im carrying on,
entirely unable
to speak

just quietness
and questions

like,

come
, won't you?

it's a nightly presence,
nightly presents

divinely surrendered
magically tendered
finances tenured,

in the wake of your heart,
lord,
I'm rendered

i dont know much
about the end
or how or where or why

and now
it is a cold
and windy night

will you let it be
as it wants to be
you can make a home for it,
you know

and i wonder
if perhaps
"the end" we sometimes speak of
is merely
a grandest of openings

and miracles light the path
like sights and tastes and smells
and memories,
though bittersweet,
they sometimes are

for that is what i am
and i choose
to love myself for it

and now
it is a cold
and windy night

as magical and strange
and altogether unavoidable
as you are

and this,
well this,
is certainly
not
the end

mugwort mama
mama momma
come home
come home mama

sing mama
mama sing
mugwort mama
mugwort sings

oh mugwort dancing
she  dances darling
oh dance, dance,
dance us home

laughing papa, papa laughing
oh papa, papa
papa
is laughing us home

loving love
mama loving
mugwort mama
mugwort is loving us home


<3

it is the flavor of this world
which carries me through

it is the strangeness that i love,
curiosity,
and nothing left to do

musk
fox
and funk

spice
posh
and skunk

will she love me?
perhaps
she already does

the weather
that is this world -- everything
is, will be

and was

maybe 'it'
is just one more
far away place
maybe the gift
is this breath -- oh
sweet smiles on each
and every face

is a breakfast food

i met men in france
with whom i forever dance

i stumble into freedom
forgetting my own pants

and when it seems there’s nothing else
“come on home”, sing some plants

as for love? dream and dream
let there be another chance

some days i wake up
      and all i see is you

so now, i wonder,
       is it me that you see too?

like darling, oh darling
      can you believe this view

goodness heavens, honey
       is there anything quite so true

healing happens --
     birch bolettes
     and beeches

songs of "the dead"
as beauty
     forever reaches

i do not know what makes a heart whole

from what I can tell,

there is an ocean

and an ocean, seven times over

there are green leaves which spring up

out of earth

in the shape

of what you might call "hearts"

I taste them

and everytime, something in me

dances

What,

I wonder,

might this wacky

and wonderful

world

be saying now

perhaps,

      you are already aware
      of the undying
      nature
      of life
      --

if not,

       may i direct some attention
       toward angry chopping blade
       of  mower -- symbol
       of "death"
       if there ever was one

and flowers

       which bloom
       lower
       and lower
       beneath reach of blade
       of that funny old mower

so i sing with you now

      oh dandelion and chicory,
       sorrel and clover --
      how love carries through
       over and over

i dreamt strong

about the beauty

which together we’d make

and held on long

until through pain i learned

you are not mine to take

and just like that

it’s gone

the heart does sometimes ache

now we have a song

and with tremors of love

earth eternal does quake

i am a songbird,

something like the croak of a raven

and when drifting into dark depths

unbroken, this love is a haven

when traveled too far,

still you are near

and when all sight is lost,

through the heart

we are taught how to hear

unbound darkness
through which
a seed is sewn

"loneliness"







is okay







i loved her then







and i love her now





put milk in the fridge






and give love to a cow






dream all the dreams






and when you wake






say "wow"

maybe I’ve been humbled

yet again
maybe “maybe” is all there ever is
maybe “God”
maybe loss
maybe I’m afraid to hurt
to be hurt
to accept

maybe I like the chase
maybe I want that old love once more
maybe I’m better off without it
maybe I can love her just like this
(and maybe that’s enough)

maybe I reach too high
maybe I’m looking too low
maybe I am human
maybe I have trouble with acceptance
maybe all this isn’t quite so bad
maybe there’s an awful lot of love in this world
maybe the cold can be fine too

maybe Crows are King
maybe Christ
is the breath of all beings
maybe Life
is what happens
when we sing

few words  
  
     are always true

       like     “light”

       and     “dark”

       like      “god”

       and

“I love you”

I go down to the river
To see what’s for sale

And I come back a giver
— Fat like a whale

Do you believe in?

I befriend “the devil”

and in so doing

befriend

"the self"

Is it more beautiful than you?
       Is it more beautiful than me?

Is it more beautiful than the birds?
       And more beautiful than the bees?

Is it more beautiful than the wind?
       And more beautiful than the breeze?

Is it more beautiful than two?
        Is it more beautiful than three?

Is it more beautiful than you?
        Is it more beautiful than me?

every day is election day...






don’t ya say?

