A tattooed man, burly and grey,
twists his hemp-fiber rope.
He thinks only of this cable’s lay,
not of wistfulness or unfulfilled hope.

His skin is bronzed and deeply creased
echoing the waves of the sea.
The grey wisps of his forearms’ thin fleece
recall thousands of mornings misty.

His thick fingers grasp like old iron anchors
as his mind glides through his tasks.
He pays no heed to the long-faded cankers
on his worn body from times long past.

Silently he furls the white canvas sails
and stows the great ropes below.
He calmly swabs with a mop and a pail
all the sea salt on the deck white as snow.

The now naked oak masts still rise to blue skies
as seagulls circle and sing their own lay.
But the sailor man hears not their cries —
He turns the capstan: Anchor aweigh.

The oaken ship now glides at slow pace,
adrift on the wide open waters.
A smile takes shape under grey beard’s lace:
He seeks the hand of Poseidon’s daughter.

He’s the last of the crew on this ship of the line.
He sails to be one with the sea.
He waits in calm as the smell of the brine
signals his new bride has welcomed his plea.

Ages hence a wreck will be found
with just one skeleton aboard.
But upon one bony finger, a round
gold band shines out like a vast hoard.

I’m in a wide deep river
that flows onwards to the sea.
The wind gusts at my back
in spite of the lee.

The bleak banks are far away,
the murky waters are swift,
my feet don’t reach the river’s bed,
I’m floating lonely and adrift.

Once every so often
I bump against a big rock
that my hands will firmly clasp
to stop the tick and the tock —

but the rock is slick
with the slime of passing time
and I slip on and on
to the sunset light sublime.

Look: All around are scattered people
failing too to stem the flow
as the tireless river hurries on
towards the sunset’s vesper glow.

Then I start to grasp
that to fight it is to fail
and I must be one with the river,
not see it as my jail.

And now, and now, and now:
As my thoughts flow consoled,
I float as one with clockwork water…
each bobbing second turns into gold.

Power and privilege can be chased if you're addicted to the change you can create.  Even if you're bold enough to claim righteous deeds, you become untrustworthy.
But even as you least expect it, power and privilege will find you in life, and it's that kind of power -- when the universe bestows it -- with which you can absolutely be trusted.
Champion your dharma and live out your dramatic truth in all the universal glory.

Press your ear against the bowl
can you hear it ringing
I think the earth is singing

My open window bears a gaping hole,
Welcoming and whining the sounds of my soul,
A tasteful mesh of stormy delight,
In a moment so blissfully lonesome tonight.  

Whirls of wind that plow through the trees,
Rain drops pouring and ******* wherever it may please,
Slight brisk drafts of air cooling me at ease,
In this hot, oven-like bedroom, while I cough and sneeze.

Alarm clock sets for the dawn of tomorrow,
I lay here filled with bouts of sorrow,
How this beat of peace is simply a borrow,
Due to this I whimper, whine, and willfully wallow.

The openness of my window, this gaping frame,
The darkness of my bedroom, delightfully same,
Provides sense of solitude in this world, without blame,
I complain not a lick that this is the name of my game.

I woke early
Enough to meet the stars
Like diamonds in a mine
Or apples on a tree that never fall
They weren't there for me or you
They just are.
A man coughed
Walking up the sidewalk
In the dawn
As he passed by my house, startled me
While stargazing.
I am reminded
There is now,
then and there
I am reminded to let things flow
To Let things go
As the wave does
When encountering the ocean, disappearing into it.
What today is your humility looking to?

Great adversity
One perspective away from
Bountiful blessings