That Hour Is Not Today

IMG_7507Winter arrives with an ocean
on my head–
a good time to hibernate
and maybe get lonely and despair
of the horrors of the world
my own losses and wasted hours…

But I can’t seem to do it.

That’s just an idea I have–
just the worst hibernator ever!

Besides, the golden birds are out
singing the drizzle delight
beside a creek that’s chirping
and the soft lichen and baby mushrooms
keep me occupied with warm conversations.

Neruda sang odes to bees
and even his own suit
and laziness.

So certainly I can summon
a sonnet for a day such as this.

That hour of shadows will come
and the missing-ness of things
will hum a melancholy tune
with a moist eye–
but that hour is not today.


Eyes of Dawn and Dew

dew drop eyesWho closed your morning eyes
your eyes of dawn and dew?
Irises once bold and bright
have lost their lustrous hue

Once you loved the rainbow show
and felt that windy song
then you drank the grey-blue sea
your gaze just drifted on

Was it that great grey bird of prey, they say,
who feasted upon your sight?
Or was it she, that weary heavy thing,
that rides you through the night?

I’ve heard a tale of fancy
I don’t know if it’s truth or lie
of water running pure and fine
that’ll heal such wounded eyes

It’s found beyond the rush and roar
in the Nearby Faraway
amidst a grove of sacred trees
it flows there every day

they say to dip your eyes right in,
wash your head in waters cold
and if you’re bold enough, get in
and dunk your dusty soul

You eyes of dawn and dew return
their colors will resurrect
your morning eyes will brightly burn
one of its many effects

but most of all, what happens next
a mystery at its best,
behind the breastbone beneath the eyes
a brilliance builds its nest

Such a fable can’t be believed
it sounds too good to be true
but just in case, seek the place
perhaps it will be proved



Fall Away

c244ac380594f873912364f47ef5f1d7--autumn-leaves-autumn-fall (1)In a world struggling desperately to find some semblance of balance and to integrate the shadows, may we receive the blessings of the Fall Equinox.Β πŸƒπŸ‚

Hover here for a moment
feeling the balance
between darkness and light
between drawing within
and explosive expression

harvest your juicy
sun-soaked fruits
perhaps too easily procured

honor the growing shadow
it’s okay to grieve
the dry and dying

relish the transition
and let the leaves no longer needed
flitter to the floor
limbs to feel
all the more lighter

Beautiful Commotion

lakeCan I be as still as this lake
mirroring the rising sun
the cloud parade
the stoic granite face
with a beard of pine
and water-streaked cheeks?

I try
but now, just as it is whispering,
“See all what you have together”
my skin heats up
along with the 1001 desires
of a world not content
merely to be still

the Great Stirring commences:

ducks splash
dragonflies buzz
the fat bird drinks
frogs plop
the Nutcracker croaks

and I, once a mirror of the mirror,
birth words on my tongue
and a longing in my muscles
to move and join
the beautiful commotion
and make my own ripple

Beyond Sight

sequoia-sempervirens-aptos-blue-barkI love you
and the way you see
the world

but I feel more
without you

the soft and the hard of it
the hot and the cold of it
the up and the down of it
the sweet and the bitter of it

the prickly


cushy of it all

I rely too much
on your vision of things

so from now on
I will take the delicate hands
of your blind
but sensible siblings
to help guide me through
this wilderness

Where I Live

WP_20160227_009I live under a plum tree
in a butterfly nation
balancing the things that pull

watching bees dance
through the oxalis forest
until settling on
the bright purple thistle flower

I live
in a redwood grove,
dancing naked in the cold winter rain
dreaming deep time

I live
at a cold heart-shaped lake,
just past Hurricane Ridge
warmth and wisdom
returning to my bones

I live
beside a city lake,
writing the wrong things

I live
on the musical road of the north
leaving behind
a cocoon carcass
but spinning another
with silk too thick to break

I live
in limbo
with four wheels
chasing the fantasies
on the edge of the West

I live
in a room
haunted by death
under a giant live oak
not knowing where
she’ll be in the morning

I live in an attic,
waiting to see
if she’ll finally come home

I live
on a rooftop,
playing fiddle with a sunset
hearing the sound
of a world breaking

I live
in a driftwood shelter on the beach,
absorbing waves
that never cease

I live
on the shoulder of a marsh,
arguing with mosquitoes
and storylines

I live
in the guest room,
deepening friendships

I live
in a cemetery,
confronting death
so I may live

I live
in a field of rattlesnake grass,
threshed like wheat,
only kernels remain

I live
among bay laurel & madrone
and a quirky Quercus
falling asleep to owls of the old
waking up to tweets of the new

I live
on a mountain pass,
seeing where I’ve been
and where I’m going

I live in
in a red rock canyon,
descending so I may ascend

I live
on a jagged foggy sea cliff,
ebbing and flowing,
but rooted like iceplants

I live
beside a creek, naked,
cheerful banter
with a yellow warbler

I live
at the edge of an alpine meadow,
sprouting like wildflowers

I live
on a hill overlooking a bay,
gaining perspective
breakfasting with wild people

I live
on the sandy banks of the river
serenaded by frogs
and a simple flowing song
tucked in by the milky way

I live
on a pine needle carpet,
grounding groundlessness
soft and spacious

I live
on the thrilling threshold,
stepping into myth
truer than fact