does a dreamer need wings

4.24.10

does a dreamer need wings
to survive

to fly away from the rusted relics of
broken covenants

to find the upper breezes that carry seeds of hope
to new lands

to clean his soul in the wind and
awaken again

how can he untangle these matted quills and twisted
filoplumes

articulate his body in balance with the divine
currents above

capture the sweet breath of the mother
and sail

lighter, lighter, higher, higher, no longer bound by
pedestrian promises

to the still point, the pause of light and air
and wing

where the love of ages enters the heart and all
is with grace

is that a scar on the stone

4.20.10

is that a scar on the stone

a beautiful scar

a mark of passion

born of the earth's rapture

even after being shaped

in torrents and waves

and swallows of sand

polished in the most delicate

mermaid hands

still, a scar

a beautiful scar

where it broke

from the one

the secret ravine delighted

4.18.10

the secret ravine delighted
in the light of new spring

a heavenly cleft in the steep hill
jeweled with magnificent boulders

in bas-relief to rich red and green
butterscotch-smelling ponderosas

water suddenly everywhere
parting paths in thawed piles of pine needles

where little birds gleefully
furrowed and flickered for food and mate

all that lived was
more alive today

as the first real days of
warmth unfolded in bright rapture

the lightest greens
the telltale simmering sounds

the first bees and butterflies
they all awoke, as from a slumber

and as if not a moment had passed
since the last flowers bloomed a year ago

all anew, again
and nothing short of glorious

the understatement of love

4.17.10

the understatement of love
the hesitation to empathize
is a riddle

is this caused by fear
or callousness
or folly

why, when we hold
with highest regard
true, heartfelt brotherhood

do we not
reach for each other
openly

why, when in the end
we dream only of love
with each other, with the divine

do we give so much to
protect ourselves from
intimacy

let this sadomasochistic
ritual fall away like the
heavy cloak it is

it is not ours
we need not carry
its weight

open
a little more
each day

the soul is waiting
like a fresh seed
in spring

I live in a land of sun

4.16.10

I live in 

a land of

sun

but recently

the clouds have come more

often

or maybe I am

just noticing their

weight

the walls feel

a little bit

closer

the soles of my 

shoes more

worn

Life, I miss

your vibrant

thrust

the freedom

of the

wind

the lust

of the

sunshine

the cool 

renewing of

water

the rich

nurturing of 

earth

I am still and wistful

praying for your

return

come to me

or take me

back

rescue me from

the oblique madness of my 

thoughts

they are chasing me through

a maze of 

nothingness

if there are angels

then send them

now

I have had enough

of this

mind

I saw your picture today

4.15.10

I saw your picture today

taken just 10 months ago

you were getting ready

for surgery

it brought tears to my eyes

and my heart 

swelled and contracted

with the suddenness of the memory

your face was so knowing, so accepting

I didn't see it then

it wasn't my cancer

I hadn't crossed the line

but now I understand

what you understood then

and see how you chose to fight 

with dignity and grace

you disavowed self-pity

for five more minutes

with watercolors

or your grandchildren

claimed your right to

sunshine and fresh air

even when you could

no longer move your legs

you found utter strength

without pretense

and never considered

giving up on yourself or anyone

and when the void

reached up and 

took you in that

quiet dark midnight

we were all grateful

that peace and poise

found you even in

the final moments

and now a stillness settles 

where once was your strength

granite monoliths quiet in the mist

the clear bottom of the eddy's pool

you understood, too

that you were going there

and made a place for yourself among

the softer ferns and the spring light

in dreamtime you have 

returned to me recently
you seem happy, mostly

more innocent and less concerned

your path of love continues

in your ways and words

and in the light that came

to take you home, again

I can say this

4.14.10

I can say this

true inner poise 

is a mystery

who has walked the line

between the ultimate

and the relative

without being seduced

by self-obsession

the Buddha

the Christ

perhaps

but were they 

truly seeking 

the godhead

or fleeing samsara

I know in my life

my most sincere intentions

for the one

are rendered insignificant

when the unfathomable

mass of the self

wants to move

and yet

even during the most desperate 

aftermath of turmoil

the calling

reawakens

sometimes the summer is

4.13.10

sometimes the summer is

so sweet

it aches

those days are coming

again

soon

when I can feel the heat

in my core

in my sex

when I can feel the sun

in my blood

and almost

taste the musk of nature

on my breath

yesterday, we walked in the foothills

4.11.10

yesterday, we walked in the foothills

my father, my son and I

the youngest took the lead

full of adventure and unbridled boy,

running ahead

the branch he called a walking stick

really a sword, a light saber

to battle the first small clouds

of invading gnats and

imaginary foe lurking in the

grassy ravine’s twisted

clumps of scrub brush

my father and I

kept our best pace

and talked of more serious

things than stones that resembled bones

and miniature cities in creek beds

our words found work and travel and planning

and my mother, who died last fall

what are we doing now?

we are moving on

my father, superbly skilled in

his pragmatism, leading the family

from the fires of transformation

to a cooler tomorrow of not looking back

“what are my choices,” he said

when I complimented his strength

“I don’t want the alternative.”

me, a little less skilled

and still dazed, perhaps

from the gradual, and then sudden

death

it’s so final

like some of the air was taken

out of the room

a ray of light accidentally broken off the spectrum

and lost in the dark abyss

but that day

the meadowlarks knew only

that the sky was warmer

and new shoots of grass had

pushed through the last snow

in big-breasted bellows of

yellow and speckle

they yelled their sweet song

to each other

across the pitched fields

in solitary strategic position

on fenceposts and

treetops

or embracing violently

in fitful mating squawks

among the smooth, small boulders

in the hillside

just a moment in time

for three generations of men

springtime songbirds

and the memory of a matriarch

when the edge of hate

4.10.10

when the edge of hate

creeps inside

for no known reason

it is right to notice, to pause,

and to still oneself

searching and scowling

"is it you; or you... or YOU,"

it points inward

engage;

prepare to meet

an unbeatable foe

embrace;

unleash a rapacious power

that will feed on your soul

only poise, the quietest balance

a puff of down on the breeze,

a hawk hanging in the thermal,

kelp swelling with the tide's belly

can survive this passing visitor

take heed, for no one is immune

even the strongest

cannot best such might

only stillness, and breath

can transmute hate to love