Archive | November, 2014

Beyond the Rain

18 Nov


A real love letter is made of insight, understanding, and compassion. Otherwise it’s not a love letter. A true love letter can produce a transformation in the other person, and therefore in the world. But before it produces a transformation in the other person, it has to produce a transformation within us. Some letters may take the whole of our lifetime to write. ― Thích Nhất Hạnh

My breath carries a feather of knowing

upon its current, a tiny red remige

that still wants for growing.

From the root along the vane

it whispers,

We must live inside the Love.

My half conscious companion

has curiosity over coffee,

–What do you mean?

his thoughts thirst

like wintering window ledge botanicals

leaning long toward

the pale four o’clock sun.


Inside the Love? I say,

touching the top of his trembling.

Love, is the moted sun

in which the marmalade cat lies

half dreaming.

Love, is the knotted hammock’s

surest swinging.

Love, too is the icy white

lavender towel

the forehead’s scented savasana crown

like a Lazarene command,

compressing enlightened layers of being

backward into the inner eye.

Love is the tug of my long lock,

a plaything rapt round

your finger.

Living inside the Love

has changed my eyes

in equal measure with

their lines of singing skin.

A deeper London blue,

praises a preciousness

far from the reach of

impermeable youth.

One shouldn’t wait to

be in this Love, I say.

This present.

This here.

This now.

One should not be frightened of finding

that it peels the rind of self supposing

so that the webbed pith of soul lies naked,

a soft velvety skin of bitter white

its holdings so sweet,

so shiny,

so real,

its ripeness calls out

from under the lace of who we thought we were.

Inviting all souls to taste

of this now.

this here.

this me.

this us.

this we.

This Love is everywhere, I say.

And in everything.

I am the Love,

covered in the grey of walking

between the worlds

of the living and the dreading.

That which IS self suffuses.


His heart whispers

through eyes like empty cars

at the end of a carnival ride

gone much too short and much too fast,

door flung open,

rail lights blinking,

red tickets fluttering

across a worn grass path.


His eyes trace the path back

into the dark forest,

where  yellow brick cannot shine.

The newspaper he holds has headlines

clearer from this distance

and sweeter with orange juice.


Beyond the green curtain

my beloved,

one finds Love

in a click

of ruby red heels,

over the bow of rain,

within the curling banner of birds,

showing the soul’s way.

Love has been waiting for me there


in a blue rose calico apron

holding a light

at the front door

of Home.

Somewhere Between Nowhere and Home

4 Nov

clar road

Life will break you. Nobody can protect you from that, and living alone won’t either, for solitude will also break you with its yearning. You have to love. You have to feel. It is the reason you are here on earth. You are here to risk your heart. You are here to be swallowed up. And when it happens that you are broken, or betrayed, or left, or hurt, or death brushes near, let yourself sit by an apple tree and listen to the apples falling all around you in heaps, wasting their sweetness. Tell yourself you tasted as many as you could.– Louise Erdrich

Seven weeks blurred.

Thirty-five sunrises to realize,

in this field will be the final fight.

Things fall apart, the center cannot hold.

After eight weeks walking,

the road of familiar markers

extends its tail for the bitter tasting

from a thick mist-blanket.

I am coming home.

It is not pleasant.

It is not fun.

It is.

In ten weeks, the alchemy of soul

burnt dry in the sweat

of my night sleeping hair.

This is not poetry.

This doesn’t vaguely resemble art.

All of self, now channeled into


their greedy pickpocket psyches

desperate for a heart

bereft of bleeding.

Morning, I wake.

Some kind of blessing,

cause six weeks ago,

I cursed it with wide eyed

cortisol laced racing

thoughts like

It’s going to be like this forever.

Hail Mary, full of grace. . .

I will sleep . . .tonight. . .

I want to go

 Home . . .  

I go to school.

I teach in the body of someone who is not me.

I workout.

We begin with pranayama breathing. ..

Survival is simplicity without pleasure.

It is.

Inspiration blooms

in unpainted plein air landscapes.

I’ve tried Faux-ism four times.

But, this is no trompe le’oil.

This is not poetry.

That ended on a September afternoon

in front of a desolate AC Moore

in a parking space I care not to remember

but I must.


my friends have disappeared

between then and here.

