Each day
The weight of a leaf

Falling
into a pile
we gather
up
at the end

Each leaf is 5 grams;
but the pile
weighs
hundreds of
pounds

No weight in our hand
Simply the feeling
Of crisp form

Its corners, ridges,
And variegation
of hues

Some days we conclude in prayer,
“Oh, thank God it’s over,”

Yet it counts,
this one leaf,
filling our bin of days

Experiencing
Ourselves,

One leaf at a time.

As legs hang on rusty hinges
the strides of doorways
lesser long

wisdom crisps its palms 
up to the hearths of winter
on walks

Older finds joy 
watching little jelly movers
under the snowy leaves 
of autumn's fall

There is freedom 
in holding back;
experiencing exuberance
perched high in cedar
witnessing the now moments
of a uranian world
from a fifth dimensional view

Knowing that Love
sourced from the heart
affects the observed
just as true.

A Poem on hearing the voice of nature

The open field
Bordered by firs elders
Covered in blooming
Lemon clover
Left space

Inside this vast openness
I set down my burdens

My worries
& discomforts
And the burlap
they rode in on

What was left was
clear azure sky

Holding a new sound
authored by birds

Toby’s
soft breath
Inside this dome of space

Oh most definitely,
dogs speak

in the secret language
translated by those
who love them beyond
logic

The sun shoots a cannon
across the ridgeline of the trees
paralleling the emerald horizon

Pouring golden syrup over the eastern trunks
of exhausted autumn trees

The sunrise casts a spotlight
over
this magical stage

pulling back the curtain
over the
enchanted valley floor

At the beach house
you don’t need much
an old mossy table
the boards
collaged in pine needles
a firepit
domed by scorched
trees huddling
stitched together
as one quilted canopy
hoping for wisdom below
A snappy fire
fanning air
that
grows crisp
and birds
the birds
oh the birds
their songs above
always their songs
around.

Sunrise quiet
hiking through
the dropping blush of autumn

the morning after election day

inside the trails of forested
trees that were not allowed
a vote

coming upon a canyon
splitting
the un-United States
down the spine

pondering the illusion
of human separation

We reach down and *****
a bridge
sweeping
over the chasm

Next,
we tie a rope swing
to the oak branches above

and unmoor the canoes
from the cedar docks below

Americans stand on
each side,
holding up
similar signs
clear in
truth and oneness

our shared desires
and basic needs

The signs
reading;

Freedom
Safety
Health
Respect
Home
Work
Joy
&
repeating grandly,
over
and over;
**
Love.

Slowly,
as the drops
of dew transform
to puddles

and the sun
lifts to crown
us all in lemon light

we raise up
our shovels
and begin
the work of
filling in the
imaginary
canyon

That once
suffered
divide.

In the vastness
of the drafty
slat wooden
house,

along the tidal
lettered
streets
of Gearhart;

Snapping images
with waning
filtered light
inside the darkness,

waiting for ghosts
to drift out of
the
shadows,

wondering if my
family's past
have to wait in line
behind
the house spirits
to announce themselves;

Asking us why
we almost
always keep a light
on

In time,
will I leave
a small energy
stamp
after I cross,
ghosting
it out
inside
degrading buildings
after waiting in line

questioning
why
the living
worry so much
and live
so little

One loaf of bread
swinging

inspiring us down
to the edge of a
dawning
bay

From their slumbered hiding
one gull
multiplying
swooping
hovering
devouring
the crumbs,
each other,

Turning
the morning
light on
overhead.

What worries?

Soar
together.

There will be a moment when

all the mountains you have ascended

that tried to bring you down under torrent and hail

will be over your shoulder

There will be an instant when all you have learned,

all you have fought for,

all your mistakes, your pains, your cold,
your love, your light,
all of it,

melt together

and you know, finally; you have arrived.


In this
a new fear will arise

telling you
you don’t have
enough time

to complete your painting,
your sculpture,
your chapters of verse,
your photographs,
collages
and
mosaics

All you want
in this newly arrived
way of Being
is to
have the time
to
witness it all to creation’s end

To catch
The impossible weight of sand
at the bottom of the hourglass
with plenty of time to
watch the paint dry.

Vintage Dive
In elder times
humans filled
caves with
sorrow
for
watching summer’s
fall into
the seasons of night

As a surprising
consolation,

we were gifted Autumn

with her vintage
palate of violet
plums and gilded
acorns,

buried under
mosaics of
variegated leaves

which dive through
the dawn
after
bravely
letting go

spiraling
southward
stirring
the season’s ***
while
painting
the forest floor
in
a masterpiece
of welcome
change.

Studying the wrinkled lines
of elder poems
on the topic of
the Four Directions;

however;
the poetics of
haunting bards
and mossy sage
always
spiral
back
to the
acorn of the heart

In this infinity;
a piney cabin
resides
inside a bamboo
forest

and Wonder,
She
sits cross-legged
below the
river rock hearth;
warming her palms
against the
irregular downbeat
of snapping flames

“North, South, West and East;
Trust the Wise Arrows
Aiming True
from Your Heart's
Quiver.”

Imagine an enchanted;

Yes!

Clearing;

A flourishing verdant
evergreen grove,

Raining
oxygen-filled particles
of Wish Light

A vintage letter falls
from the elder oak boughs;

Floating to your feet

Sonorously you read,

"Breathe
In
Deep"

The best
poetry
floods through
the writer’s pen,

A wildfire of shooting stars
across papery rows
of crisp oat fields

The most delicious
imbue the reader
down crowny heads
out waltzing feet,

A lyrical nectar
ejecting the soul
into the stratosphere

Clouds
sketching
synchronistic
footnotes
into the novelties
of the day

Tucking into the folds
of late August valleys

painted in vintage clover

falling toward winter

Ivory forms lazily turn mobiles overhead

As symbols,
as comfort
as bucket filled rain.