SPLIT INFINITIVE

5CFF08CA-9967-4406-BD6D-5652FDD7AAE0What am I trying to truly say
to my Self
in this split infinitive
and affable alliteration?

Om—sometimes infinity need a little space to stretch out in

but that’s not quite it.

In search of a world to modify
and dangling a participle,

a big bangs
a heat waves
a cold snaps

A breath taking
I opening
order forms

then falls

over and over

Did I mean to modify
an unintended Subject?

Or was my intention to become
an object subjected
to play?

Look, this is what I can do!

I cannot be split, only forget.

I cannot not proliferate.

I cannot not come together
and pull apart.

Consider this from your point
of view.

Consider this from mystery’s point of view.

Overflowing, I join me. Overflowing, I leave me.

You can see the dilemma.

THINGS THEY SAID LAST NIGHT IN THE TSUNAMI ZONE

51F2D59B-7AC1-4AA8-8D80-D9CC913A65A9You’re not getting out
until the truth forms a dawn in you.

I’ll gather up the finest moon
and lather colors on the edge

I’ll blow a new wind through the dunes
through all your sunset silhouettes

I’ll scatter several shooting stars
among your pretty confused heads.

But truth be told
you’ll not get out
until the final truth can shout.

The gate is locked, the gate is closed!
It won’t open until all’s disclosed.
The gate is closed, the gate is locked!
it won’t open until all’s unblocked—

the inner chamber where waters start
the ears to hear the healer’s art
the hands to hold the truest friend
the eyes to see the patterns end.

This is the Tsunami zone
where the taste of love,
the very pulse of life
carries the threat of drowning

You’ll want to flee to higher ground
where everything seems safe and sound

You’ll want to keep one foot out
the moment’s door, to feed the doubt

The secret’s there, you know its truth
For so long we’ve been telling you:

To stay in you and ride the wave
to blessed be and boldly brave
and flip that mighty mermaid’s flip
until shapes of love form your lips

the waves still crash upon your shore
but not the conflict any more.

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You can get RE-MEMBERING: Poems of Earth & Soul. and High-Cooing Through the Seasons: Haiku From the Forest through your local bookstore, on Amazon or Indiebound, Link in bio. My book of mystical poems, Silence Begins Here, and book of love and erotic poetry, Wild Rose Hips, and Book of Rivers: Headwaters and Heartrocks will be out later this year. Follow me for mythopoetic inspiration and @wildnatureheart for my heart-centered nature connection & 1-on-1 inner/outer wilderness work. 🙏🌍🤠🦊🌲💚

That Tide Your Heartbeat

e7b97da6-241e-4aad-87a1-81c7107decbdRemember when you doubted?

Back in the season of smallness
when the Big Trust
was a secret password
known only to the society of saints?

Remember when your narrow
Image looked back at you
from the Distorted Mirror of your tiny house?

And when you smashed that mirror
with a mountain heart
and used the shards to carve an Image in the sands of time
that even the Mighty Ocean could barely contain

the sun and moon
became your peers,
the tide your heartbeat.

And now—
now you dance
sometimes as the shoreline
sometimes as the sea
sometimes as the raindrops
on granite peaks

inhaling hardness
exhaling softness

with starlight falling
through your finger tips
and whole galaxies underfoot.

My Name is Belonging

0aeb9f55-99b4-4c88-ac8e-959652afd7a9They say the first step is admitting
you have an addiction

So here goes —my name is Mystery,
I’ve been here a million times
and Yes, I take heaping spoonfuls
of galaxies straight out of the jar
when I should be sleeping

I gulp in the seasons
whenever I see one one sitting out
on the table

My name is Abundance,
and I swallow fat Oceans
calorie-dense forests
and whole fields of lupine
when I think no one is looking

My name is Curiosity,
and I look under rocks
and climb through dark caves
running my hands against the wet walls

My name is Insatiable
and I chew on entire mountain ranges
just to get high

I have no idea what they say
about the second step,
I wasn’t listening.

I was too busy sitting
on the edge of the cliff
watching the sun retire
and caressing the bark
of the madrone tree.

My name is Belonging.

Riverever

BAD0E0A7-E45F-43B9-AF96-BD0F64ADE6FBfor e.e. cummings

river stone sun moon
let by let, in noon night dreamt
and get by get, let letting set

by piece and piece and picking up
the dustly dust that had been down

he sang his yes and flung his no
flow by flow, stone by stone

thereby came his riverever
(so riverly and thus forever)

moon river stone sun
(yet he’s not the only one)

wave by wet, bird by wing
bee and sting, trees and ringed

nor faraway, but nearby far
one by one, not two by two
into drumming breathe big star
how he wonders do you too?

pebbles down or time it pins ya
empty pockets ’til it getchya

but then and now and oftening
past did its went and forgotten things
all never’s said, and of course i’ll be’s
but all the things in between, oh the things…

so sun moon river stone
(yet they’re not the only one)

flesh by flesh, touch by touch
bark by skin by scale as much
dream one wakes, wide by wind
wild it, yes, remembering

pebbles down or time it pins ya
empty pockets ’til it getchya

he on cheek them, kisses, winks it
whenever floats it up, then sinks it

until into breathing, dream by star
no matter thinks it who you are
and so too you can soon
stone river sun moon

sing your yes, fling your no
stone by stone, flow by flow

Start With a Frog

81ACCF7F-64B3-4D36-A6A4-A2D2DFBF1447Start with a frog. In the mud
by the shore the day begins.

In the sky by the hawk, inside the stones under water.

Whatever word they use to mean how morning’s light on low rapids…
—use it here.

Tell me, how did the day smile from each corner of its face?

But it was doing it with glee and fire.

Oh, if I were but a builder….
An altar at each place.

The thing about Now—no monuments serve better than presence. How to praise.

I opened my hands and found a sun—all the sand had poured out.

Along with all the sighs I’d been gathering since June
joining the other out breaths of an August flow.

And I swear I’m not a hoarder.
The mouse is not convinced.

Without trying I touched everything:

pampas grass and salmon
mustard and poison oak
more red than red alder leaves
Jupiter and all the whiskers
found me
all the flickers white-banded
and belling into the wind.

And of course those frogs
delicate and intrepid.

When I hitched my beautiful cloud to the river-chord
after all these eons,
finally,
finally! the heron believed me.

So, picking 730 blackberries to celebrate,
one for each moment of the morning,
I stained myself the deep color of joy.