Monday, September 14, 2015

So You

So you did ask me
to sum you all up 
in the sparsest of
words and you did give
me the grand gesture:

{A, Not-A}.

As if that were not
well enough you kept
pestering me to
spell you all out till
you filled me with this:

Life’s a lark, if dark.

Now if you don’t mind
you may as well take 
your words and give them 
to whomever you 
do please to nag next . . .

you leave me alone.

Where I guess I am
in every case and
surely would not mind
if you would only
take away your words . . .

leave me empty mind.

Not ungrateful I
do appreciate
your being alone
all one and wanting
daunting company . . . 

so You, I leave words.

Sunday, September 13, 2015

Light Consciousness

The light of every sun is
but a glimmer of the Sun
that doth never rise or set,
just each thing, its sacred spark . . .
like the bug I marked this morn
crawling cross the office floor.

I placed the wee critter down
on the front porch en route to 
the yard for Sunday’s paper, 
so on the return I had
to check my soles to see if
I’d stepped on it unawares.

Nothing there, this did play out
a scene the previous night 
when another spark of that 
Sun had landed on my chest 
to rest and, startled, I did 
with forefinger smite the mite.

Saturday, September 12, 2015

Grand Humble Now, Here

Just when I think I

have seen every thing

I fail to notice 

the very thing that

keeps me in my place—

humble moment’s spur

ever spiraling 

nowhere to be seen.

Friday, September 11, 2015

{You, World}

There is nothing you

are not, being not 

a thing by yourself.

Thursday, September 10, 2015

After Krishnamurti

Being a vain beast
you often demand
the world be like you.

How odd, the proud search
for lookalikes leads
to joining-up with

tribe or tradition,
doctrinal trappings
that sure do follow.

Begging freedom you
settle for bondage
among the masses

paying scant notice
to the tie that binds
by setting you free—

Behold, {you, your world}.

Wednesday, September 9, 2015

Faltering Recall

If you live with a
person who is not
you, there will be this:

sooner or later
you will remember
some event one way

and the other will
recall another . . .
and if you are not

attentive you may
find yourselves yelling
at one another.

Living together
is at best a walk 
in the darkest park.

Tuesday, September 8, 2015

The Giver

Words are given me
but to give away.

I have only with 
the words to fiddle

till they make music
to my ear . . . even

if they befuddle
readers with riddles.

I sure mean no harm,
only to stop mind

from its old track of
perseveration . . .

so to leave some trace 
of the trackless track.

Monday, September 7, 2015

The Given

In the yard yanking
weeds from the walkway,
I saw a neighbor
and we exchanged words.

Hey neighbor, he said.
How art thou, I said.
Better than deserved:
but what I heard was,

It is sweet to serve.
Either way's a gift,
he and I agreed,
as I left the weeds

for another day
so to retire from
the heat and return
to making poems.

Which allows me this:
I act-u-ally 
do not make poems, 
I’m but their ally.

Sunday, September 6, 2015

Where the Wild Things Are

Every demon is
an angel disguised
if, but only if,
there be realized
implications for
growth, applications
of the moment’s spur.

I can remember
being a demon:
mean to another,
and what I learned is
worth my weight in gold—
I can do the thing 
worst, that I can think.

Saturday, September 5, 2015

Utter Love

To utter love is
to love utterly . . .

accepting all things
without exception . . .

each emanation
completely embraced . . .

every nuance of
resistance relaxed . . .

all opposites come
refined apposites . . . 

so it doth be done
once in a blue moon . . .

still, so it doth be 
every moment’s spur.

Friday, September 4, 2015

At Times Like This

At times like this when
a friend needs me to
share her birthday with . . .
I’m washing my hair.

Else preoccupied
with some other thing
so miss, once again,
a chance to hug her.

At times like this I
lean on Facebook posts
where every photo
reminds me, that could

be my arm in hers—
holding Francie’s leash,
marrying couples,
(burying corpses) . . .

sharing a drink or
a grandchild’s laughter
or some music fest
at Laughing Horse Lodge . . .

in fact, her wedding
a return yearly
to celebrate that

one moment in time
when a twoless twine
illumines the dark
and love whispers, Thine.

At times like this I
miss being there but 
must ooh and aah for 
feeling being . . . here.

Thursday, September 3, 2015

Time Out

I take time out to:

feel the timeless spur
of the  bliss of now . . .

clear up the cobweb
of a confused mind . . .

clean up the bias
of a broken heart . . .

extend the practice 
of a poor spirit . . .

thus I take time out.

Wednesday, September 2, 2015


Religious admonitions
involve recognition of

some abiding truth about
the welfare of all people

followed by the reminder
to trust truth enough to mind

its light on life’s plight, delight.
Just so, life is short, one’s death 

can come on the moment’s spur:
here, now . . . when least expected—

so each one must come to see
through the eye of everyone

so to feel from the heart’s depths 
the way to the commonwealth.

Tuesday, September 1, 2015


Often I’ve contemplated
death, without praying for it.

Often I’ve prayed for better
health, not knowing the result.

Often I’ve known how best to 
act, without behaving just.

Often I’ve behaved after
thought, not doing what I ought.

Often I’ve done just what I
ought, without feeling ’twas right.

Often I’ve felt my deeds were
right, not seeing any good.

I do see life is fleeting, 
not a thing lasts forever.

Monday, August 31, 2015

Self Alignment

Commitments with convictions.
Conflicting interests, all.
Path with communal purpose. 
Purposefulness with keen skill.
Skillful means with core values.
Core concerns with social use.
Social use with spirit growth . . .

leading to action that is
personally satisfying
socially productive 
spiritually sustaining.

