Circles

Gratitude felt like a handshake coming back.
A single leaf called out
making her echo in me.

What a family this is!
Now I have ears!

In every cell of me,
a Universe.

In every Universe of me
magnificent trees
all singing.

An Experience of Time

In the Present Moment, is there a “moment” actually? Where are the words to help us wriggle out of the realm of time language? What experiences slip us away and into an engaged, blissful flow-feeling, of freedom?

Your choice. Seek it and when you find it at last or it finds you, hold tight. It is your heart.

Only love what you are doing. Get lost in it. Refuse to answer the door bell, any “calling” from who knows who — whoever or whatever wants to be at your elbow, snagging your attention. Take control of your masterpiece.

If you do not take control, someone or something else will try hooking your attention. Subtle are those ways.

You may decide to go a bit underground, when you ask this greatness of yourself. Keeping keys of it personal and private. Something of recognizable you, you may trade away. For this — growing your freedom and your love.

I am learning to listen … choosing to go close in, with open-heartedness, grounded in stillness — to the Universe, to God, to Mystery, to “not knowing”. Trusting that All is well.

It’s an exciting, holy and humbling adventure. Makes me smile.

spring snapshot

out of a shallow dip
catch-water field
of landscape polished rock
a shock of pregnant junipers

in pine pitch laden sunlight
olive-green fires arise
and my eyes bedazzle

gossamer
floating specks
of bees

new hatched
butterflies

golden jump
and spiral

as if tethered
to child’s witching wand

random rode
the windless air

Remembering Bealman

Cat three-tooth, cat stone-deaf, cat sidewinder walk,
Old Bealman stalked the croaking, the croaking,
with forepaws meek stroking
airs of a summer cool night.

Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.

Delphinium, the roses, lupine interposes
a shadow of fortressed green leaf
disguises the notion my Bealman supposes—
to seize, dismember it through,
make self-concocted, dishering frog stew.

Bealman, Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Bealman—frog fisher & free.

Night hours accounting, morning’s surmounting,
a bird warning Bealman, his patience to thin.
Croaking still blending, a flower stalk was bending,
two legs, peaking out, sent Bealman straight in.

Bealman, Oh my Bealman, Meow & Sealman,
Pacing, still racing, one two three man.
Frog fisher & free.

I saw Bealman beaming; I saw Bealman beaming.
How cats manage beaming I’ll wonder again.
Since Bealman was twenty, any beaming is plenty.
I loved my old Bealman, my frog fisher friend.

Bealman, Bealman, my meow dear Sealman,
Frog fisher & free.

surrender

when everything everywhere
whispered in irresistible languages

hey you there
stop resisting

i began to surrender
was flowing free

burnt as bright sun
starlike spent explosive fuel
stretching
wings flapping

toward the unknowable
inside

experimented with ditching
body as identification
name as identification
personal history as identification

faded off
mad word searching
explaining justifying
reiterating too much information

i loosened my squeeze grip
on intellectualism
tell-me-how-to-be spiritual books
whatever the famous someone
said once then got bronzed over

i surrendered to universal unity
where i lavishly decorated
my living changing dream
with my own snap choices
what i wanted

i was flowing with fresh
synergetic synthesis

returned outside to pedestrian streets
where angelics mixed in
wore transparent disguises

i began to flow
forgiveness out and in

skipped a light fandango
splashing puddles was
answer to inclement weather

i set wooden faces
to smiling after
i switched my own

i rolled on through
perceived stop signs
of the everlasting no

erased all my karma with
nownownow
wonwonwon

made myself
stock still

experienced
yes yes yes

relaxed awareness

breathed
emptiness

opened all my hands

Fireflies of November

On this early chill November morning
where are you now, my firefly,
in crystal ground, under log or leaf?

Where is your crew in its dying?
Have your babies wakened
to winter sleep?

I recall how on July evenings, when I came out,
I had long listened for messages.

Blessings to you for accepting me, my witness
of your spotted twists free-floating down;
your drifting off and on through moonlit tree,
visits to my wrist, a shoe.

I was happier than happy—
happiest as happy be.

Had you felt my spark electric energy?

Multiple mystery goes slipping
into my pockets.

And now, these few months hence, there is
this glint on the frost-etched window.
Flash of apt stillness.

A wild-voiced picture:
our pleasure’s twin.

How could I say I know exactly what you are?
By my ear and everywhere I would say!
These light flung words of yours, not mine,
to lend.

Yet, if I could love you so truly and release you,
would I comprehend what life wishes to teach me
about possessiveness, the brevity of existence,
time itself, worlds of no time?

Most joyful would I leave all the faces of my dwelling.
Sail headlong into far-flung dream,
toward sky’s moon, hunting the sun.

Glimpse heaven in our dancing?

Behold you and my own body, firefly,
before we were?