Winter

Winter

What a weird way to experience this. . . 


Something forgotten : everyone has a right to life.


     no matter the purpose or value 


I stood outside
on that cool night
watching the clouds
caught in streams
of wind pass me by.
   

seams stretched
by tufted fingers
and downy swirls
layering, stacking
the only distinctions
being darker and darker

 
The pines stood silent and watched
as I watched the moon
open up the clouds. For a brief
moment, maybe more.
 

Luminous
as if the light
were a broom
brushing away the cloud
and confusion

Layer after layer—
yet, the moon shone
through. And I, the
    sentinel—
as if it needed an audience


the wake of clouds piling
  back over the heart-orb

sinking deeper into these
  inner layers

Ever Wonder

Sitting under spectacles of spires
the rain falls like crows feet
hitting the street have you ever
wondered if there’s more than this
the bell rings four times
four times the bell rings and
you think you’ve found god
at the bottom of the stairs
by the gutter under St.
Ignatius’ chapel, but it’s mere
loneliness and green things in a
canopy of themes
reduce the family
the family crossing the street
to accents in your mind
in my mind
the accent is awailable
but when i try to let it
puncture my lips it slips
and there is space compressing
soaking the words with gasses
or fuel. In the infinite spaces of
my head there is a sanctuary
that i always have access to, yet
cannot reach through the hall of
mirrors. Herbavores bathed here
between the bitter fronds, varicose
tendrils, when i consume i consume
like they do. Green is the colour
i build these pretenses around
trying so hard to protect that
emerald city       building
building a city that cannot last
outside we build up, but within
we build out to keep each
other out at a distance so we
can use the smartphone to
get a hold of each other get
a hold on reality get a grip
let it slip cause there’s nothing
more than this. Have you ever wondered?
Do you ever wonder?
where the escape button
got hid

Gardeners Also

We are also gardeners
           planting seeds in this palm
           scratch scratch scratching the
surface we hash lines       sinews
run through pockets of fat-lined muscle
      marked with
                salmon scale boundary
Pockets    rich in sustenance
                      providing for 
endless giving

           Marrow surges in streams
seeds of the past tumble in
                      dark memories
Histories foam with guilt and shame
           beware the crow
           and his endless surging     aerating
Tender soil
           habits worm to the surface
           every holiday season
                 I plant more
                 of the same seeds.


I woke up this morning
to find seeds in my palm
scratching the surface 
scratching the dust they 
remain just out of reach 
sinews like rivers snake 
deep below and crown like
the tree holding fast to memory
the air is frozen and i’ve 
begun to foam at the mouth
looking for answers i reach
the fat-lined muscle marked
by salmon scale and pockets
of gold pockets of giving
stretching for the morning
light the crow balances on 
my fingertips and tries like 
so many before him to dig
up the seed, surging endlessly 
and only too happy to find
the worm of tireless habits  

Seeing Clearly

If seeing clearly is the goal, why is it then that every time I see my conditioning clearly I muddy it in the days that follow.

Muddied by thought, by my search to know more, until its nearly forgotten. If it wasn’t for this ground that holds all activity the insight wouldn’t bubble back to the surface in time. And the process of muddying can start all over again.

Canvas

Don’t run my love
don’t run from
that quietude, embrace
this silence — without
it our voices could
not carry, let it be
the canvas on which
we paint our lives.


Take this cell for example. Its birth is violence, its product; beauty. Can you keep it. Can you hold the bursting. Hold it like the flame. Hold it, it’s yours.

Always Love

there’s always love available. our job is to find it. when we are stuck looking for where its not we won’t find it. only when we commit ourselves to finding the love that’s available, even in impossible situations, will we be able to find it.

Some trees are already bare, and the leaves that remain, may well remain until next year. When a breeze ripples the giant sequoias, they whisper to each other the lost ancient name of loss and pain
—My love, are you awake?

and the dog down the street sounds the trumpet, and the oboe in the moon soaked starless sky whirs from far to near to far