Sunday, August 30, 2015

On Facebook I Saw

On Facebook I saw
that the same letters

rearranged make up 
two words, belonging

with one another . . .
listen  &  silent,

apposites of yore,
as in, to listen

mind must be silent,
and to be silent 

mind has to listen—
no own self-being

can do both at once.
Holy writ doth say,

Let go your soul’s yen:
lose self to find Self.

Saturday, August 29, 2015

Clouds Unknowing

Seven southern days 
it has rained some, so
all’s green with envy

of a dry spell . . . well,
not like unto the
hell rising yonder

in the western hills
and valleys that need
torrential waters.

One fine day may be
we’ll be capturing 
clouds here, to share there.

Friday, August 28, 2015

Writer’s Block?

There is a sure cure . . .
open the eyes wide
and thy heart wider.

Then listen for things
speaking their stories 
from between the lines.

Thursday, August 27, 2015

Wednesday, August 26, 2015

Beyond Consignment

Renowned figures of 
science seem content

consigning to time’s
dustbin, religion.

You’d think they’d apply 
their refined method

to study firsthand
her very object:

consciousness.  Instead,
they pick out the hand-

me-down remnants to
pick on, as if these

surface features could
exhaust the subject.

To plumb the depths of 
awareness you must

wake up, and waking
you do see clear light . . .

once you let go of
your self as seer.

Yes, some religious
are just as confused

so they use their faith 
to build up own rank.

Tuesday, August 25, 2015


On days of much rain
the brook running through
Overton Park roars . . .

otherwise it crawls,
like today, and yet
it always babbles,

like a glass of fine
wine, a refined word, 
nay, a monkpoem.

Monday, August 24, 2015

Each Step, the Way

Word transcribes a fact
that reveals a mystery—
two come one . . . at once.

Sunday, August 23, 2015


Returning yearly
we celebrate that

one moment in time
when our twoless twine

illumined the dark . . . 
and love whispered, thine.

Saturday, August 22, 2015

Seasons Changing

We never will sate
the miracle coming till 
it's too late to stop.

Friday, August 21, 2015

Lost Time

Making poems proves
a fine way to pass

the time, taking the
focus of a priest 

and the patience of 
a prophet of doom . . .

neither of whom has
room for keeping time

which melts in the mist 
of feeling be-ing.

Thursday, August 20, 2015

Small Talk

High school reunions
involve much small talk

and he did talk small
at a Fiftieth . . .

his wife’s, but then he
learned a large lesson:

the more attentive
he was to the small

the deeper he felt
the tall vibrations

and the more able
to share them with all

even the stranger 
he could not recall

so, lo and behold,
by end of the ball 

the two were of one
political call.

Wednesday, August 19, 2015

Crow Stuck in the Craw

On a morning walk
I did hear the sound . . .

a shrill “caw-caw” that
stayed with me around 

the track an hour with
no crow to be found.

From start to finish
I felt I was bound

to the bird I heard
and its song doth hound

me still, to the point
I appear so wound

as to be left with 
a single oath . . . zounds!

Tuesday, August 18, 2015

Reading Ease

I taught a student
once who seemed to love
books more than people;
it was hard for her

to look another 
in the eye, for hers
when open were glued 
to a page, some book.

Brain-damaged, she read
with such attention,
you would ask of her
no more than she gave.

Things you might take for
granted, startled her,
and left her perplexed
by the noise, alone.

But the still quiet
of reading bucked up 
her spirit and she 
was at ease, reading.

Monday, August 17, 2015

Hanging Pall

On the office wall
his degrees are hung
below eye level.

On back of the door
his winter robe hangs 
alone, the year round.

Above the window
hangs a photograph
of him, three brothers.

Draping the window
hangs a sari from
a Hindu swami.

On the one bookshelf
hang together scripts
from nine religions.

Other wall hangings
remind him of his
dearest spirit kin.

In this sacred space
he hangs out, often 
making monkpoems.

Sunday, August 16, 2015

The Mist of a Mystic Mood

’Tis rare, but just now
I feel . . . rather sad,

not from what I see
before me, yet from

what I do foresee
coming round the bend,

the end of good health,
start of practicing

the finest of arts:
withering away.

Ah, it’s here . . . it’s now,
thus I do rehearse

while I await, with 
patience, my own hearse.

Saturday, August 15, 2015

Busy Day, His

A busy day for
him begins with his
waking up at five.

He celebrates that
feat with a cup of
dark-roasted coffee.

With the brew in hand
he sits—still, silent—
till the light of morn.

Then he moves to meet
the day’s eye rising
to greet him with words.

The heart open wide,
he means to say what
he sees, to full term,

all found lingering
in the lane, alone
but for his own mind

empty, so alert
to any movement . . . 
the slightest wonder.

Friday, August 14, 2015

Humble Heart

No trait is more worthy than
humility, the essence
of love.  None can match it for
joy and generosity.

Thus it is biblical script, 
The meek inherit the earth.

Thursday, August 13, 2015

Upright We Write

Upright we do write 
the earth so to reach
her high-hanging fruit.

The more upright we
stand, the more fruit we 
find to gather in.

Then one fine day when 
we cease the rite, fruit 
doth come from the hand.

Wednesday, August 12, 2015

Upstanding Peace

Not every itch is
created equal.

Some beg to be scratched
for the mere pleasure.

If we forego that,
utter peace may rise

like incense . . . along 
with our Uprightness.

Patience is required
for global warming,

the current mother 
of next invention.

Tuesday, August 11, 2015

Religion, Simply

Of all things religious, one
stands out, expressed by myth, rite,
ethic, doctrine—witnessed in 
scripture: human consciousness.

Religion’s about nothing 
if not becoming awake.