Butterflies in the forest
Gently flying to and fro
On an early spring day
The sun gently slips through the trees
The air is crisp and clear
The scent of pine trees fills your lungs like expensive perfume
A few white clouds dot the powder blue sky

The butterflies are light pastel colors of blue, white and violet
As you stand silently and watch they fly close to you
Teasing you with a light touch like angels breath before flying away

By Listening We hear,
but often forget—
The fragility of half murmured ideas
signal lost in a tide of noise.

Talking overshadows listening,
Loud, brash, and always there.
listening creates by transforming.
A friend listens,
and a conversation
Turns to something extraordinary.

We roar, we scream, we sing,
But listening eludes description—
its shape unclear until all words are heard

What if we thought
of ourselves as listeners?
compliant, unresisting
designed to receive the world?
Would it change us?

Would our own language then expand
to hold the weight of both
silence and sound?
cosmos made clearer
by this unseen gift.

Imagine yourself a receiver of grace,
Open to everything,
even the dark matter of thought.

It's raining in New Zealand
The Summer dry far gone
The rivulets are pouring
And gutters sing their song.
Cisterns gurgle noisily
Farm tanks overflow
Waterfalls are roaring
And streams to torrents, grow.
The harriers and pigeons
No more in heavens fly
Now closeted in green recluse
To keep their feathers dry.
Old man on the farm bike
Clad in boots and cowl
Clears the drains with shovel
As a grin succeeds his scowl.
For pastures drink the aqua
Its magic quickly seen,
As turf as brown as buggary
Fast turns a brilliant green.
The Heavens open up their heart
As teeming rain pelts down,
The children dance in puddles
splashing passing folk, who frown.
But the world's in celebration
As the big wet from the sky
Lubricates the laughter
Of joyous you and I.

M@Foxglove.Taranaki.NZ

When I was small, I thought the stars
Were holes in heaven, not so far.
I used to dream with eyes so wide,
Believing magic never died.

I laughed at rain and danced with wind,
Every scar could always mend.
The world was big, but I was bold—
A heart so young, a hand to hold.

But growing up can steal the spark,
Replace bright skies with shades of dark.
You learn the truth, you feel the ache,
You see the smiles that people fake.

Still deep inside, that child remains,
Running wild in summer rains.
Whispers soft behind the noise—
The one who still believes in joys.

So if you’re lost or feeling low,
Just find the you from years ago.
Hold their hand and don’t let go—
They'll guide you home. They always know.

I am the freak of nature
That nurture has shaped oblong.
I am the sum of high ideals
That turned out to all be wrong.

The sole of a shoe never worn,
But cast onto the midden heap.
Covered in filth it never trod upon
Receiving yields it did not reap.

And I have learned to be patient with death,
With its anticipation,
And with its effects.

A prickly and inflamed small creature slinks out of the sludge to see the world.
A broken body and broken mind spread out at rest, dark tendrils unfurled.

The shimmering lifts and causes light to leak into the soul.
A music box sounds off- filling space and time, achieving its goal.

Surrounded, still and silent.
At once tested, rested, then gone.
Impulses dark and violent.
Later scattered, tattered and drawn.

Brought to tears by nothing when everything is wrong.
Creaky, creaky, creature creeps.
I see it,
Then it’s gone.

Into fog, and in a fugue,
We flee from the fire,
Or watch from a distance
As the flames grow higher.
Our sight is short.
Our wants are many.
But if we don’t compromise,
We won’t have any.

When we feel what it is
To truly need
Perhaps we’ll find the strength
To stave off greed.
Our priorities are muddled.
Our fears feed our fight.
We become befuddled,
And forget what’s right.

We’re damaged, victimized,
And we can’t look away.
We welcome comforting lies,
And what famous faces say.
And we can’t understand
Why they don’t see what we see,
As the others hold hands
And dance
On the grave of democracy.