A HUGE muscular tomcat
invaded our space, ate
our sweet Stripes' food,
and looked like he wanted
to tear her apart.
Rushing in to save her
from his assault, I
chased him away and
kicked him
right in the arse
as he fled my wrath.

After my momentary
satisfaction passed,
I regretted having kicked him.
As it turned out, he won.
Stripes had a beautiful litter
of his kittens, and when I
kick him in a recurring dream,
I wake to the pain as
my foot forcefully
strikes the wall.

One beautiful Spring day
we gathered on my deck,
a few friends and I,
to sing and play
some beautiful music
loved by us all.

My home, on a remote ridge top
of the Sierra mountains,
offered a panoramic view.
Not a single house
could be seen--
only the vast forest
surrounded us.

We accompanied our voices
with two guitars,
a flute, and a
small harp.

As we sang,
the air grew still,
and the tall, fragrant pines
encircling the house
seemed to lean in,
listening.

After awhile we paused,
to savor in silence
the sublime feeling
created by the music.
The harpist stood her harp
on the table.

Just then,
a gentle breeze came up
and the harp began to sing
as the wind's fingers
caressed the strings,
enchanting us all
with a heavenly music
unlike anything
we had ever heard.

Would that my heart
were as that harp,
responsive to
your lightest touch--
singing endlessly
of love.

The giver is greater than all of his gifts,
The giver is greater than all of his gifts.
The giver is greater than all of his gifts,
so come on,
give the giver your love!

The sun by day, and the moon by night,
a million stars twinkling oh, so bright!
They're only messengers of his light,
so come on,
give the giver your love!

The love of the father and the mother and friends
are part of his love that will never end.
So through them all, pour out your love to him,
Ya, come on,
give the giver your love!

Wishing you all a wonderful Christmas!
(I wish I could sing it for you-- think Harry Belafonte for style)

I often wish I could be
more than I am
for you, my dear.
But obviously,
I am what I am.

I want the best
that money
can't buy,
so I asked God
to write for me
a love letter to you
in His clear, steady hand.

I hope you can read
between the lines,
and understand:
I love you
more than He Himself can say,
even in His most excellent,
loving, holy way.

Since my mother died
I have lost both
my clothes
and skin.

Every gust of feeling
blows straight into
my torn paper heart,
makes my bones
rattle.

Friends, your beautiful poems
like huge looming waves
threaten now
to overwhelm,
crush
sink
my tiny boat,
so frail
so fraught
so mortal.

I read
and bail
for all I am worth
beset by the image
of the gypsy moth
airborne
in that last instant
before the fire
consumes it
utterly.

I met June in my December.
Her touch thawed me:
all my flowers bloomed,
birds sang, full-throated,
frozen streams flowed anew,
Bubbling and chuckling.

Into my gated garden
we strolled,
hand in hand
beneath the cherry blossoms,
heads close,
sharing one scented breath.

On the apex
of the arched bridge
over the pond
we kissed, lingering
white blossoms
cascaded on our hair.

Pausing,
we gazed down
at the jeweled carp
gliding beneath the surface,
seeing only one rippled reflection,
not mine.

Whatever this body does,
wherever this mind may roam,
my heart will always sing one song, Lord,
"You alone are my home."

Beloved one, my soul's delight,
my life, my own, my all,
I'll listen for Thy silent voice,
and I'll answer to Thy call.

I make a steady effort
to keep reducing my life.
I've unraveled it's tapestry
into a skein of loose threads.
I'm down to the last one,
it's getting thinner.

I used to have
a wife, a business,
a family, a community,
but that's all gone now:
the marriage was a lie,
the business was killing me,
the community was a cult.

So I cut it all away.
Now all I have left is
a few old friends,
a fistful of poems,
my old guitar,
this big truck I live and work in,
and a couple of kids whom I love.

Not much of a legacy
for a lifetime.
But I take satisfaction in this:
there are no lies in it.

I'm nobody's jailer,
I'm nobody's prisoner.

I make an honest living,
take comfort where I can,
love my kids with all that's in me.

I keep heading down the road,
one step ahead of the reaper.
So far, so good.

Thank you, my friend--
little by little,
waves of time wash the wound:
worn driftwood,
broken shells,
distant foghorn.  
I follow meandering footprints
disappearing in the sand--  
Suddenly, a glorious sunrise,
bright as her laughter.

Desolation all but slew me.
I feel as insubstantial
as a ghost in the dark
just outside life's window
looking in at the warmth
of a world
that will never again
be mine.  
That you see me
gives me hope--
perhaps I may yet again
know life,
love, even
joy.

Where is Spring?
These barren, bony branches
pluck the sun
from my sky.

I mocked depression--
now
it mocks me:
endless gray skies
pour rain,
rain,
rain.

Go ahead, rain!
Tear the blossoms
from the trees,
bury their color
in the mud,
wash them
away,
away,
away.

I don't care anymore--
My eyes are turning gray.

Death walked in.
He said to her,
"Be still."
And she is.
So still.

love remember
life
heart
soul
day
cinquain kiss

beautiful night
sweet 'tis,
man angel dream

silver tears
spirit words

pain does gentle
hard true hope


My vanished love,
do you not remember
the life we planned together?
A vision our hearts and souls
wove together, day by day,
letters sealed with our own
cincquain kiss.

My now distant love,
how beautiful was the night
from the circle of your arms--
sweet 'tis still,
in my "man from an angel"
dream.

The lonely moon
makes a silver necklace
of my tears,
while the night winds,
once bearers of
your love's whispers,
breathe spirit words
into my shattered heart.

This careless pain you gave,
does gentle, yes,
does gentle
in time, into
a hard, true, hope.

i keep winter out
of my heart, remembering
your cherry bud kiss.

spring is coming soon--
manzanita buds aglow,
like little pink hearts.

climbing Mt. Fuji,
i saw only my two feet.
coming down-- the world!

the old Buddhist monk:
gentle as a flower, yet
stronger than thunder.