From the Throat of Your Own Bones

heart earIn the countless echoes of the night
the hearing happens:

you know the whisper
because it comes from the throat
of your own bones

A dangerous syllable
slick with lightning blood

If today is not the day for hearing…

That ancient song of earth
sings itself in your animal subterranean

thrusting leaf crimson
and fertile debris
while the wind creature unfolds
and hugs your ribs
at midnight
speaking the images
trying to break out

Hear you not the
shell spiraling upward
in indigenous sea sounds
of magenta mellifluous?

The way in opens with each step

If today is not the day to feel it…

If today is not the day
to turn an ear towards your
bones exquisite…

Crack of ice flow
River walking out of the
depths into your present

If today is not the day….

When is?


At What We’ve Done

raven3What sign has been flung
when even ravens
hold their tongue?

Left their pranks in trees to hang
and even wolves have lost their fang?

What tumult has begun
when all the warnings have been rung
when spring has sprung
and all the bees have been stung
when every alarm’s already sung?

Even the stones stand stunned
at what we’ve done.

At what we’ve done.

No Time For Fly-overs

flyoverFor the fly-over poets,
politicians and preachers,
we’ve got no time

For the generals
and over-reachers
we’ve got no time

Let us look into the soles
of their feet on the ground

Let us see the reflection
of the silvered moon
in their exclamation point eyes

Are the bright windows burning?

Show us the scratches on their calves
a sting on their arms,
Have they walked along their path?

Let us hear a sacred song somewhere
from behind their sternum
however deeply buried

a song for the child
a song for the trees
a song for the water
a song of belonging
a song of together
a song with dirt on its lips

let us hear it,
let us hear that,
let us hear THAT,
and we have all the time
in the world

The hour is late
we don’t have time for the fly-overs

Grand Ol’ Creek Time Jubilee

IMG_7211everybody’s hyper today
wet and excitable
after yesterday’s ocean drop
swept the forest clear and bright

jays and ravens–full of leaf love–
conduct their on-going argument
with glottic glee
but are yet to break into song

warblers swim the laurels
smacking nuts to the ground
whistle of the red tail
remains of the rabbit

squirrels ch ch chhhchchchc
chirp it up real good
down the leafless walnut
switchy bushy tail play
trying to get attention

mushrooms do pushups out of logs
intrepid composers
bands of banded doves
rip tarps off the treetops
making eucalyptus shake
melodies from her hair

everybody’s having a grand ol’ creek time jubilee

except for lonely duck lost
— he asks for directions

oak shrugs at the roots
grandmother redwood sighs her 20 ft. arms
to the duff
in a crash
surrendering to the season

only the moon hovering above
seems unperturbed
watching the whole scene

but even she, drowsy half-queen
evokes the coyotes’ best salutes
at dusk

The Wind Is Its Own Authority

IMG_7094Poor Grand Willow, beloved ol’ friend.

Have you ever tried to push the wind?

Wind is it’s own authority
bearing its gifts
with ferocity and tenderness
in equal measure

it may steal your house
no matter how many nails you own
it will pollinate your field
no matter how many fences you build
it will wrestle the strongest tree
to the earth
a regeneration
through destruction

it will lightly kiss your cheek
until you blush
regardless of how
you try to
turn away
bringing you
the vital living breath
of this wild gorgeous earth

learn this from the wind:

unchain your own voice
sing the song of the earth
be your own authority
take a breath
at your own pace
and give it back
to the Big Circulation