She Sings in Multitudes

She wakes up singing
a melody so beautiful and perfect
it echoes beyond the walls
You can hear her voice
on Sunday mornings
mingling with the pealing
of the church bells
and you would wonder
if God is calling to you
I have listened to her
so many mornings
and bathed in the beauty
of her voice
Even during the harsh
rains her voice endures
through the steady
rhythm of pattering water
When I see her walking
through town I do not
speak I merely listen
If my eyes were ever
to be caught in her glance
I would die and I could
not stand being denied
such a sound that has
given me life

Third Hand 

Peculiar Absurdity. 

ritual

Pining for the undefinable
Sitting in contemplation
How long will this last
How long can we go on

movement

you are searching for something
within yourself and the world
that is hard to define
you feel it just out of sight
just out of reach so close
but eluding you into journeying
forward day after day
the sweetness of life intoxicates
more wholly than any alcohol
the feel of your lovers body
pressed against yours
a mind free from worry
birds singing from wild
tree tops in the home of
your ancestors
it is all there
it calls forth
so you move
forward
one step
by one
step

biographical fragment

There is no story left to tell that has not been told
but I'll still tell you mine. My flight landed in
Cancun where some relatives picked me up from
the airport. It was hot and humid the moment I
stepped outside the terminal. I could smell the
land itself and I immediately felt at ease. It was
just about sunset as we drove out from the city
to our destination, our hometown, a couple of
hours away. I intently watched the way the sky
loomed perfectly over the forest. I had never
felt the sky feel so ancient and towering. At that
moment I understood why it would have been
easy to believe in a pantheon of gods and goddesses.
The sunset quickly gave way to a darkness that
filled the roads. From time to time we would pass
through a small town. The lights of the square
would be lit as people lounged around the park
and whiled away the time. This scene repeated
itself in every town we saw. By the time we
arrived at my grandparents home it was late
and most of the town was asleep. Warm hellos
after years of not seeing each other were given.
We ate bread and eventually found our way
to sleep.

Gina

She's beautiful and a little bit crazy
But you'd be a fool to say
I'm not crazy too
She looks you in the eyes
You could say it's love
Or the drinks in her blood
She places your arm
around her waist
Let it rest there against her
A little bit sad
A little bit lonely
Together here for now
And when you kiss her
You know this isn't forever
And when she's ready
to go home
You look her in the eyes
and feel that sadness
once again
Don't let her go
but you will
She kisses you again
and you let
each other
go

You are 
              the Chrysalis.
Emerge.

What path are you seeking?

Has the path found you?

Self

Are you looking for the person
in the mirror?
What will you say
when you finally meet?

Writing in the Morning

you wake
and sit
and think
until
words
begin to
appear
when they
do
and they
always do
you put
them down
and look
at them
if they
please you
they remain
if they
do not
they are
quickly
forgotten

Do you wish to live in beauty?

After the Rain

The rain fell for years

Day after day

it came and came 

and soaked the land

Eventually everyone 

believed it would never

end 

One morning the heavy

grey clouds parted 

A crack of blue peered

through the haze

It grew larger

until the sky

was beaming beautifully

and the warmth 

of the sun touched

everyones skin

Children went outside

and began to play

Their parents 

watched them

and marveled 

at the warmth of life. 

What questions must be asked
What answers should be given
How should we move through
this life of ghosts?
This soul is burning
What lit the flame
How long will it burn?

Good Morning, Icarus

My life feeds from my wild heart
and I have seen it's ways
Mornings of missing scenes
and half-remembered
comings and goings
How much more is it
that I want from this time
Passion and ecstasy
are states to love and to
pursue but become hollow
if they are the only states
we pursue for ourselves
To be more human
To exist fully in our skin
To temper the flames
of the heart and embrace
calmness and stability
This life goes on and on
but this will not always
be true for us
Age and youth become
one another
Our faces change
Wisdom begins to arrive
through hard earned lessons
What now What now
Everything
We begin again
This morning
Tomorrow morning
Always beginning
Always passing
from place to place

The things you say
The things you do

Life without seasons
Create order from chaos
Close enough to life 

Cottage

Is it too late or too soon
to live out our fantasy

Beachside cottage alone
and together

Send out tendrils of hope
purely from habit

Close your eyes as my
hand strokes your hair

Everything confirmed
to dead memory

Sparks emerge from
time to time

Brief signs that some
life still within

When I hear the voice
of the Ocean

I wonder if you can
hear it too

Morning Ghosts

Slow footsteps from the door to the street.
Grey mist hangs and surrounds everything.
The haze of dreaming has bled into waking.
Trees appear as if they were ghosts planted
into the ground. Listening for a sound or a 
word but there is only stillness. Rays of sun
are hidden but lurking. Awake but unsure.
Even the birds are silent. Eyes close. Listen.
Where is that which does not wish to be heard?

