433C3A84-97D4-4644-8329-7CC2D1D5F465I can show you where the old oak lives
but not what dialect is spoken there.

For that, you must sit
and be a friend.

The canyon I fell into
and climbed back out of
is mine, not yours.

The up and the down of it
are well-earned creases
in my palms and around my eyes
like companions on the pilgrimage.

But they are not your ups
and downs.
Your canyon sings different songs.

Don’t follow me. Don’t
follow me into the silent cave
or over green valleys with falcon eyes.

Follow your own bird in your own sky.
Carve your own cave and grab your ears.

Do you think I alone know the sharp cry
from its beak, or how it flies
with that great soft stretch of wing?

Do you think I know better than you?

If today is not the day
to trust your ancient whispers,
when is?


8663A1EE-2948-4890-B79A-5479F9EC3294I put all the not speak
into the tiny little vase
and took it far away

All not sounds and undo’s
I done
dug here
and put it under

For when I am gold and grey
I want to return again and exchange
this tiny treasure
for all my wealth

So I may breathe silent
and silver
at least once before I go
All fluent in nothingness

One of many moonly experiments unknown to the sun
Who doesn’t do disappearing


296BFA2F-3B04-43A6-9E87-D7F5FC41197FFair warning here before embarking
much unknown and vicious
swims here-in
the kinds that live in hurricanes and
meteors and every fallen limb

Lives down here too the shadow swimmers
sunken ones beyond the reach of sun
Let’s cast our net and see what of you
and I might be glimpsed or even caught
What might be eaten or even fought

Much might have to be tossed back, but not
to die, but endure a going home
wet with surprise when we too drop down
with the ugly eyeless big-mouthed ones

Yet one wonders if we know which parts
we dare to keep and with which we part
and soon return as an offering
to the darkling waters of this sea

Until we—with shudder and a grin—
know the fathoms of the sea within
our net another arm unbound
we use to hold the things we found


4E8DDD8C-C70C-465E-9B3F-FA5B9609FF46You recall a cabin on the edge of town
in woods of alder and oak

There were big windows on every side
and a porch stretched around
like a loose fitting belt
just barely keeping things in

sometimes it was a stepping stone to the world
and sometimes it was a moat keeping things out

You recognize it
because it was your house
and a life was built there
once upon a time

And on the porch you recall
there was an old table
crooked, but round and steady

And Love was on the table
resting shiningly

and whenever the front door cracked open
it flooded in like dawn

Sometimes you noticed—
other times not

Each morning you raced to all the Theres
trying to earn your belongingess
of an eager world wanting proof

And when you returned later
the porch and the table
were still there

and when you cracked the door
to the home you built

sometimes you noticed
the light pouring in and sometimes not

When dusk settled in
for its daily prayer

Love became the moon
illuminating parts of the cabin
that even the sun can’t reach

and flowed through the window
silhouetting a figure curled up
before the fireplace—
a dog or a wolf—
your memory isn’t clear

But then a particular morning came
after a long, winter night—
that kind that is both cold and cozy
and full of memories and rest and safety—
a morning that greeted you differently than others.

You remember because the door wouldn’t close
and after a while you didn’t want it to close

abhorring a vacuum
the light couldn’t help itself
and went swimming through all the rooms

and instead of rushing to all
the Theres of the world
you paused on the porch
noticing something
out of the corner of your soul

And pulling a chair
up to that crooked table

you broke your fast
and had a morning meal with Love

🌏One of 75 poems in my book Re-Membering: Poems of Earth and Soul, published by Wild Nature Heart Press, available on Amazon. 🤠🙏


9A3B849B-A6CA-43C5-8E7A-C6F0F31F80A6I walk through the rooms of night
and arrive at a dawn clipped
with forgetfulness

With moons and death
in my pockets
and full of winter shred

I notice my bare feet are numb
and without purpose

Yet my tracks in the snow
mark my path from somewhere

And though it feels cold
a trickle of blood melts into
the stark white
evidencing its warmth
convinced it is life

Some big heart must be leaking.

I’ve even forgotten the premise
of yesterday’s grand feast

And tomorrow is so far away
I cannot even feign to paint hope
on my eyelids
scarred from memory’s frost

Why can’t I find today?

Did they even put one on
or have they too forgotten?

Have I misplaced it
or did the storm steal it away?

No matter, the time has come
to empty my pockets
and join the ranks
of the zombie parade

To have succumbed, finally, not
to some bold virus,
but to the utter

Not having a mirror, I cannot see
but if I were to guess the shape of my eyes
the left would be nowhere
and the right would be an empty cup

Have I misplaced them
or did some sly storm steal them away?