Stream of Being

There I met an old man
Who wouldn’t say his prayers,
So I took him by his left leg
And threw him down the stairs.*

I postulate that now is when
we collaborate consciously
practice zazen
as a planetary being
guaranteeing our well-being.
The subtle realms ring true
while wretches longing, sing blues
bewailing the lockdown
prison bars break down
and isolate, each unvoiced
song that seeks to rejoice
silenced, the malice echoes
through the death rows
alive in our cells
we carry the spells
of ancient lineage writhing
rushing to church and tithing
to be free of the curse
we can see, pray the universe
will reimburse these good deeds,
knocking down the weeds
that separation frames
and names in childhood games,
the propaganda that we live and breathe
long before we show our teeth.
We’re locked in time.
We can be free
reach out your subtle hand,
tune in with me.

Inspired by: Collaborate, Postulate, Subtle and Wretch and the childhood rhyme (a form of propaganda) Goosey, goosey, gander*. Featured image taken in Chingaza National Park, Colombia.


Staying Hungry

Life like delicious food
and I ravenous, ravishing

innocent abroad traveled
with angels dancing past

dangers I never perceived,
reality imbued by lavishing

curious love, unraveled
advancing and received

the view constantly awed
I ate like a street child

starving, appreciative and
utterly wild.


A quadrille (44 words) written for dverse prompt wild, a word that always evokes memories of my travels in Sud América.  Featured image is a cocina at a finca deep in the jungle in the Sierra Nevada de Santa Marta, Colombia where I lived for a while.



One must recondition the entire system of reflexes that constitute habit, so that neither habit nor sensory stimuli nor the influence or suggestions of environments, thoughts, desires or purposes of other people can interfere with the function or execution of your intuition or your relation between your inner self and that universal “something else.” That must come before all else — “or else,” in the final transaction.~Joseph Sadony

At the crossroads lit in garish
distress, my inner GPS indicates

a turning in my journey
no chicanery, vain query

is it so? Intuition knows
what the senses never expose

humans blithely blind
and still below our feet, all

beings meet. Our heads
are in the air, our hearts

encased, untouchable.
We’re numb to being

vulnerable. The universe expands
inside our brains like shifting

sands. We all create a web
between our ties

multidimensional space,
our intentional lace sacred

geometrical and obviously
you’re skeptical even though

you feel the sweat trickle
from stones at night

out of sight. Reality is no
word on a page, no thought

spinning. Tune in.
Squint past the neon signs

obliviating the next step as if
our only choice is to trace

the hate-pattern written in our
genetic face. The signal may

be quiet now, but heed.
The more we listen,

the more we yield to lead
in our most basic dance

where we open our arms to what
we’ve always labelled pure chance.

Inspired by: Chicanery, Sweat, Garish and Turning.


Upwelling Presence

Map me the way to the placid place
welling deep in my heart
where nourishment is tasteful
and sweet, everything digested from the start.

You see, I grew, a twisted tree
reaching ever for the light
my roots in mystery
the trauma history
my lineage looms, late afternoon
shadows casting lines of gloom
stretching out next to me
all the past that I just can’t see.

All the heavy burdens that I’ve lugged
into every connection, every kiss, every hug.
Contributing by absence to collective trauma
scoffing, never seeing how I add to the drama.

Every moment that I froze in time
another pebble in the ever growing pile.
Garbage in a stinking pit
the smell of shit we flushed away
constructed rhymes
far away from it.

We all turn, free throws
from behind our backs, never mind
who we hit, talking smack,
intent to escape somewhere in time.

Drawing down the future as now expands
the past lined up beside me
like a forest of hands
a rich support, as golden light
illuminates what I could never see:
possibilities. No place to run
no time to hide, just open to
the upwelling presence inside.

Inspired by: Placid, Map and Tasteful.


Simply Nuts

In the forest I hug the oldest
denizens and whisper, Grandmother

always heeding Treebeard’s plea
keep an eye peeled for the Ent-

wives. Perhaps they’ve paused here
in deep languor inspired to hold

the wide lake view in cliff perches.
Gathered in a presentation of beauty

glossy and green. Surely they won’t
take umbrage at this three-year-old

practicing his initial magic,
unseasoned and wild hugs and

shouts of joy. You may scoff
at my stories, but I know

a secret: a net of word games
holds us enthralled, from history

pages at age ten to the nightly
news, spinning webbed fantasies.

I choose to believe in trees,
honor the keepers of the planet,

listen to the songs their bird
messengers carry. Find the deep

knowledge in ancient tales, celebrate
the great treasure each fallen acorn.

Inspired by: Umbrage, Languor, Presentation, Initial and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday prompts:  ent, ten and/or net.

At Home In The World

In the forest, he runs down

the path, imploring me to

follow.  He chooses each fork

to rush ahead, until I

urge a backward study

to assimilate just where

we came from.  This precocious

child has left the land

of sardonic tweets and

teen siblings snapchatting, his

heart huge and green

beneath the arching branches.

We unite the past and future

present in this magical

place. Tomatoes ripen

on the vines and herbs

spill over the flagstones.

We taste summer’s glory,

listen to crystals, sing

to birds. The only flickering

screen around is the lake.

We peer into another realm,

the living world unveiled.

