get it to stay in the cup without it bouncing out or knocking over the cup, wins. Like this.”

    Norton then reached behind himself and stuck the quarter in his pants butt, duck-walked up over the cup, and dropped a bullseye into the cup. He yelled, “Next!”, and walked back to his seat and retook the wheel.

    We were all stunned and amazed, both that he had done it on one try, and that were were still on the road and alive. That old ugly motorhome never once drifted off course or out of its lane. Cheers erupted instantly, everyone vied for who would try next, and each man couldn't seem to help himself from eventually telling his own version of how it all had happened, as though none of us had already been there to see it.

    That little game went on for miles and was reprised many times, over the course of the trip. Anytime a lapse in the festivities occurred, you could count on someone calling out, “Butt Darts!” and the game and the story would start all over again.

    The story actually took on new life with each telling. The description of Norton letting this old vehicle drive itself during his demonstration got more dramatic, but laughter turned to tears with each description of which grown man looked the most ridiculous trying to walk with clenched cheeks, and who was actually the ultimate King of Butt Darts.

    We all enjoyed immensely that stupid little game, but the look on Norton’s face, watching us, suggested he derived the most satisfaction. He knew Curly would be proud, of all of us.