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Monday, November 30, 2009

H2O, the dance

the ocean is most secretly

up into the sky

but we

because we are so easily impressed

with the silk scarf magic

which gravity performs

in a downward direction

we do not see

the evaporative slight of hand

what with the clever stage lights

being really only one

alas, the sun and presto!

there right-before-yours-eyes

it thermally happens

maybe it is just a product

of the scale

so small

that makes it so unrevealed

yes there are clouds

as almost all illusionists

have assistants as entourage

while the exit plan

could not be more in plan sight

but outside of totally clear skies

as a staging area

what other props are needed?

the big hidden curtain

is really trust in our senses

vision in particular for its failure

to observe discreetly

and we, being fooled

again and again

by assumptions of familiarity

directly in the path

of the distractive parade

of the obvious

yes rain does get all the press

either for the grandness of it

by amount and frequency

or for the lack of it

by drought and consequence

how could we have waterfalls

and not have water-rises

and not know?

somewhere . . .

between solid, liquid, and gas,

we really

don’t have a clear appreciation

of how absolutely elaborate

and dramatic is

the H2O dance . . .

Sunday, November 29, 2009


I am not truly alive

unless you are aliveness

for within yourself also.

The dance runs deeper

then wearage reveals.

Shoes can recount the footwork

but not about the body possessed.

Knowingness comes

whither forced or conceded

whither intended or held back

as receptacles of blessedness.

By the drum, the crucible,

the staff, or the light,

they all play as emphasis

for the way dull gives way

to sharpened.

The universe kisses you up

unbridled from memory’s spurs

digging in with intention

yet to rise up above the ride.

How glorious this is

for all cells to be churned

as preciously each cell matures

in gratefulness

as presence’s bloom.

Whatever the polarities,

they will bless us along the way.

Whatever the contradictions,

they will lead us

in discovery’s direction.

Whatever the paradoxes,

they will petal a path

of sacredness.

I share your delight

not knowing any particulars.

I want your light

to be resounding

dancing on this planet,

for as you are to me,

honors us

in spite of pretenses that abound.

There is no silence

between any of us

that does not breathe

into bending the light.

All that thus appears

offers stillness that leads us on.

Soon, it is a movie of now

without passage.

I find sacred

whatever now looks like

even as unclear feelings

ask to be understood.

I only have to continue to dance

and give way to this voiced reply;

“emotion precedes experience”.

I am to honor that

as truth in every moment

springs forth

and trust will lead me

as it has lead me to

and through you.

You, as being,

have been a provider

I cannot repay,

gifting me with worth

beyond measure.

My compliment to you,

is to live it alive

as I trust in us.

For we are not a force

of light forging feats.

The universe will bend

and twist us its way

and wring the darkness

out of us.

I accept what that will be.

I know home awaits

within every notion of now.

Grateful is of itself

the simplest as deeds.

Saturday, November 28, 2009

The river

the river of my life

runs through my hand

total documentation

is on evidential display

from bread crumbs falling

into blood stained pools

from tides of the brain

washing over emotional chords

from historical momentum

forming expectation’s thirst

from body as stylus

professing movement as release

from protection’s tension

curbing desire’s needs

in every stroke

as if ink were a river of confessions

and hand were tongue on board

and writings as watery writhings

were scripted sighs of the soul

my hand across this paper marsh

provide a medium of wet to dry

to smear as living across this page

to lucidly scrawl my liquid being

over this ever drying swamp

and by the wake I leave

marking waves of abstract art

with subtly of pressure

creating highs and lows

with broads and narrows

my life contained and exposed

space and scale disguise my acts

deduction steals my secret life

viscosity as intimacy strikes a pose

focus as unconsciousness into frame

for we are not all storytellers

but we are all telling the stories

who among the all of us

has these perceptive ears to see?

empathy may be our vocation

who of us who features discernment

may have compassion as our need

what is this method

without a calling from within?

when is our passion a pouring out

and not a frenzy feed?

take my hand as yours

and know me well

take your hand as mine

and know me more thoroughly

for the river of life

runs through us all . . .

