be with the moon
don’t judge her
question her motives
or movements
don’t read more into what is
like us, she is, and
like us, she needs no name
only a bit of light to exist
be with the moon
this fair april night
we too wax and wane, and eventually
give rise to morning
while the sun we praise and worship
never forget
it is the moon
that gets us through the night
People everywhere want just one thing–
to be and feel loved
Honored by another’s presence
Lifting up their deepest sense of being
We saw this in those dark brown eyes
of the two young Costa Rican girls
in that small village near Tortuguero
Not only their eyes, but their half smiles said:
Lift us up just a little higher
that we may see slightly beyond
Help us remember that the same beauty
in these sweet flowers all about fills us
Helping us get through the swirling darkness, falling
once the sun has set
You are not of our world, but
at the same time
you are not strangers to this beauty
filling the flowers, and all of us
May we, for just one moment
stand together with you in its presence
Click here and see pictures from all three legs of our Costa Rica adventure.
#1
satori moment
one with sweet jasmine flowers
heart bursting with joy
#2
something without name
ineffable, deep, holy
an inner rainbow
Costa Rica was amazing! You might say poetic!
Here is the link for the first of three short slide shows. (We took over 1,000 pictures.) This one is from the Tortuguero Region (Rainforest and very remote area). Two other slide shows to come.
be the witness
he who watches
the one trapped
on the treadmill of life
be the witness
the only one who truly sees
without creating anything
or being anybody
be the witness
he who is disinterested
in life’s comings and goings
but sees them all
be the witness
the one who sees without eyes
hears without ears
and knows without thinking
timeless realm of god
there our souls also dwell
wedded to nothing, unbounded
abiding in the light–
that which comes before
not separate from us, because
we are that, and more
there rests the iguana
in the early morning sun
the same timeless sun
giving light to us–all of us
not just the parts we wish to see
but the whole of us, and everything
there we are one with the iguana
There is something about this moment
The one we shared together
Leaving us breathless
Taking us to a place we’d never been
There is something about this moment
The way it holds us together
Lifting us up toward the sun
Sweeping our hearts away
There is something about this moment
The way it doesn’t last
Making us appreciate it even more
Assuring us love is always now
I love the way
the clouds hang free
in pure blue sky
The way a sunset
settles like a orange and yellow butterfly
on the horizon
The way the gentlest breeze
lifts our spirits
and breathes hope into our dreams
And the way your smile
invites me to be
just who I am
trust, the moment brings happiness
no waiting, reflecting, contemplating
ours to simply enjoy
not ours to keep, claim, identify with
happiness knows no master
joy, no student to be mastered
like the butterfly circling the garden
joy lands on the still open flower
playa conchal beach
hot sun, aqua green water
lifetime memories
pina colada
rum, pineapple, coconut
headache next morning
offshore boulder rocks
jutting up out of nowhere
life as it happens
5:12 am, Arenal erupts
Thunderous roar, breaking early morning silence
like some soaring fighter jet, rushing overhead
Even grousing howler monkeys grow quiet
and the singing birds still themselves in nearby trees
as something more powerful speaks
Clouds cover her cone
Only her faint outline visible
Her presence we feel, so vast, uncontrollable
Respect she instills
Her bellowous voice
A reminder, our humble place on the planet
People like us take nature vacations
to find lost parts of themselves
Parts they never knew they had, until
they’re overtaken by that lost part
on a cruise down the Tortuguero River
Letting the wind blow their hair in all directions
Surrendering to the shrieks and grunts of the male howler monkeys
snapping their brittle sense of reality in two
Whatever we found that Saturday afternoon
with the wind in our faces, and
the sun beating down on our backs
has awakened something DEEP inside us
Something telling our souls to return to this place
where the green sea and leatherback turtles
come each year to lay their eggs
Everyday, large buses fill our dirt road
Stuffed with gawking tourists
following the same road
our ancestors did to find this place
These strangers peer at us
like some carnival sideshow attraction
Their squinting eyes miss our world
The place we live, and matters
While the buses slow, enough
for the strangers to snap their pictures
So little they will ever know
So much we will hide from them
So few of their dollars, francs and yen make it our way
Just barely enough
to make us dream past our rusted white icebox
made in 1939 in Evansville, Indiana
Just enough they leave behind, to make us wonder
how long before our sons and daughters grow restless
with their Tico roots, and trade
their Costa Rican country life for some LA ghetto
first impressions last
it was love at first sight
as our plane edged toward san jose
our dream of costa rica came to life
there she was…
an endless sea of dark green velvet
rainforests, lush, deep, beckoning
lakes sparkling like pools of diamonds
her rounded, layered mountains, interspersed with smoking volcanoes
reached high into the cloud-speckled sky
her jagged coastline stretched into turquoise blue water
we were lost in her sheer beauty
suddenly cleveland seemed so very far away
from a distance this latin lady struck our fancy
now, we breathlessly awaited our first slow dance
to hold her close-up and smell her sweet perfume
useless, so much what we think
no beginning, no end
one steady stream…of unconsciousness
shifting directions, like the wind
like water, seeking the path of least resistance
often like a bad storm
causing us to run for cover
addicts, all of us, to our minds
to our indiscriminate ideas
wretched habits of thought
no way to think your way out of it
only makes it worse
one thing seems to work…lose your mind
hang out a bit in the now
somehow, thinking minds can’t live there
I hear him
Making holes again
Hollow places in dead trees
He’s very old, you know
Prehistoric!
