Blog Posts

Vespers

11/29/2015

The Calliope plays in the background
Like a rune cast by a muse,
Like a wave washing clean
The grains of sand in my memory.

When I am fully here
The aroma of the sea,
The glow of the moon, are all I need,
And the sound of silence has its own beautiful voice.

Sing me a poem
Like a babbling brook.
Dance me an ode to joy.
And then let my gratitudes
Outnumber the stars in the night.

I am the Calliope.
Play me.

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And Then There's This About That

11/24/2015

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All my tears like water flow,
for the Lion,
for the Whale,
for the Elephant,
for the Horse,
for the Dog,
for the Eagle,
for the Ocean,
for the fellow man
inside of me.

I want to go where the flamingos fly.
I don't want this pain here in my heart.
Really don't know what's wrong;
feel like I don't belong.

Why don't we feel whatever we're supposed to feel?
We cut our nose to spite our face.
Ordinary people don't seem to comprehend
we're all about to go 'round the bend.

I feel naked in the jungle,
naked to the world,
and the rabbit's on the run.
I want to go where flamingos reach for the warmth of the sun.

When I was a child, I think it was eighth street,
when I first noticed the flowers and saw the light of God's eye
shining back deep inside of me,
dissolving the urge to flee.

The boy in me still dreams of sweet release,
laughing in the wind, crying in the rain,
like the swallow soars
and the lion roars.

It's gratitude that takes me there,
allays all fears.
It's giving thanks that dissolves all doubt
in what I'm all about.

Speak out, speak out, speak out
the Teachings tell us.
Each and every grain of sand
is offered by a generous hand.

Fly with me then.
Let us fly where the flamingos fly.
Where every apparent bind
dissolves in Gratitude and Wonder and Peace of Mind.

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To the Alchemist of It All

5/30/2015

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If you wanted me to see more
down into my own darkness
and bring into the light
something useful,
what would you have me see?

I serve at your pleasure.
I am your way of being in this world.
I am the way you made me
for a reason.

I get distracted. I confess.
And yet you patiently wait,
allowing my petty forays.

I have an inkling,
when I am awake enough,
the cawing of the crow,
the ranting of the raven,
the waving of the willow,
the very breeze itself on my skin,
are all messages from you
calling my name.

I acknowledge the call.
I am the dream catcher for my soul.
I am responsible for its making progress,
for keeping it on track toward its destination.
Only I can guide it home.
Only you can provide the directions.

And like the Arctic Turn,
I will migrate as many miles as necessary
to get there.

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In Due Time

4/23/2015

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The doves wait patiently
for the sheep to finish
their morning feeding of sweet-mix,
counting on there being some missed.

I wait impatiently
for wisdom or inspiration or usefulness
to flow from my pen,
counting on there being some intended for me.

Night follows day,
the grasses grow,
and patience has nothing to do with any of it.
Everything occurs in due time,
in the present and proper moment.

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Playing Big

4/22/2015

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"The orange boxes are scattered
at the Safeway supermarket in the rain.
Everyone is so determined
not to feel anyone Else's pain...."

The raven has the good sense
to habitate somewhere more remote.
Even the fox tries its best
to remain far from the maddening crowd.

But the rest of us, like the crow,
must learn to cohabitate
with the chaos, the noise, and the trash
and figure a way to select what is useful.

How fortunate the dolphin is,
able to be who it's meant to be
and still put the value of the pod
equal to its own.

What would be useful
is if we all gave our gifts.
Being reasonable is playing too small.
What difference might I make if I played bigger?

"....No one making no commitments
to anybody but themselves.
Hiding behind closed doorways,
trying to get outside, outside of empty shells...." --Van Morrison
(Saint Dominic's Preview)

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Deaf, Dumb, and Blind

4/4/2015

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Old Robert Bly can make you stop
kicking the can down the road,
make you want to speak
with the tongues of angels.

But what can a tiny church mouse
say that might be heard
amidst the din
of the already self-anointed.

I live in a time
when the dumb won't speak
and the talkative won't be silent.
I'd really like to thin the herd.

But that's been done,
and the allowing God
is willing to wait us out
til there's not one Comanche left.

Don't get me started
on Bosnia, Abraham's children,
Kenya, Kosovo or Serbia,
all of whom have their own Martins and Johns.

The lazy part of us
defaults to being killers,
in imagination and for real,
when things don't go our way.

We've raped the sea,
and if we could dive deeper
would gladly coitus something new.
Just ask the dolphin or the shark.

We maim if we don't feel like killing today,
for some ivory or want of some fun.
Or we trample our own respect just to watch up close
the whale or tiger or their other wild chums.

This is not all that we are,
but it's certainly what we've become,
and I wonder how far we can go
before Eden rises up for some good old fashion revenge?

I can't apologize for you;
only for me.
I have a part
because I am just like you.

We need a good strong wind of regret
to move our lazy tumbleweed ass down the road
to silence the talking heads
and get the dumb to speak.

Broken gates and fallen fences don't ever fix themselves.
Abraham, Mohammed and Jesus aren't going to come again.
But if you listen, truly listen, our ancestors, the ravens, even the whales,
are all calling our names to take our turns.

They are calling us awake,
to be present each moment,
to not be tied to the expired past
or an imagined future.

Our seas are on fire,
the warmth of our hearts have grown cold.
Our thinking is tainted.
There isn't much left to be sold.

Take a cold shower
and sing like you mean it.
The climate of change
depends on it.

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Complaint Department

4/1/2015

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Do you think the Bluejay wishes he were red?
Do you think the Polar Bear wishes she were brown?

Do you imagine a dog wishes it were a cat,
or a bird wishes it were a snake?

Have you ever seen evidence of the horse
resenting grazing next to the cow or the buffalo?

Then what is your problem?

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At the Center

3/30/2015

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So much goes on around me,
everyone darting to and fro.
But I am not in the middle of anything.
I am at the center.

Even though the actions of the many
might appear to influence and affect
the life I would lead,
the truth is what matters
all depends on me.

Watch the murder of crows
or the assembly of vultures
feasting together in the middle of the road.
When a vehicle plows directly over
the community meal,
they rise in time to allow the interruption
to pass,
and then calmly descend again
to complete their task.

This is me,
constantly coming back
to the center of who I am.
To listen once again
to the One who calls my name,
undisturbed and unaffected
by what might be temporarily
out of balance.

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The Underworld

3/18/2015

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My pen speaks
for the part of me that has no words,
no voice, no means of coming forward.

Like a magnet
it draws from me
gratitudes, complaints, observations,
even profound wisdoms.

It is my agent, my assistant,
my go-between. It connects
my inner and outer. It reveals
what is hidden, what lies
below.

What might I learn
from the whale, the snake,
the stream, the root,
and anything else that lives down under,
who has no agent,
nor need of one?

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TEST CASE

2/24/2015

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I wanted to prove to myself,
I had nothing to prove to you.
I wanted to show the world,
As opposed to merely a few.

Nothing from nothing leaves nothing,
Totaling a zero sum game.
A completely wasted effort,
By any other name.

If you discount the sins of omission,
disregard the ones done with glee,
Add up the missed opportunities,
We're pretty much even you see.

Now if you'll excuse my fast exit,
Hello and then I am gone.
I'll call when I get where I'm going,
Most likely from hither and yon.