Human walking

Born from uninitiated folk,

as most Westerners are,

creates holes in knowing that let icy winds enter.

Weaving oneself back together requires attention,

a briny commitment, earthly,

sight of an old fist-width rope tying the now to a millennia of then:

the family line.

Mostly invisible shoulders carry

the wobbling essential unformed

human walking known as you.

Start asking questions.



Wanting to know what satisfies

an ancient hunger you’re not even certain is yours,

countless streets, endless questions,

bottomless pans, and tears of frustration

over a lifetime

have added up to a hillock of humus,

dark, fertile, and remembered.

The sought after whatsit, the toil of time and love,

may or may not ever amble up to you,

paws dirty with devotion.

The wanting filling your carved out places,

a blue, swirling smoke scented from the beyond,

is itself required elixir

drawing you deeper into life.

Cursing that desire away, and aimlessly trying to fulfill it

means trading your own gold for dull, already forgotten tin.

Feather etchings

Feather etchings of wrinkles,

our tributaries of experience, deepen

towards more

not less.

Must we forget what the soul always knows,

that appearance is not worth

and youth is not to be strived for

but grown beyond?

Instead of living seventy years

as wobbly egos forever hungry and

needing to be bolstered,

we can throw our arms, like thick-barked tree limbs,

around death,

our constant friend teaching us

the riches of storied contours and

what it is to truly live.


Maybe it feels like standing forever in a head-high river current,


Yet, igniting moments drop the belly

and lurch steps-

songs jump into hiccups, the nights being

so long.

And the syrup drip into sinews brought about by

–fill in the blank here–

well, if that thing, that other

is not what it’s really about,

what more enticing invitation could possibly surface

asking you

to re-weave yourself

into God?


Being caught by gratitude

between yes and no, by was and is,

between having and not,

brings the dance.

Heart suddenly solid, present and strong

like stone, not ice, with loving-

goodbye floods body with needed nectar

for not an awayness or an isolation, 

neither a grip nor a grab, 

not a mine or a missing or a fright, 

but a moving of grace 


To its nature

A coral bell hanging


amongst its neighbors,

a bear trundling along


a cricket sounding an evening concert


in the kitchen,

each, perfectly, to its nature.

Were the bear turning this way and that


how he looks in his bearness, his gait,

his hunger,

or the coral bell wishing mightily

it could be a lily,

or the cricket seizing upon the desire to stomp

like an elephant through jungle-

Where would we be?

Thankful to the trueness of things

may we seek only

our own magnificent, and fleeting, natures.