Pterodactyl-like, I think
With his red crest
bobbing up and down
He seems very proud
Cocky, I’d say
His drilling stops
Oh, I hear him
Odd cuk wucka sounds
She makes him wait
I know he’s listening for her
Finally she returns his call
His pecking resumes
Strange fellow–
that pileated woodpecker
Feasting on ants and beetles
Deep in the old forest
where there is plenty of dead wood
The hollow tree is his drum, you know
He plays a driving beat
Latin rock, I think
He’s ancient, you know
I hope I see him
Andrew over at Past Tense reminded me of this old poem.
lost soldier
he who stands guard
well beyond curfew
always waiting for morning
lost soldier
all guns empty
no fight left
night ends without battle
lost soldier
all wars ended
no enemies left standing
only battles with self remain
lost soldier
complete surrender
beyond all battles
soldier finds self, no longer lost
it slips away…life
between our fingers
over our laughs, cries
even our adventures
just when you think you have it
everything changes, and
there you are naked, wondering
left hanging by a thread
this is nothing new
despite some folks’ protestation
it’s always been the same
only the names change, which doesn’t matter
you will arise tomorrow
everything that was
still will be in your deepest place
hanging by a thread
A part of my life
You will always be
Happy and sad
Both parts of me
Looking back on the years
So many struggles come into view
Roller coaster feelings
Ups and downs, the life we knew
Twenty-two years you’ve been gone
It seems just like yesterday
Where did the time go
I don’t know what to say
A boy can never just forget his mom
After all, I was a part of you
From the very start
Our lives together grew
Spring brings back memories
Of earlier times we both knew
Happy and sad times
Still it’s hard to let go of you
Brenda Cowe, a very talented singer and musician, honored me by putting music to my 1970 poem, Lookin’ Back When I’m 64.
It is a beautiful song. I think a much better song than poem.
Brenda, thank you ever so much. You did a fantastic job. I appreciate you putting my poem to music. You are very talented and have a lovely voice.
when you hear birds sing
in springtime morning sunshine
your soul rejoices
and dances in holy celebration
give in, celebrate, be filled
with laughter, happiness, peace
close your eyes, sit without expectation
receive what is freely given
now, pass it on
give to someone you meet
this unexpected gift of peace
in so doing, you are filled once again
Poetry is
one of those things
I like to do
and do often
Poetry is
one of those things
seizing my imagination
and never letting go
until it has had its say
Poetry is
something that starts
deep inside you
and doesn’t stop starting
until it has run its course
Poetry is
one of those things
helping you find your way
when you’re lost
and I would be lost without it
Poetry is
something that people tried
to live without
at points in history
only to discover
that poetry is who they were
Poetry is a blessing and a curse
and those possessed by it
have no choice but
to let it write itself
through them
Finally
poetry is not
the exclusive domain of poets
with special gifts.