and this is not done invisibly

Friday, November 27, 2009

I take from my words

I take from behind my words

an apparently cryptic description

a kind of triggered profiling

that is the results of portrayal

a storyline ever emerging

the obvious anger is out of sight

there is still a restimulation theme

but angst is deducible as premise

some distant past is acting out

though deeply disguised

content contributes camouflage

my reactions are sensitive clues

to emotional trauma unrevealed

sources seem soulfully hidden

self exploration is ongoing

in a tonal pose down

towards discovery’s end point

of drama and disappointment

all of us are worth as beings

is this journey to live spirit alive

my candid fall back position is

“I am more and I am less”

but constant to the task

as poignant moments tell me so

emotions can only be overheard

in support or furthering denial

me as I am, is also my milieu

singularly to go through with it

my presence my absence

my ongoing-ness

in resolution or distress

whatever the shape shifting

however dastardly the ease

sequence upon sequence proceeds

continually to empty of seek

there is my worth

in embrace and release

ending the vanquish as method

as if seeking to complete

I am as you, forever

that we are but temporal as life

yet spirit, to follow our lead

Thursday, November 26, 2009

Every secret has a midwife

every secret has a midwife

some third party

of self without much dialogue

but with abundant seamless intimacy

to observe and respond

accounting for all the sorted details

with patience and composure

as delicate facile hands

displaying trust

in handling a secret’s domain

in a method

that is self-concealed and private

apparently to something

so out of person, out of place

except in this vault room

of paradoxical wonder

where one’s life of moral platform

bares out a secret jewel in disguise

a rough diamond

hidden in a clay mind

a talon in a feather duster’s world

a submerged nuclear sub

in a kiddy pool

a twister board laid over a minefield

a serial killer passing as an evangelist

it might be anything

resoundingly dynamic obscured

in placid personality light

but every secret has a midwife

for some manner of carriage

some means of momentum

yet withholding

there is a voice unheard

a say unshared

an act boundaried

by personal overwhelm

something perceived as worse

than that bland looking monkey

with the red ass

something . . .

with a operational appendage of blame

some high ledge of guilt to fall from

some unbecoming snare

in the sheer fabric of being

some thorn deposit

without rose account

but every secret has a midwife

as a pro or con

working a scheme of rational decals

as camouflage to carry on

a residency of complex positions

held and withheld

a “safe” place quiet

within the hustle of self

a medium of comprehension

beyond the easy call

a mix of fear and courage

to amend an apprehension

living the chemical life

of growing a pearl

but without the eventual string

of cultural attention

hence say it

so loud that it can’t be heard

so say it in a hush-hush

yet accepting way

“every secret has a midwife”

(is not a secret . . . any more)

Wednesday, November 25, 2009

I want for

I want for . . .

‘where sorrow has no meaning’

is opened and exposed.

Where without considerations

‘what exhumes out of me’

goes out as a spirited claim.

I want for my words

to be meaningless

unless your soul hears

into what I am saying.

Words, like bird flocks

forewarning an oncoming

of destiny’s avalanche.


like the first apparent stage

of a metamorphosis

that slowly transforms

the showers of meaning

that were falling wastefully

onto what had grounded me

fully until then.

I want for those sounds

deep-rooted beneath the words

to outlive the meanings implied.

For the birds to die

their songbird deaths

and the melody to be taken up

by the breeze and trees

as soul heat rising.

I want for sorrow

to leave its wardrobe

of unmet expectations

and situational disappointments.

For deep dearth yet unknown

to be razor to the seam

that gets me there.

I want for all the rules

of deep soul life on display,

common to all

as a first order

of exchange and response.

No more hideouts

of complaint or duplicity,

no more presumed insulation

or collective denial,

no more consensual entitlement

or positional agreement.

I want for the sweet slime of being

to ooze and pour.

For the acrobats

of intention and love

to perform center stage

within all of us.

I want to disrobe of my innards

that seek safety or calm

as my role

of self-guardianship possessed.

Let us all be the freefall

and let sacred gravity applaud us

by holding us back!

As long as our lives have audience

may they not be seated

and sojourned.

What dance does not make do

with what rhythms

expose of them?

I want for the beat

and the space between,

for evocative as permission,

jubilant as release,

ecstasy without the burden

of experience,

timelessness consuming,

depiction’s death,

sorrow as the sunrise

of burning bliss

and bygones . . . to be gone . . .