Where We Once Dreamed

two fragments

Measure yourself in light
I told you I loved you
You told me I was beautiful
The light we carry
radiates through

Season of Forgiving
give yourself
a small gift and carry it
unseen

Why do you wish to possess beauty?

Conversation

Son of an ancient soil
Why do you long so deeply
for a land in which you
were not reared?

I long to know what was
my birthright. To know the
stars and earth from which
my blood first sprang.

Soil is soil and the same
heavens are shared by
us all. Is there more my son
that you seek to know?

To know the self, to know
my self. That is the larger
understanding I seek to have.
Together a story is written.

Gaze upon the dawn or
the setting sun to know the
truth your ancestors and
those of all have known.

In that way I know we share
deep truths that are eternal.
Truths that will persist long
after my body is dust.

How peacefully do you rest
beneathe the sky of your
fathers and mothers? Does it
soothe you to be there?

I rest as though I am truly
at peace. The silence of night
and peace of morning, listening
to the birds sing from tree tops.

But are you soothed?

Yes, my heart and mind are.

I will tell you a truth you
have known, even if you
have never thought these
words to yourself:

You carry the sky and blood
of your land with you always.
From it arose your life. This
truth will be yours forever.

Implying the Sky

The story begins as many stories do, not with a
beginning of it's own but as a thread from another
story. It is as if saying 'Sky' and implying both
the state of day and night. And so it is. Waking
up early or on time because of the simple fact of
ones body having become used to the routine.
The body wakes the mind and tells it that it is
time. Time to open eyes, time to engage in
routine functions, time to stand and live and
breathe and find a place for itself once again.
These mornings seem as though they themselves
are endless in their succession, and in their own
way, they suppose they are. The mornings
do not know what it is to be bound to passing
years. They exist perpetually and gaze upon
the passing of our lives. They witness our many
similarities in action and temperament as we may
witness the myriad of light at dawn. In between
these wakings occurs so much. The normal
routines of work and relaxation, the falling into
love, the falling out of love, the tides of the sea,
the rains, the desert feeling the touch of a cool
wind, a child laughing, a grandmother cooking
for her grandchildren, a dog falling asleep in the
mid-afternoon. Do you believe in immortality?
It is not necessary to believe in it if one looks
beyond the patterns beneathe this life. There is
much that will outlast us and thrive. Our import-
ance is self-derived. How beautiful and perfect
this world is without our hands to meddle. This
story does not need a narrator. It does not even
need an audience. This story requires so little
that we are little more than an aside. And so it is.

