The world whispered
its way in: cricket-speech
in the late afternoon, the drift of
golden leaves upon the still-green grass,
clouds softened by their under-sides
of gray.

Sink, it said, without saying.

We enfold you, we welcome you,
we do not reject: statesman
or hero, peasant or complete unknown—
you are ours.

We accept all: poisoners, prisoners,
and all the accursed;
those whose angers collapse cities and states—
all beasts that rage against the night.

We are your lost home,
your refuge from yourselves.

We await you with all the beloveds:
those innocent and blameless,
those whose hearts grew great in compassion;
loving men, beautiful women,
all the living and the dead,
becoming in the end our Earth,

changing the rock, the stone,
the winds and air themselves
into the creation of them all—
bell, harp, and choir—
whose only song is Love.

NOTHING WAS WRONG


He felt something
was wrong
because nothing was
wrong—the air was clean
and the humidity low,
the clouds were white
and the sky was
blue, the phone
maintained its quiet
surveillance, unringing,
as cars, infrequently,
passed by the open
window onto the street.
He searched for
disquiet within, and
found only his
expectation—a hollow
shell of the way
his body expected
things to be—
yet here they were,
completely fine,
and he stirred
in this insubstantial
unease, then settled,
accepting the ease,
the unusual feeling of
his whole life
being happy and
at peace.

OLD PHILOSOPHERS


Out here in the yard,
enjoying this fine day—
who knows when the
opportunity will come again?
Tomorrow I could break
a leg, the continent might
split—scientists are always
talking about the risks
of asteroids or comets.
I have no idea
why I love quiet and
the simple joy of Being.
A quiet breeze on a warm
day and I'm as content
as can be. Perhaps when I
nap the boundaries are
blurred—when I wake
I might be fifty again,
or twenty-five. Most of
the time it's thirteen
or fourteen—certainly
not seventy. Old
philosophers talk of
infinity or timelessness.
All I know is my love of
the green grass of childhood—
the sweet blackberries
that I pick today.

NOT ASKING FOR MORE


Wasn't this always
the way—the new day
arrives as a gift
and you receive it,
not asking for more,
but amazed at its
arrival, the way
what you thought
you knew always
appears in a new
dress, completely fresh,
the same face that
you loved, but not
yesterday's—today's!
And as your chest
swells with breath,
with love that emerges
for everything—
you recognize your
Love, those eyes
sparkling in joy,
opening her arms
and coming, directly
to you.

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...

______________________________________________


IT'S NO USE



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!

THE SWIMMING WIND



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,

whispering

I love you,
goodbye,
I love you,
goodbye.

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



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.