Four Haiku

never wanted this

always remembering

another war


volcanic pool

a salamander’s tail

curls around my palm


the sun stumbles

reeling towards sunset

drunk with daylight


you petulant orb

positioning yourself

between night and I

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Kiss in Rhyme

Here, as I stir in the midst
of humanity’s silent yearning,
a wildly flapping bird of words
cries out in urgent soul song:
Let there be lift into Light!
O, let all winged singing things fly!
Some finer brush of gladness
begs to paint from this heart-palette,
and lo, I become all open-throated poet,
smeared wet in rhythmic colors of bliss —
each splashed word a new testament, a streaming initiation, a full-mouth
circling lover’s kiss in rhyme.
In perfect time, so much painted sunlight
pours on down that even pine cones,
their seeds and seed-thoughts, all
disappear in blossoming brush
swirls, only to reappear as a
readiness of radiance to
lift all back into its
unsung light.
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Red winged singers

In the marshland tulle beds, cattails spearing skyward,

tipsy, tiny, red-winged blackbirds, berry drunk on

Pyracantha incantations, hop back & forth,

feather-dancing fancy, preening from

stem to stalk while talking all mirth

in chirrup, in flutter & whistle,

ignorant of any holy precepts –  

just this song-inducing supper.

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Thistle in an Eave

Eye lifts skyward –

this dusk falling, calling
to look higher,
look up,
over the horizon —
that blue, that blue,
coloring this moment,
some formless freedom
flows in form and I remember:

a thistle growing from an eave,
holding nature against the night, the dark
velvet night, relentlessly approaching itself
with tremendous desire —

I wanted to touch that, reaching
towards milkweed strung
stark against the sky.

The universe exists because of us,
our love for these forms.

We can soften, we can reach, touch,
flow into each other as light flows
into itself, resisting nothing.

Two pieces of a puzzle fit perfectly
together, leaving but one mystery —
the one awake in the midst of the dream,
the one no longer resisting the night, now
approaching itself with tremendous desire,
wanting to touch a thistle in an eave,

reaching, not turning away.

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Blue-stemmed Stories

Love, Here we go again. Begin. Begin to try and say this thing again.

Snapping fingers, crackling light, Flashing eyes, it strikes a line straight through the sky
of body – mind – bone cage pain as I arrive, brightly typing out a spinal jive, and a hipster trip-up like so nothing!

I fall into the jaggedness, an utter raggedness torn from a ragged shard-shifting sky, and I? I delight in cracking back this body garment gander of feeding seed-thoughts deeply into blue stemmed stories we dreamed up as we blossomed in late night talk.

Streaming out and shaking the staff of Isis at the Moon, I have tuned out from shouting credentials in stanzas
that stand in the way of the middle ground.

All around me soundlessly, something snaps in two, breaking, aching away into a splintered blue-skinned, stemless thing.

With eyes still flowing in sea-weedy waves, we wave good-bye long into the night, crying to the salt-doll bobbing in probability, willing the scatter-fall upon the torn shores of this heart, parting lightening strikes brightening the sight of rare

scattered pine trees breathing barely, lying there staring straight ahead at the dead stars burning away into the sky they fell from.

 I am not God’s walking stick, nor the trick knee keeping me writing tales bordering on the unintellible ramblings of a madman.

The feet under my legs, they hold the earth between them, a chalice of bone bearing the lost language of a tongueless race.

They be as proud as a giant, ancient pine tree lying stillborn against a sapling stand of tongue lilies, silly from singing mutely, beautifully …

Saying so much the broken stick mendings begin.

Tiny twig, me, here against your forest of prose, of boundlessness.

 I lie down whyless beside the only singular tree seen, praying, saying again and again, “Broken stick. Tiny twig, here, lying next to You I am imbued with a pure blueness I never knew until you.”

All this Beauty breaking forth inside my hollowed out Heart, the utter poignancy of being, the tender kindness of Birth and Death,
It breaks apart every last retortable orb of resistance, rounded,
mooned and marooned, imperceptively moving through me and you, yonder bounding astounding you and I, you and I, crying … flying from Love’s center, into Love’s epicenter.

This Roundness is growing rounder, and Now, I flow out with you into the edger-most most motionless movements of God.

His Love-Filled Face fountains out into a Golden Moment of Bliss. I think it might be that all of this is God’s Bliss … and this Love we feel:

Maya’s string bringing it all Home one more time.

We’re all beautiful kites at Life’s picnic, tethered to the hand of Love.

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I’m flying towards night with

black crows through golden skies.

Mother’s singing,
the high mountain sighs.

A heart left behind – tears feeding

earth for the love of the moon.

Listen to this mountain cry,

let yourself down.

Rest a while longer on the
breast of this tear-filled world,
heave your sighs to the skies –

we are not of this time,
nor the next.

The Buddha has fallen, yet

in the dark, a lone bird note still

manifests his wondrous power,

and the breeze, the many

scattering leaves, his

perfect art.

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Every Path the Way

Everything is cause

for anything,

and one with its effect.

With each step a fresh wind rises

and I walk alone through the pink sky,

every direction home,

every path the way.


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