Fox & Bear

Fox met Bear at the coffee shop. It had been a long
time since the old friends had met. Fox asked Bear if he
remembered the first time they met in the forest. Bear said
he did. It had been many years ago on a spring day, the
kind that people tend to write about, when Bear saw Fox
under a tree. He asked Fox how he was and Fox said he
was sad. Bear asked why. Fox began to explain how alone
he had been feeling and that no sense of beauty was enough
to do away with it. Bear listened and then he listened some
more. He placed a paw on Fox's shoulder and Fox looked
at him. There were trails on the fur of his face where tears
had streaked down. Fox looked at Bear and said "Thank
You." Fox and Bear stayed friends from that point on.
They would make it a point to see each other as often as
they could make time for each other. It was always a great
relief for them to be together and talk. They had long since
left the forest and had been living in the city for some time.
The city had a strange beauty that the forest could not match.
In some ways it was even darker and more cruel than the
life of the forest. They enjoyed the hustle and bustle, the
sense of action, the motion of a place that seemingly never
slept. When they would meet up in the city they would
often meet for coffee or have lunch or dinner. No one
ever disturbed them or cast an awkward glance at their
table. People were content to merely let them be. And so
they were happy. Content to be themselves as much as
anyone else in the city, regardless of their looks or back
ground. Fox would still dream from time to time about
his youth and the countless hours spent in the forest
listening to the birds, enjoying the coolness of early
morning, feeling the dampness of the ground on his
paws, and the way light would scatter through the
branches of the trees when he would look up and just
watch. Bear would dream of the forest as well. Often
Bear would dream of finding a river or stream and
walking into it, the water soaking his paws as he stood
there waiting for fish to feed himself. At those times
he would know how perfect things had been then. How
whole it all really was. Sometimes Bear would wake
from those dreams and feel for a fresh caught fish in
his mouth but there would be nothing except for the
memory of a dream. He would then look out of his
window and know the forest was still there, waiting,
if he were to ever return. In his heart he had no doubt,
regardless of what his conscious mind would tell him.
He could feel the song of his life being sung through
his blood. The city might be home but the forest
would always be the place calling him back, unable
to let him go and he unable to resist the call. This made
Bear restless. Sometimes Fox and Bear would talk
about these feelings and dreams. They agreed that they
both still missed the forest. They decided that they
would take a trip back together to remind themselves
of that place of their birth. And so, the day came
that they got in Bear's car and drove for hours out
of the city until it fell away like a piece of clothing
that had been tossed to the ground. At last they came
home. They got out of the car and breathed in the air.
It was crisp and clean and filled their lungs as they
deeply inhaled and exhaled. They said nothing as
they smiled and looked at each other. They took off
their shoes and clothes and walked into the forest
in the perfection that they had been made. At once
they could feel the dampness of the ground and the
sound of the birds as light lit the branches and leaves
into a theater of color and sound. Nearby was the
sound of water and together they bounded towards
it as their ancestors did before them and countless
others would after them.

Listen (Freewrite)

Love as both biological impulse and metaphysical
act of connection Life viewed as a natural extension
of cellular division Consciousness a question still
unanswered What is the divine spark and why has
it been given Awareness a gift or curse Don't think
Just act Let these thoughts just be Fill your life with
the necessary distractions to pass the hours days weeks
years to make this all bearable It is only as bearable
as we want it to be Are you happy asking questions
or are you happier wondering and never knowing
Decide for yourself but feel free to change the answer
whenever the impulse may come Sitting in the drivers
seat of your car you have become its consciousness
guiding a body of plastic and metal through streets
and roads Is this the metaphor for our existence Is our
consciousness the driver apart from this vehicle Define
the self Struggle with this idea but do not surrender it
You have lived a thousand lives but left them all in
your mind Who will you be today Will this self be
content or restless Will this self hold on to the ideas
that have shaped it Or will this self boldly reject what
it has been fed and create a life to its liking Restlessness
is a constant attribute to our lives A way to shape us
into more than mere apathetic surrender You are
remembering being in the woods and staring up at
the treetops listening to the birds and wind and feeling
as though the answers are there but not being sure if
you can speak the language they are being spoken in
Listen you told yourself Listen Listen And finally
you heard the voice and understood The wind spoke
and repeated one word over and over to you Listen
Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen Listen

If you fall in love
In a dream
Do you fall in love
In real life?

Walk the Waves

First light and there is
no one around
Alone in silence
I walk down the hill
Sloping towards the beach
Waves call louder with each step
Sand gives and shifts below my feet
Water foams and licks the shore
At last the touch of cold water
soaks my feet and electrifies
my body into full alertness
I press forward into the
water as I sink deeper
into the salty depths
as my clothes cling
to me and my hair
grows wet I bob
up for a breath
inhale deeply
submerge
see the
land
bel
ow

Curation

Curating the images
of my life
into something worth
the viewing

Sunsets at the beach
Bands mid-song in concert
Odds and ends of nature
Curious graffiti
Vacation pictures
Palms in dying light

Mere moments
in a larger narrative

What is unseen

The hours spent alone
in contemplation
and solitude
Self-doubt
Drunkenness brought
on by helplessness
Laps spent sweating
at the track
Hours at work
spent on the phone
answering questions
waiting for the shift
to be over

Curious curation

A life filled with images

Which will I hold
when at last
the light
begins to flicker
and wane

We are but living dust. 

