Ripe Harvest Moon,
all the weeds gone to seed,
the pups weaned
at a new home now
in the next valley.

In the waxing follows full,
in the full, the waning.
Fruit in the fallow fields.
Sweet of apple,
wealth of pumpkin,
golden corn.

How blessed are we around this fire to share it?
To howl the umbra,
Earth, the Moon,
flow the blood
round the year,
leaves to roots,
to the ground.

not a sound

The eclipse red dark,
a full month spins
waiting for the light to return,
wraithed in drum-beat heart.

Ripe Harvest Moon,
all the weeds gone to seed,
the pups weaned
at a new home now
in the next valley.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

We cannot remember the beginning.
Waking up in the summer months,
the sun already risen,
casting off our sheets and dreams
to continue the journey.

Was there an initial gift,
that which ignited the reciprocal cycle?
I do not believe it is so.

We were once afraid
that we were walking in circles.
Afraid of the play repeating,
the actors cast in stone,
alone but for their masks.
I do not believe it is so.

How else then would we have been met?
Our circle paths must be stretched and concentric.
Spirals conspired, their meetings destined,
imminent.

Ripe with water,
subtle dynamics,
electric and hungry,
falling from the sky
to make the ocean underneath.
As rivers, we weave
and meet in the sea.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

This shell spells out our odyssey.
Archaic language no tongue has held
carved by thick darkness;
let us learn to speak these words together.

Crystalline creature!
Risen in the waves, in the sun
brilliant and burning, in the light
before us now, your own sojourn
shown in form and color.

May we be shown truth through your story
and in your shape know beauty.
May we be the continuation of the way
and in endless change know peace.
May we bless these trails by our passage
and in our heart of hearts know compassion.

Myriad gifts!
Each moment,
a token of eternity.

We cannot remember the end.
Caught by the warm recollection
of an oak grove
in the late day glow,
we drift into unity.

Floating, small poem.
more and less make haiku than
counted syllable.

Feelings of accomplishment are short-lived.
As are feelings of pain.

Pipe in hand, to lip,
smoke in the air,
short-lived.

The rain drop ripples forming on the surface,
short-lived.

New buds of Spring,
pink and green,
short-lived.

Even the trees
warming my home
piece by piece.

I'll walk once more
around the pond
before bed.

Be not my altarpiece.

You are no ritual implement
with which I commit
religion.

You are given
(of and by yourself)
to
(no cherub or elf but)
a being
(human)
this feeling
(this numen)

Free as any altarpiece
found alone on seascape vistas
far away from
the clamor of symbols

Be not my leader nor acolyte,
we've too many paces to walk tonight,
for you not to be by my side.

I'll settle for no projection.
No, I'll settle not at all;
for the fall is slow,
and I'm caught like
so many motes,
so much dust
suspended in your transparency
Dancing.

Be not my altarpiece.

You breathe in your sleep
too sweetly
to be anything other than
this moment
(as it repeats me)

pulling the weeds
the layman, cursing
the heat

~

the monk, wiping
his brow
says a prayer

~

the master
pulling the weeds

~

together
in a field
under the sun

~

piece of paper
written on, crumpled up
poems in my shoe

~

sun in the soil
reflective face
quartz in the bank

~

shaking hands
church-goers
step into the street

~

Philadelphia
birds on a stoop
brothers

~

in the library
every sound echoing

~

low orange clouds
city at night

~

noticing my mind
tripping off the curb

~

stale taste
spliff
gone from where I left it

~

my Grandfather's friends
explaining absinthe
as I drink it

~

broken tea cup
how I love to look at it!