Barefoot as mother earth prefers,

we send what is here into

her, bringing grounded 

resonance to surface

with each breath blessing.

Inspired by: Assimilate, Sardonic, Precocious and Unite. and Robert McFarlane’s Words of the Day: “nature deficit disorder” – Richard Louv’s (non-clinical) coinage in Last Child In The Woods (2005) to denote the range of physical & emotional/mental costs arising when people, esp. children, have insufficient access to “nature”.

Out of Time

Your cage door’s been sprung wide open.  And I’m hoping you’ll see…~Dan Fogelberg

Past these monthly cages
in which every new moon
surprises in unfathomable
skies, I find this moment.

My infatuation with the blasphemy
swallowed whole as a student
captured me as surely as
the battery cells in The Matrix.

Just an insignificant portion
of fuel for the insatiable
draining machine until I wake.
Before the nightmare takes hold

again, I set my intention,
commence a new calendar to
follow astronomical guidance.
I am walking out of time,

piercing the veil with
steady daily steps. Commit me.
Call me crazy. I connect to
the light you shine–yes, you!–

every splintered fractal, a word,
a glance, a happenstance. My grandson
chases a woman in the forest
to gift his green pinecone.

She accepts this true love
offering and all our value
increases as we all
share unexpected joy.

Inspired by: Infatuation, Blasphemy, Commence, Capture and the Stream of Consciousness Saturday Prompt Astronomical (write a stream of consciousness writing, meaning no editing (typos can be fixed), and minimal planning on what you’re going to write.  And as always, it is sooooo difficult not to edit!!)

Fruits of the Aftermath

The herons fly over
croaking a warning as the

marsh drains. Landowners cried thief,
 and so the waters

recede. Gone the coherent symphony,
frog song and plover keedee.

Even butterflies relocated, the monarch
abdicating in the sly prince’s

complicated sting.
I am the unwanted wetlands

brimming with treasures overlooked
and undervalued. Ten unused strands of

DNA–it’s junk–longing
for connection, wait for my wake-up

call. Where do the misplaced creatures
go in this brutal heat? Absence is pure

niggling we paint over with cop shows
and sports in air-conditioned reprieve.

Is the land livable for humans anymore?
Whose creation are these robotic hybrids

who can take the heat? I disregard
the metallic illusions shining dark

terror. Look, this dry leaf becomes a moth
to my surprise. Every tree sings

living rainbow light. Even as the sun
beats down, earth fury burns

the shackles until our only choice
is to see. Now every step becomes

a chance to change.
Every breath essential.

The sunset lingers over the lake
and light plays with water outside

of time, where we truly live, called
to continuous celebration.  I stand

in my power, call you.
We all rise up.

Inspired by: Coherent, Creation, Sting and Prince.  And the message that we are 7.7 billion strong, connected by our hearts, and no one and nothing can keep us asleep any longer.

Tuning In

Listen: There are dark forces intent
on ravaging the planet with robotic

rule, insisting that only forever
wars guarantee the easy life,

blaring constant propaganda:
you are alone and useless,

there is nothing you can say or do
to make a difference.  Sit in thrall

to the airwaves cacophony
of fear and grief and terror.

And the still truth is:
you are a self-

aware fractal of the whole.
Every love you make and

every kindness, every space
you create ripples through the waters

of our interconnected being
and wakes us to our true calling.

Open wide.

Sit deep.

Tuning like musical medicine
we find the superior resonance

wax poetic in our
leisurely hike through ancestral

glades sunlit by glory.
We dance through the darkened

valleys, uniquely original
as we finally find

the brave deep heart
harmony to sing our part.

Inspired by: Superior, Poetic, Hike and Original.

A Wizard Tale

The fear of death follows from the fear of life. A man who lives fully is prepared to die at any time.~Mark Twain
Last night’s rambles down a silent
unpaved lane revealed a burly

man who used please to dress up his
intimidation. Big against

small, man versus woman, owner
alert to vagabonds, rich sneers

at poor—bristling through instructions
such counterfeit civility

just where I should feel free to walk
the dog—adrenalin shaking

in defense of territory—
a neighbor had hammered square steel

into a mighty oak. In his
own yard—the curves reminiscent

of a coco grove I love in
Colombia—he’d pruned all the

spreading twisted limbs into an
eerie bonsai. He followed me

around the corner, where I picked
up poop with my little black bag.

Unexpected hostility
millenia of oppression

rising up to warm my response.
Have a nice evening. I meant it,

turning my back on him to wait
while the dog pissed on a hydrant.

And as we paced—slowly, shoulders
back, my head held high, I recalled

unauthorized fishermen and
geese I’ve chased from the lake.

That’s me.
His thank you floating in the air

behind me, startled but sincere,
and I would wager that we both

provided mirrors of the charge
when fear seizes the reins and rides.
It was a wild fairytale jungle,
the Queen palm guarded by loblolly pine,

spreading knives of the Bismarck fans, the gold
Areca feathers, flowing Fountains and

luxuriant drift of unfurling ferns.
Interior dark and mysterious

rustles and I not only absconded
with the drift of Spanish moss lacing the

entanglements of the ancient past, I
shook him out of humdrum border patrol

into this poem, where I can
see who I’ve been hiding. Well met.

Using the word prompts:  Humdrum, Drift, Abscond, and Wager.