To Listen

I dream in colors
appearing
and blending
as though they
were a sea of
shifting tides
giving birth to
one another.

The sea within me
moves and grows
as I learn to
listen to it's
songs. I do not
always understand
the language it
speaks but I know
I must listen.

When the voice
speaks it speaks
in measured tone
so it can be
understood.
Calling to me
in a faintness
almost over
powered
by wind
I close my eyes
and find
the words
it seeks
to give me.

Song of Morning

Birds calling to one another
from dewey treetops
Sailing down the river
to the land beyond
the horizon
Waiting for no word
to send me off
These waters know
where we must go
Have faith in them
in this journey

Verse for a Song

Reaching in the dark 
for something to hold onto
Slowly moving your feet
You'd rather be dancing 
than tip-toeing around
What it is we have to say
What it is we have to do
Here with the lights off
Trying to find our way out

What you are searching 

for has always been here. 

To wake and
find oneself
in a calm 
and meditative
peace.

Certainty

The night was growing weary and I asked
you to point me towards the dawn. It had 
yet to arrive but I knew it would arrive 
shortly. The death of night arrives slowly
in increments perceptible by gradual fading
of darkness across the sky. The lifting of 
black in the east and the birth of bird songs 
across the still air. Bodies lay in warmth 
until sleep releases it's comfortable hold. 
Dreams race towards resolution so sleepy
eyes can ponder meaning at their waking.
Tied to the wheel of life we go back and 
forth and back and forth until the dreams 
have been exhausted and the morning
bids departure from us. Until then, until 
then, we move as though immortality 
is but a certainty for us. 

Rebirth (Freewrite)

Memories of myself hidden and revealed
Lost beneathe the waves of years and
illuminated by fragments of passing light
Forest fox what do you seek in this city
of endless roads that you could not have
had in your home away from all of this
Begging questions from street corners
No one kind enough to throw an answer
into the cup but answers are hard to come
by these days though everyone thinks
they have one but they are most often
mistaken I've spent my life in hidden
spaces and only come to light and air
on the occasion of my infrequent birth
Your mother wonders how you've been
but you have been how your mother
wonders How silly to turn a phrase back
on itself as if it had no other reason to be
Your words cannot be used against you
because words belong to all of us and for
any one of us to claim sole ownership of
words such such WAS or AM or PAST
or BELOVED or LIE or QUAIL would
be silly beyond comprehension and yet
we do not comprehend all that is placed
before us in this life so we pretend and
justify things we do not fully understand
Understanding would only get in the way
of progress and progress should never
be a form of regression unless it is and it
often is Do you remember being a child
and feeling the mixture of terror and wonder
at the sight of fireworks on the fourth of
July It was as if the whole world was
burning itself up and beautifying itself
all at the same time How sweetly you
loved those days and how little you
understood of the near limitless freedom
of that age Now you think upon it and
feel sadness come over you until it is
washed away by the new joys that come
with age and maturity You have become
ripe as a fruit and no less beautiful Beauty
only ever interested you as a means to
understand truth but you always hated
those meandering conversations rooted
in philosophy that would circle like water
into the drain in the bathtub Naked and
together with your lover in bed or in the
shower warmth togetherness the denial
of an outer world A new religion a new
philosophy built for two as a bulwark
against a world that has grown uncertain
and indecisive Love is a decisive feeling
that leaves no uncertainty It simply is or
isn't Now I am Now you are We shall
both continue to be so until the day
when we both cease to do so On that day
what shall be said by those remaining
For me I hope it can be said that he lived
until he could live no longer and when he
could live no longer he decided to see
the world anew from another place
and oh how beautiful it is from there!

Bossa Nova in the morning
to move the heart
and wake the soul.
Bossa Nova to lift the spirit
from night and into day.

Fresh cut flowers on the tile floor
Long stems resting together
like crossed legs

To accept or reject
the inner longings which
grind against the heart
and soul is a struggle
all must endure
and resolve.

