It's No Use

Occasionally (and perhaps often) the poems that come out are written by an unknown entity, certainly not "myself", and some, like this one, are so suggestive of certain feelings and modes of expression that we might believe we know who was speaking. But really, it's a Mystery, which makes it all the more beautiful...



Oh cynical one, my heart hears
the words of Rumi and I, like
each of you, break into song.
Love flows out that I am unable
to stop. Rumi's invitation says,
“Let love out of the cages you
have built inside you!”— and
at those words locks break,
chains fall of themselves to the
floor. This one who writes says,
“You go insane with all those others;
I'll stay right here and watch until
you come home.” But this loving,
once loosed, won't leave anyone out.
Standing on the sidelines is an
impossibility, trying to be a dark
star in a black sky. Come along
with us, bring all the intimacy
you've bound in your six-foot
casket waiting for the judgement
day. We are all stars shining
with unique intensity, and no
matter how hard you try, you
cannot hide this radiant display!

Summer Waning


The wind pushes
the goldenrod in six
directions, a sea of gold
waves running back and forth
in the field,

as shadows over my paper
and under my pencil do the same,
swimming over and under,
up and down,

all with the dry-moist sounds of
leaves and branches,
bending by the thousands,
touching each other in a kiss,

leaving, returning in a rush,


I love you,
I love you,

New Work | New Thought

I'm introducing a re-designed website for my poetry, and this page will feature occasional new poems, or ones relevant to current situations in the world, personal or at-large. Maybe I'll include a bit of rambling personal philosophy as well, but none of it will be long as I'm a poor typist. And of course, all of it will have some relationship to soul and spirituality as it relates to living in this world. Just to get all this started, here's something written earlier this year:



Trying to say
the words that can’t
be said, not by
prohibition, but a kind
of inarticulation,
vibrations of the simple
way that all things are,
just present in the
silence of themselves,
a crystal flower to
wrap loose words around,
whose inner strength
is so immense
there is no way to lift
such weight and
carry it away:
its root the world entire
and us within it,
singing out our bits
of birdsong in
the morning air,
and by our being mixed
with all that is,
the richness grows and grows
until the gods themselves
bend down to gaze
upon this world
in wonder.