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.