Poetry is for anyone
who breathes air
weak kneed
all alone
just there waiting
kneeling, finally a prayer comes
midway, up the mountain
all prayers stop
giving way
to god himself
in silence
just above the treeline
the sun sets
a new relationship with god begins
every spring, uncharted water
an adventure in becoming
a day by day unfolding of secrets
some buried beneath leftover snow
others much deeper, in the heart
the crocuses slowly show themselves
they too test the water
not convinced their time has come
the birds sing songs of change
yet romance fails to fill their eyes
the older we grow, the more we have to remember
so many childhood memories sprout this spring
like shedding our coats walking home from school, and
seeing a robin hop across the neighbor’s yard, and
wondering why God has so many secrets
Easters in the 1950s were special times
One I remember
I was just seven
Too old to believe in Easter Bunny
but not too young to believe in Jesus
Thankfully, my disbelief did not prevent me
from receiving an overstuffed Easter basket
filled with pastel-colored hardboiled eggs
bright pink and yellow marshmellow chicks
oodles of sickening sweet jelly beans
and best of all
a tall, debonair solid chocolate bunny
whose ears begged to be nibbled and chewed first
Why just this morning I read
that two-thirds of all chocolate bunny fans gnaw off the ears
before devouring the rest of their bunny
As a true chocolate bunny affectionado
this doesn’t surprise me in the least
No Easter was complete without a special church service
Mom always noticed what she called the holiday church-goers
or those folks showing up only on Easter
to get a free Easter Lily, or maybe a cream-filled egg
The Easter service was always a little longer
since the pastor felt compelled to rattle on and on
about how the stone from Christ’s tomb was miraculously rolled away
At just the right moment
the congregation spontaneously burst into a chorus
of Hymn #322, Up from the Grave He Arose
No altar call on Easter Sunday
Pastor knew folks wanted to get home
to their sumptuous dinner of ham, scalloped potatoes
carrots, fresh-baked rolls
and of course a virgin white, coconut frosted lamb cake
Nothing short of the Rapture itself
could keep folks from that meal
An Easter egg hunt often capped the day
Back then, they were REAL eggs
and not the plastic ones filled with little toys
And of course, there was the usual oohing and awaing
about the daffodils, crocuses and hyacinths
which dotted the fence along the side and back yards
Easter was a wonderful holiday back then
even without any days off from school
Somewhere deep inside, you felt reborn
and that another winter in your life was behind you
That in itself makes Easter worthwhile
hard times, here again
harder than we’ve seen in some time
people losin’ their jobs, their homes
no healthcare, no pension
no relaxin’ in their retirement
been a long time comin’
eventually all those lies add up
they catch up, pull us over
especially those whoppers we tell
’bout always bein’ number one
economy’s come unraveled
in ways we never imagined
some say the banks took our money
others blame the government…
lettin’ the war of greed take all we have
experts say it’s a recession
like when you’re really sick…
doesn’t matter what they call it, just so you get better
not as bad as 1929
but everybody’s worried, only liars say they’re not
don’t give up, even for a minute
no matter how much you got or lose
reach out, help your neighbor
reassure your elderly mother she’ll be ok
forget what you had or lost
give a little more than you think you can
pay attention to the birds and flowers
find growth and beauty in ’em
they’re special gifts, especially in hard times
cold dark night
moonlit winter promises
hovering lust, always just beyond
night soon slips away, yet still inside me
morning, a long distance
a journey to awakening
one of remembering
seeing with eyes wide open
twilight bridges night and day
sunrise comes at last
a journey of color
bright oranges, reds, yellows
a new day begins
yet still I slumber
eyes wide open
sun shining bright
Movin’ ahead in time
To a place yet to come
A time when I’ll remember
The places I never been
This place I never been to
Still holds on inside of me
Fills me on warm spring mornings
With sunhine from another time
Baby, don’t look in my eyes
For tears are ’bout to fall
Tears for a place I never been to
Tears for a life I wish I could remember
So here I sit with all my memories
Lookin’ back when I’m sixty-four
So here I sit with all my memories
Lookin’ back when I’m sixty-four
What is this world all around me
Not just the place where I live
But the world of everybody
The world I see at sixty-four
So here I sit with all my memories
Tears of yesterday fill my eyes
Movin’ ahead in time
To a place I never been
Take me back to that place
From where I looked forward
That place I can have my memories
Lookin’ back when I’m sixty-four
Note: Written in 1970 during my college days at the University of Arizona.