I don't know where you're headed
or if what you are is what
you think you are

        It's true enough, here
        where we live,
        on the borderline
        
        What really matters
        is how well you walk
        through the fire

It is time
for hands to gather themselves
together. To lift up
and lighten the load.  Birds
make it look so easy

There is a stillness to it all.
Hurricanes and their eyes,
lakes and their surfaces
and how the ocean catches a little rest
between tides

It is time
It is time for the earth
to breathe a little easier,
lighter, looser. Gently,
brush the body beside you

It is breathing, no?
How many moons have come and gone
without your notice?
Between cracks
flowers grow, not worrying

whether they are seen
or not
They are here for the light.
They live for the light.
It is time.

It is time
Lift up
and touch
the body of heaven -
in this life,  in this world, on this earth

And settle.
there is a stillness to it all.
Born out of the dark,
we are here for the light. See?
Flowers make it look so easy

Why let these rules
     run our lives

Shackles and chains
     shouts and cries

Free from the fear
      unbound and unbind

Let the body move
      and may the worry unwind

Love the free woman
      and all of mankind

she arrived in the night
like any other beautiful thing I've ever
    come to know
born of a dream
     a tongue healing an old scar
for how long
      had we drifted apart?
and how close to death
      were we?
how many times can a soul be reborn?
      this
is where we belong
      this
is all i've ever wanted

For whom there is nothing
          darkness falls
and a hand (or a voice?)
         from somewhere calls

Talking to tomatoes might just teach you
      not to try too hard

As for those who eat them plain and raw
     a more unsure sight i never did saw

Loons live in a city
     and bugs sometimes crawl

Now go ahead and tell me
     have we seen up over the wall?

Tomato tomato
     and potato potato

It's a funny old world
     like a big ball of playdough

Go ahead

and be radical

Love this world

exactly as it is

its everything dark
and its everything light

its everything wrong
and its everything right

its all that we are
beyond our own sight

Whatever is not
As we once wanted
As we lose and long
and dream

And whatever is
Which will be missed
In the years to come
As we look back
With a different sort of longing

The fire which burns beside me
Inside me
Around me
And the smoke
Of this day

Which becomes the sky
Just as the ash becomes earth
The breaking of a heart
So to speak

And the mending
Of some cracks
Or Scars
Or a newfound window
To some world
Whose existence

We knew nothing of
Well,
What it is
For me right now
And whatever it is for you, too

May this poem be enough

I’ve become the monkey

You see now?


             this blue sky...


Or,


              Red blood.


Perhaps hard


               you need not try

Which world do these words even come from?
And Who or What answers?
          It could be nothing or no one at all

Rain lands steadily, here, where I am today
bounding upon a thirsty blanket of green
          Mouths wide open

There is music born from loneliness
though I don't find myself wishing such feeling
on anyone or anything
unless
unless it is required of you
unless your imagination is in need of a nudge
          
          In which case
          forget not
          fly nowhere
          escape and run
          from nothing at all

words like “love”
and “fear”
and “loneliness”

on a long road
which does not end

and two feet
which take turns
one
then the other

grief is ecstatic
grief is glorified
grief is full of wonder
seen mostly from the other side
grief is the page left blank
grief is the unbound darkness
in which every seed is sewn

What to do with multiflora rose, ground elder
         pachysandra and such?

Perhaps a poem
         needn't be so very much

A cup of tea, some soup
         and something green to touch

A cup of tea, some soup
         and something green to touch

In circles

        an infinite universe explored

A heart we have been given

        to need not any more

The last frontier?

         In the body it is stored

An Ocean in the Clouds

          and Stars down the stairs

Go ahead              Sings the Moon

           We’re not going anywhere

I have tasted the depths of nothingness
Like some black bark
From a tree
which does not exist

Where there are no trees

I shook my body
Day after day after day
A little something
to navigate the gray


And still

I am hesitant to rise again
As the remembrance
Of winters remain

For once in my life

I am my own man
Powerful
Naked and afraid

Just like the old men whose hands I hold

And still

I wrap my ***** as if
It is all I have ever known
And I walk

To the pond and sing

For this love
Knows nothing
Quite so true
As your arms

What is “work”?

I’ve watched the flames flicker

for a winter now

The ash bucket is full

It’s all a dream
Heartache and everything
Still I sing

I think I oughtta write a poem today

But something tells me to be quiet

So, I’m left with this

        


            Are you listening?

Why do pigs make so few appearances
         in all these poems?

Is it because the flower does not bleed
         when sliced by a knife

And **** does not ooze
         from the backside of the moon?


         Is this not beautiful, too?

This is not the world as I knew it

And yet it’s all I know

the birds are singing again
as wind touches the face of my friend
and raindrops fall