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.

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.

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.

{You, World}

There is nothing you

are not, being not 

a thing by yourself.

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}.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

anniversary:

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.

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.

Admonished

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.

Often

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

After Cremation

The ashes sing—

Slave to nothing . . . 

Servant of all.

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.

Refinement

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.

Each Step, the Way

Word transcribes a fact

that reveals a mystery—

two come one . . . at once.

Anniversarius

Returning yearly

we celebrate that

one moment in time

when our twoless twine

illumined the dark . . . 

and love whispered, thine.

Seasons Changing

We never will sate

the miracle coming till 

it's too late to stop.

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.

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.

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.