6 A.M.

The night shift has ended as they walk inside
and find their stools at the bar. Cory sits down
first and puts his wallet on the counter. Veronica
walks over and puts down a coaster and a beer.
Tim and Edgar sit at the end of bar and are talking
while Veronica gets their drinks. It's a normal
morning. They all work at the airport and the bar
is only a few minutes away. She turned the TV's
on to the morning news programs. Tragedy over
in some part of the world, shooting in some state,
the President saying this and that, the usual hum
of day to day history that becomes the background
noise in places like this. In here the news only
serves as fodder for conversation and debate,
everyone here is insulated from the damage of
reality, one drink at a time. When Veronica
turns around Cory's eyes linger on her ass and
legs. He hasn't had much luck with women since
his divorce. Veronica knows he looks when she
turns her back to him, she's heard his story.
She can feel the lingering touch of loneliness in
his voice. Veronica would never date any of
her regulars. There was one she had considered
briefly some time ago but he had stopped coming
in. Cory likes to get buzzed in the morning because
it'll help him get to bed so he can sleep during the
day and be ready for the next overnight. "Good
morning, John" says Veronica to the older man
in the tan members only jacket. John lives a few
houses down and has been retired for years. He
lives alone and likes the company of the folks
at the bar. Ask any of the morning patrons and
everyone speaks only good of John. He was a
veteran of some war he prefers not to talk about.
Not because of what he saw, he saw things
that he would prefer he hadn't, but because he
was taught to be a man and just get on with his
life. It was a tough habit to break at his age.
John set down a twenty on the counter and smiled
at Veronica as he said "Good morning." He always
meant it, too. Veronica placed a glass full of ice
in front of him and began to pour a light beer
into it for him. He nodded and said "Thank You"
Cory looked over at John and said "Good morning,
Sir." John looked at him and nodded. For a time
no one spoke. That was fine with everyone.
The drinks gradually drained away into their bodies
as the specter of day loomed just outside the walls.
Veronica wondered how quickly the day would go
by. Would it drag on endlessly or would it pass by
as quick as the cars rushing into work? She had her
people to tend to and she would know soon enough.

Many Lives

To live many lives
folded into this one
To understand the thoughts
of those unlike myself
To view the world
in ways I never could
To share heartache
that is not my own
To aspire to greatness
I have never felt
To believe in our ability
to change and grow
To become more loving
and compassionate
To learn and absorb
wisdom from the past
Open the book
Let the words find
your eyes
Let the pages live
in your mind
Let the world
renew itself in you

Song of Morning

Your voice greets me in your absence 
Slow strum of the guitar
as words drift languidly in air
Towards another shore
you have journeyed
Some future day
perhaps I'll see you
waving from the beach

May our spirits rise
to the level of our ideals
and hold us to those standards
which cause us to dream.

Home is where I find you.

Habit

Wake up early
Think
Write
Write
Think
Write
Look out the windows
Birds singing
Sun
Think
Write
Write
Write

The desires of the heart
are enough to 
keep us living 
through several lifetimes. 

I Who Searches

Seek Wisdom in All Forms

Truth through Love
Truth through Nature
Truth through History
Truth through Selflessness
Truth through Art

Transmission

Become a tower of transmission
Send out waves
of what is most needed
to heal the hurt
and lost parts of the souls
of many 
Become the sun
Open
Let the light 
pour forth

Do you wish to live in
Knowledge or Fear?

Waking and Life

living
sleeping 
waking
life wrought
in simplicity
how much 
goes on
in between
must things
be complicated
or as easy
as we wish
listen
do you hear
life beckon
will you 
call out
will you 
go forth

Do not fear yourself
You are as nature wishes
Beautiful creature

Keep your promises
Learn the value of words kept
Breathe in the new day

All man does suffer
All man does live in joy too
Living on the tides

Moving languidly
Beat floats into morning air
Do you stir now Dear

It is no journey
If we do not learn to fail
But learn yes we must

I wrote in the sand
And left these words behind me
Surely they are gone

Rising once again
In morning we find the truth
How do we grow now

Children of the Page

Life becomes words on a page
that appear one by one
as they are born from my thoughts

Children born fully formed
into this world of changes
perpetually in motion

They Rest

Waking and listening
for the birds in the trees
They are quiet now
but soon that will
change and their voices
will echo through
windows and homes
For now they rest

your voice in my ear
I begin to dream again
together we rise

The light will find you
and you will find the light.