Broken Has Morning

Broken has morning
every morning past –
once whole days
shattered into billions of memories;
blasted into archives
of paper, pixel, sound wave
receding far into space
gone.

All the mornings
brilliant streams of light
held hands, prayer hands;
sunlight on the wall –
fluttering light
from the open window
and blown curtain.

Broken has morning
giving the new day
again fresh in January cold
dripping fir, birch, cedar
just like the first morning.


Portland, Oregon – January 31, 2016

Black Narcissus

When the wind blows for seven days
and my eyes burn with sharp vision
so that I see beyond the far mountains
I know which paths I may take –
I can turn away
fly down the green slopes
or give myself to its holy breath wholly.


Probable, Carson City, Nevada – Circa 1981
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Black Narcissus is a terrific movie.  Its visual, psycho-dramatic, and spiritual imagery are never far from my awakened imagination.  This movie, as well as the winds that were ever present during the years I lived in Nevada, were the inspirations for this short piece.

Spirit Reconsidered

Is there a Spirit –
a path through a dark and folded landscape
a wanderer in front, another behind
one to lead, one to be our rear guard?

I’ve failed in imagining Spirit
that damn dove –
ill-conceived white radiance and wing.
Where, the grim-reaper of a Spirit
who knows what has gone before
what is to come
without platitudes deceptive, tangential,
or words, shouts, running, or flying?
Spirit – girding presence of longing
of desire held, released, remembered;
guide through the veil of life
into a deep and dark river
that carries away all the stones, old bones –
take my hand and lead me where thou wilt
O holy, dark, sublime, careful Spirit.


Seattle, Washington – October 2014

The Ash Tree

Ash tree, leaf full, is startled in cloud break sun splash
morning, dropping dew from the crisp spring damp
after a full dark, moonless, cold night.
Gray wren alights, sips from leaf tips, flys away.
Dripping ash,
recovering from this flurry of flight and bright,
returns to calm waiting for lifting air –
forgotten, the shrouding dark, cloud enfolded night.

Awaited air movement comes in soft rush
ruffling sun-soaked green ash leaflets,
blowing to the waiting ground
fresh dew droplets clear and cool.
The wren waits.
Silent worm emerges from nightly repose,
drinks of sun, breeze, cool dew –
becomes gift, gulped in a long stretch.
The wren, satiated momentarily,
takes up a perch once again within the mindless ash.


Portland, Oregon – March 2014

Insomnia

Ghosts of night share my room.
Forms without shapes
wander through this liminal space
that not even my loved ones can enter –
veiled, shrouded, encumbered.
I carry this place with me in the dark,
a ghost room filled with silent shadows
fluttering image remnants
straying fragments of auroral light –
desire, memory, prayer and
sometimes,
wraithlike breaths of cold fear,
I can almost hear as I lay awake
in the dead calm of night.


Portland, Oregon – January 2016

Ice Storm

1798141_487808021330387_1494130555_nIce covers every green leaf,
blue berry, bare branch –
clear, heavy, bending, breaking.
The weight of water, freezing flow
as if time were captured
the glistening moment caught
in a watery transparent shroud –
cessation, ceaseless, sensate time at last!

Frozen form, fractured,
snapping in the wind,
breaking in sharp shards
into the bright air,
crackling onto the brittle snow below
time, once again, set free.


Portland, Oregon – February 2014

Digging a Hole

I am digging a hole in the earth to lie in
using the tools I’ve been given –
morning sun, drifting moon,
spaces between places
when I remember
to see where I am, recall my task.
“A life and death situation”
she said, across the bar, overheard.
Even these, spoken words from across a room,
of a place I’ll never see again,
I will take with me to the place I am preparing.
All the bits, the lost fragments,
the billion forgotten things
I string together to make a tool,
a pitted spade to turn the earth
to dig a hole for me to lie in.


May, 2013 – Des Moines, Iowa (sitting in a restaurant/bar while on a work trip.)

Creative Discovery

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The Van Gogh painting shown here (“Kornfeld Mit Zypressen”) accompanied an article in Pacific Standard Magazine entitled, “Come All Ye Failures – Though we wake in fear of mediocrity, let us cease to be crippled by it.” (http://www.psmag.com/books-and-culture/epic-fail)

“…the ambitions of our work, our projects, aren’t ours to impose. They are for us to discover. They are best discovered from a place that doesn’t self-judge or self-denigrate, a place beyond our own worst fears of not being good enough. That’s where we find meaning. And solace. That’s where we stop feeling like failures and start feeling like human beings.” (Christopher Cokinos)

As one who writes without expectation of formal publication or remuneration, I found this article by Mr. Cokinos helpful.  I have come to believe that my creative life is the expression of a gift and that, for myself and others, it needs to be offered to the greater community.   It is OK that my gift is simple, imperfect, or even just mediocre some of the time.  It’s taken me quite a long time to believe that I have this gift and that is enough.


The Van Gogh painting is appropriate. He, among all artists, created to save himself. In doing so, he saved so much more for posterity.  Van Gogh is, for me, as I suspect for so many of us, one of our greatest Muses.

The Ignorant Fist

IMG_20160101_143657693 (003)It starts inside
the end of violence in the world
the end of anger.
I find myself in my fear.
I recognize it, take hold of it
slowly make it release its tight hold
on my past, my now, my coming to be,
even if it takes a lifetime.
Slowly, freedom of the unclenched heart comes,
without flag, country, anthem, or drumbeat.
Waking in the morning
determined to peel away, forcibly at times,
the clutching grasp of fear;
say goodbye to it, daily,
and, on death’s bed, forever.


January 2, 2016 – Portland, Oregon

Photo taken of an exterior wall in NE Portland. Seemed like a good New Year’s resolution. From the poet and Islamic mystic, Rumi.