This song is a unique twist on the Beatles’ 1967 song, When I’m 64.
snow fell without warning
inaugurating spring’s awaited launch
clinging in unexpected faithfulness
to barren tree limbs, rooftops, and
even the neighbor’s dog
prancing in the front yard
no question…
spring will eventually arrive
the forest will green brilliantly
fragrant flowers will fill the front gardens
blue robin eggs will reappear, and
days will grow longer than nights
but, until her time has come
winter will dance one more time, and
his artic breath will blow harsh and cold
across mounting spring green promises
welling up inside us
maiden springtime has again left us waiting
some things we never grow tired of
like sunsets, the smell of fresh baked bread
deep romantic kisses, aha ideas at just the right time
and rousing conversations with friends
we feel so alive at these times
and then, there are those moments
when life seems to stop…
like when you questioned
my right to happiness, and
you doubted my good intentions
even what we love the most
can’t save us from these unexpected tumbles
Note: Inspired by a story told to me by a friend
early springtime, upon us once again
crocuses push new green shoots through still thawing earth
as they do every year
we haven’t talked in a year
and like always
your narcissism pushes its way into our conversation
we freeze up, it’s winter all over again
loose ends, life mostly
what we tie up, comes undone
even beliefs, especially beliefs–
coming unraveled, just about the time
we think we’ve got it all figured out
never meant to be neat and tiddy
tell your mother, that’s life
chaos, not a cop out, real
life…dynamic, unstable, non-linear, co-creative
just like you and me
loose ends, all we have
even death, especially death–
the ultimate loose end
all of it, life and death
hopelessly untied…to anything
our beliefs can’t save us
they too, appearances–
illusions casting a spell on us
clouds of dust dreams leave behind
let them go, all loose ends
Pronounced O-hi-o
Name from the Seneca Indian word ohi:yo’
Meaning beautiful river
Two hundred twenty miles wide and long
Born 1803, same year as Emerson
Colors, scarlet and gray
Bird, bright red cardinal
Some famous Ohioans, Marilyn Manson, Traci Lords
Eight Ohio presidents, the mother of presidents they say
Ohioans, proud prodding people
A mixed bag, not one thing but many
By a stretch, more profane than urbane
For many years, a place to make things
Now a place remaking itself
Like all states, good things, people to brag about
Known for buckeyes…an inedible nut of no commercial value
Eleven plus million people, seventh most populous state,
On Eastern Standard Time, but behind the times in some ways
A practical, grounded place, like Woody Hayes’ football
One wish for Ohio, believe in what you can’t see
fast melting snow
spring’s symphony warms up
steady drip from the rooftop
icicles giving way to their true nature
robins know, long before us
off in the distance, rebirth draws near
your best friend reality reminds you
to rest, relax, heal, regain a sense of yourself
your friend reminds you
too much thinking, doing
or anything
could be the death of you
your best friend reality knows
the spaciousness beyond your limits, and
the limitlessness of the space filling you
your friend imposes no boundaries on you
with friendship, or in any other way
and requests you do the same
everyday, a journey to visit with your best friend
a new opportunity to experience
whatever shows up in your world
sometimes it’s easier to see things
and not worry what you call them
this makes for a better visit with reality
two days, two nights, the snow fell
three feet of pristine white velvet left behind
drifts even deeper
blanketing everything in sight
glorious virgin whiteness
god’s purity covering all
muffling all sound
slowing down a speeding world
hunger brings them, even amidst the blizzard
white-tailed deer trudge their usual path
to the bird feeders, now within reach
aided by mother nature’s crystalline step ladder
the winter sun shines brightly
olive brown gold finches nimble coal-black thistle
brilliant red cardinals scour the big flat feeder
for much loved crunchy sunflower seeds
a remarkable sermon this sunday morning
lessons, deep as the snow, taught by the deer
the finches, cardinals, the sun
all one, in nature’s snowy arms
when people come together
honestly show up in each other’s presence
something magical takes place
something we can’t predict
unfolds and grows in their midst
even in silence
they change the world
put down new roots
extend their tentacles
and make a difference
together as one
they paint the sky with stars
open secret doors to the universe
heal broken hearts and spirits
and make the world go round
is it any wonder
people seek company
along their journey?
is it any wonder
one plus one will always equal a million?
what wells up inside
at times, a tear becoming a waterfall
a feeling in our gut
spreading like the wind throughout us
often not the result of hard thought, rather
what casually slips into our heart
sometimes a no-nonsense notion
overtaking us like a tornado
taking form in words, but not always
could be a smile, hug, a questioning look
something old we remember
at times, simply walking away
inside us always, but
not always within reach
there, waiting like the next breath
wisdom, your true nature
all we have at times
our recollections, harvests
even our forfeitures–
what we give in penance
what we sought and forgot
longed for, abandoned
takeaways from life, both lived
and dreamed in withdrawal
small things, less than expected
tokens for real rewards
sometimes much larger, even profound
like the mystery of a sunset
loose change in our pockets
scraps left on a dinner plate
barely enough keeping us alive
not enough to die for
words, somedays they elude me
strolling on by, leaving me
standing at the intersection of aphonic and speechless
that’s problematic for a poet
no words, no poem
on second thought, there are words
but not so lyrical or gesticular
not about anything stirring me
just words like a dull knife
unable to make a clean cut into reality
find the muse within
that’s what the poetry cookbook says
since when does betty crocker write poetry?