But I come home. I eat popcorn.

I drink herbal tea. Take melatonin.

Go to bed.

I do not dream.

Morning, I wake.

I am somewhere between nowhere

and here.

Here is not home.

Written October 28, 2014


3 Nov


Stories start in all sorts of places. Where they begin often tells the reader of what to expect as they progress. Castles often lead to dragons, country estates to deeds of deepest love (or of hate), and ambiguously presented settings usually lead to equally as ambiguous characters and plot, leaving a reader with an ambiguous feeling of disappointment. That’s one of the worst kinds. — Rebecca McKinsey


While they take a test

on the five points

of the plot arch,

I ponder.

How will this story

walk itself up

such a precipitous path?


Two black and white dogs


a woman and a man,

in exposition.

Their round laughter

rings the trees

in gold leaf



The setting unfolds,

the russet red blanket

of Indian summer

curls against the cold

to bare Autumn’s toes.

Over dusty stones

strewn upon

a deeply creased

earthen path,

come complications,

a jumble of

remnant rock

and snaring root,

or ghost and bone of those before

who have met their end.


Clasped hands,

a fulcrum steady

as a long stick of oak


the coming climactic view

of  two lovers,

framed in darkening

cobalt blue

against carpets of

crimson cloud


a rising moon.


The flat of his forearm

presses the small of her back,

her soft elbow winds round

his nodding neck.


This denouement of

summer’s wishing,

is a cut paper portrait

on the wall of day’s end,



Only a sentence left

to resolve

what’s left.

The end,

of this fall.



“Resolution” was written on September 3, 2014

First Class

2 Nov


Life is a succesion of lessons which must be lived to be understood.

— Helen Keller


“Do something for me..”

he heard again her whisper,

a sunrise request

resting on the inward curl

of his ear,

her breath a memory

of a pulsing pearl

upon his temple.


First morning

pours through

a September window.

He pauses there

to sip from a warm cup.

Its humid cloud echoing

her half dreaming murmur

toward an ear now

prickling with

the effervescence

of young laughter

and the crisp

flip of papers.


“When they are quiet”,

she sighed,

“fly to me”.

His eyes half closed,

palm cradling the phone,

as if leaning left

could bring

the remnant ghost

of her mouth back

under the dark hollow

of his ear.


Row upon row,

he surveys cultivated lines

of earnest eyes

all lowered to look,

at tasks like parti colored

plastic flags

marking toward the race’s end.


Out through crossed panes,

the eastern edge of grass

along the brick walk

turns a mist shadowed corner


two hundred miles

of tar top,

over mountain

to a tiny courtyard


a window lies open,

a frame for

another house

of bent heads over books,

nodding in morning birdsong.


She pauses,

like a grey clad cardinal,

her hand grazing

the rough casement

freckled stone,

sun warmed

and sure

as the curve

of a five fingered wing

nesting inside

his own pocket.


“First Class” was written  August 26, 2014


1 Nov



Sometimes the only way to find yourself, is to lose yourself for a little while. Don’t worry, you’ll be there when you get back.

“Temperance” was written on August 15, 2014.


Your eyes,

amber gold glancing

beams like heat lightning

across the black indigo night horizon

lights the way of

our first harvest.



rich breath upon breath

slowly opening from seeded soul,

a nodding bloom

bends down to graze

the earthen skin

which birthed it.


I drink


tempered water,

virgin dew,

from grasses bending

like dancers at barre

their languid leaning napes

glazed to sheen

by the rhythmic bowing

of parting plié.


Your mouth,


it’s peachy sweetness

upon the slope of my chin

and tongue.

Damp to air,

this freckled flesh


your scent

till time wicks away

all in the turning

and the turning.


A slide and

tangle of knee and bone,

velvet flesh swelling

below the dip of ribs,

like a barracuda slicing

one silver sliding crest

to press


this narrow glove

lined in electric ocean.

A mountain encradles

a fiery sea.


Pushing from

sea bottom over mountain side,

Love melts

red clod

to silted dust,

a pressing potent must

no vessel can ripen.

Our Selves,

skinless vines,

wrapped in ripples,

this spiraling dance


the Universe.


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