New Year’s Resolutions (Or the Art of Leaning In)


1)Drink more world
2)Take more people and questions out for walks
3)Scream more
4)Listen more (to everything except hate, commercials, and doubts)
5)Eat more garlic and rainbows
6)Be big star magnet
7)Spark the big spiral
8)Climb more mountains
9)Break all the grey lies
10)Reset the big habit
11)Begin the beginner’s mind
12)Take more cross-country trips with women I love
13)Get more scratches & bruises from bushes & animals
14)Start 3 more hobbies
15)Play more music with more people
16)Have more conversations with dolphins and lichens
17)Surprise myself more
18)Scare myself more
19)Bury myself in more substances
20)Be silent like tap root


All Manner of River

20197C5F-7096-4B50-9A5F-461E80A5BF5EDedicated to  my buddy Walt.

You bold cedar,
nourished by the river,
the river nourished by you,
fed by and are no less the river.

Your undying roots,
the strength of your limbs
living the athletic purpose of your trunk
saying, “To the sky!”
as much as your lover river says, “To the sea!”

Your needles and the sheen of your needles
you bark and the thickness and hardness of your bark
your manly cones erected skyward
in purpose and pleasure.

Yes, you too enjoy things.

You rocks grey and white, blue-grey
and all manner of red, rose, salmon, crimson
without which you would be incomplete
bringing every bold ray into yourself.

You lichen in manifold delight
gold and orange, all manner of green–
dark green, light green, grey-green, lime green
brown and silver,
and because you long for every hue
you draft yourself the inky absence of color, night black
against your grainy lover rocks.

You wet and soaring river,
your shape, texture, weight,
your undulating curves
and sumptuous taste.

Your prodigious femininity
and smooth fluid shapeliness of your giving in
your belonging to everything
your unbound generosity
your gigantic urge towards your lover sea.

The thousand faces of you:
rippled and roaring,
uncontrolled and uncontrollable,
misted and mysteried,
calm and quiet,
trickled and tranquil.

The flow of you I shall assume
each drop belonging to you
is as good belongs to me.

Don’t Just Do Something, Sit There

8CC26FD4-64A9-4D0C-8A21-327F5877FB93It’s okay to just sit on the bank
and watch the river
or even let the river
flow through you.

If you want to have a private conversation
with the moon and Venus
I won’t judge.

And even if I did, it’s none of my business.

If you just stand on the ridge
to be with the sun
until you become the sun
dropping its anchor off the ship of the day,
that’s too is okay.

If you want to, spin for 24-hours straight
like the stars around midnight.

Bury your bare feet in the sand
your arms around the mossy oak
slide your hands across the madrone limbs
like a lover–
if you want to.

It’s okay.
It’s okay.
It’s okay.

Let the Mountains Carve Me

C8D9C0E9-5875-4E2D-9276-FCC777E43446I. SEVERANCE

Commodities, the cold machine.

Scandals and plastic–all
the Gottahaves.

Virtually there. The Chase Inside
The Shining Hamster Wheel.

Too full but empty.

Duller than a balmy day
sharper than a winter gale
this slow and sucking dry.

All the lies will die.


With wind and water I
carry my discourse, fly
up and over
and let the mountain carve
monuments out of me
epiphytic and free.

With river itself take my counsel.

With mud and mushroom heed
all the wondrous whispers.

My tail prefers a winding path
once my face found itself
in that ancient blessed lake.


I’d rather eat beetles,
do you understand?

Once I knocked on the wrong moon
until I hitched with a wild wind

finding that belonging is not a place
but a skill
honed with a fierce heart.

I shift shapes from mountain pass to alley way,
while what is hidden remains my treasure,
and what is visible a sword and flute–
to the woven ones.

And when I say my preposterous names
risible and rooted
Oh, how it ripples on and on.

I Have Been Known To Bark

8067CFC3-E444-456F-9B58-F42162DFE6DDI admit I’ve been known to bark
loud and unrestrained,
less a dog than a wolf
or like a sea-lion and a bear
when no one is around to leer, or hear
or twitter too, like killdeer do
when they’re settling in for you

But not the heron’s croaking lark
for that I judge him much too harsh
despite the wisdom in his eyes
I find I’m not the croaking type

But for many tunes, I dare admit
I’ll cry alone and sad
at the ways of a wicked world
at the latest rage or fad

But also in a startled joy
of beauty so alive
laughing’s not so far behind
when warblers sing and otters dive

The impossibility of it all
like feathers flown as seeds are sown
and blown far out on the wind
you see, analogies all come from her,
all metaphors on her depends

Babble and skat outloud to hear
the echo over water near
bouncing off the cliff so stark
Yes, I have been known to bark