inner bard, poetaster, rhymester…
all on vacation this morning
even harder to finish a poem
with no apparent reason to be, but
when you’ve come this far
there’s no turning back
for today, mum’s the word
Sunday morning
Sitting cross-legged, in quiet meditation
No words, no ambition
Filling with pregnant silence
Suddenly the holy appears–
a bright red cardinal on the feeder
each poem, a journey to find itself
all, starting somewhere inside us
most, beginning with unknown endings
each, finding its way through us, and
eventually beyond us
some, struggle little to get here
others, an unending battle to become
confession, surely good for the soul…
i’ve had my share of stillborn poems
those born only to be buried
selfless poetry is the best…
that is poetry without ego
poetry going beyond itself
these are those rare poems
not overly attached to their own words
like each colt or filly wobbling to its feet
every poem must stand on its own legs
the poet, but a midwife, must step aside
allowing the poem to journey forth into hearts
planting a seed in each it encounters
those hearts decide whether a poem endures
like frost’s the road not taken
or drift helplessly lost
in second-hand bookstores
alongside back issues of vanity fair
It has been a while coming, but I have charted a new course for the future. I called it wisdom work.
If you would like to learn more, click here.
I would be very interested in your reactions, thoughts and questions. Thank you.
we never know, really
what dreams will fill us
we turn off the light
close our eyes, and
the rest is left to our pillow
always dreams growing, under
the cover of so many masks
so many faraway places, thundering
in the background, waiting
for lightning to strike, and free us
some, full length movies, playing
over and over and over again
others, tantalizing clips, whetting
our appetites for more–
more than we can imagine
our dreams free us, if we allow them
to fill places inside us not yet born
as faint outlines they emerge
some ghosts, but most reminders
of what we’ve forgotten
We expect too much from government
Too much from politicians–
those we elect to lead us
Those to whom we entrust the public interest
Elected officials should be accountable
That’s not my point. My point is:
Never ask someone else to do
what you must do for yourself
Perhaps you disagree
and that’s alright, but
consider what we abdicate to strangers
we ask to sit in high places, like gods
Those we ask to make change on our behalf
Change most likely we should make in ourselves
Gandhi had it right:
Be the change you want to see in the world
I’ve tired of all the political promises
Those kept, those broken
Those kept can be the worst, especially those
dragging us from one extreme to another
I try not to be cynical about politics, but
I’m tired of senseless power struggles, and
all the he said she said’s
For me, November will always be about Thanksgiving
Snowflakes make more sense than politics
especially during election years
Each is different, but together they make snow
and they don’t make promises they can’t keep
Numbing cold February morning
A quiescent interlude, a place just beyond
Winter melodies drift like wind-swept snow
The forest, a white goose down quilt
A slumbering world fills with peace
For just one moment
something less becomes more
In that moment, naked knowing
In that place in-between–
A place of equanimity appears
Quickly as it comes, it goes
No touching back what can only touch us
No holding onto what passes through us
No container giving shape to shapeless beauty
Eventually, all snowflakes return to water
I’ve started a new blog called Work, Careers and Callings.
The economy is tanking and folks need help finding work, keeping the job they have and planning their future worklife.
Check it out here: Work, Careers and Callings.
No answers, just questions
Probes, like spiders, climbing
one wall, then another
until all possibilities have been touched
Questions, most faint shooting stars
burning out before finding answers
Truth, last thing to come of questions
Answers, but questions turned inside out
Riddles fill holes left by lies
Sometimes thinking they are answers
Upon reflection we see
they too are spiders
Word play, perhaps
Some call it poetry
Others see sheer entertainment
Me? Just more spiders spinning webs
A gift to Jessi from a friend
Fast becoming a receptacle for love
A small spirited dog, overflowing with life
An angel, in name and spirit
Everyday, a companion, trusting friend
Courageous protector
At times, a playful heat-seeking missile
Always a bearer of happiness and joy
One of God’s precious creatures
Given in a moment without hestitation
Returned just as quickly
into God’s ever open arms
Empty spots in all she touched
More given than ever taken
For Jessi, a friend for life
An angel in name and spirit
Poetic Alchemist 