January 2018

You said to let it happen,
so I wait for the dream to keep finding me
in the teasing of a winter that doesn’t know how to be.

It is still,

Outside the holy door,
garden gate,
and inside the temple,
human renovations in our holy hands:
hearth to head,
bone and blood.

You said it and I wrote it down,

and I remembered:
then forehead to the dirt.
We hope we know better now.

We must walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait,
and walk and then wait —

make our Reverence at its threshold

(but not before we get there)

and Breathe

(and breathe).

I busy my hands with what’s in them,
perhaps to sing something new into the world,
kneel in the wind,
kneel to the moon,
and pray your hands are busy, too.

(tbt) Ramble

From November 21, 2012


The river smells of ghosts again.
Sometimes we worry they’re our own —
that this rambling brings us
to no good end.

Was a time
we were strong and settled.
Now is expectation —
and we must trust
to take on what defense
we can no longer manage.

And we should be so lucky:
that something might happen
to break the intensity
of this day-to-day.

But this loneliness we looked for


We celebrate
the dark and the dead,
and can wish it were otherwise —
but know

you will never find us here.

And the answers
are dust —
something to be found out
and cleared away.

(tbt) breathe

From Autumn 1993


it starts with breathing
the moon waxes
the moon wanes
the stars change
leaves grow
and fall
and grow again
the fish go deeper
and deeper
you are happy
she is full
you are crazy
you are sad
she is new
you are calm
it goes deeper
light comes —
grows —
light leaves
it becomes dark
you wax
you are full
you wane
it becomes dark
and then light again
you play by the ocean
you are a child
you play by the ocean
you grow old and die
you play by the ocean
you are born
and again
going deeper
and breathing
you cross a river
your heart is troubled
you cross a river
your heart is at peace
the moon grows full
you celebrate
you mourn
you grow full
the moon is a sliver
reflected in silver water
you mourn
you celebrate
you grow empty
it starts with breathing
going deeper
the moon waxes
the moon wanes
you grow empty
you grow full
it ends with breathing

(tbt) Muladhara

From Aug. 14, 2012…


It’s deep in the bone,
and coming back:
the root on the mend.

It is not time, yet —
to stand,
to walk,
to fly.

First, sit.
Dig deep.
Bring the blood back to it.

Open the bowl of your hip
and remember how
to pull and replace
rusted nails.

Now, pour in the red wine
to see where it leaks.
Mend it with acorn paste
and cardinal calls.

Light a flame
to burn off the decay;
add salt and sage
to open the wind door.

Scrub it down
with madder-dyed wool
from a down-heavy sheep.
Turn off the alarms.

Fill a stoneware bowl,
finger painted,
beets and cherries,
grapes and small red tomatoes
warmed by the sun —

clay bricks
stacked in a terrace
to hold black dirt
and the crawlers who nourish it —

rose petals,
and a snake
to encircle —

a resonant nest
filled with the noise
of one hundred bees
and gravel footsteps.

Make it solid and strong,
but not still —
It will be something
to build upon.

(tbt) Craving

From Sept. 19,2012…


All the world’s sugar
could’t kill
this craving.

Apply every cure
you know. Hope
for placebo effect.

A day’s reprieve —
if you’re lucky,
maybe a week.

Fugues, fogs,
make your own
self a mystery.

Get above it,
look for higher
ground. Find it

near the treeline.
Air lends focus
to the animal.

Here you can accept
you know nothing,
and know starvation’s no solution.

(tbt) Feast

From August 29, 2011…


She put it forward,
at last —
unable to bear
a lonely hearth.

She sharpened the blade,
lit the fire,
and rowed her boat
out past the reef.

Began to take it in again.
Opened the windows —
let in the wind,
sun receding.

And sitting there,
in a lullaby of lonely voices,
how so much darkness
could gather beneath the slanting sun.

Let them in,
Stoke the fire,
and put the kettle on.
Uncork the bottle
and pass it.
You should know by now,
the futility of a locked door.

If it comforts,
clothe yourself in quiet,
and find the one thing
to anchor you to earth
(lest they trick you
into riding along
on their own dreams
and backroads).

Blade against wood grain.
The stirring of the pot.
Cool herbs to be added
just before the end.

This music that they make —
let it in.
Like to like,
gather them here.
Let them feast.
(It is the only way
to heal this,
wary watcher.)

Their thousand cuts will sting.
But how much worse —
the untried heart.