Your Grace

Orange and black butterfly teases
the breeze in a déjà vu loop

down-west to east-up mystery,
not a monarch. I open

the door, regret the reflected
flash in the fisher’s eyes.

What if every single thing
that dings my perception

is a miracle asking
for my thanks? What if

the offering I give
my sacred attention

is exactly what is
missing? I make free

of research and hypotheses
to prove. Release the idea

of traitor and treason to some
sovereign–painted lady–who has

carved wealth from my ancestors’
bones. Even this guitar,

pulling my fingers into old
patterns, calling my voice

to yesterday’s lyrics is new
in my embrace this morning.

I am in love
with my presents here now.

Every breath opens me
to new vistas eclipsing past.

I am supported by the wind
so light the ripples in the

grass can barely be seen,
but they bless me in this

guileless being, and changed,
we sing. Quietly, mindful

of the fishing heron’s dance,
poised like a priest at the altar

awaiting the congregation of
fishes to appear for their

sacramental blessing, a
visible form of grace.

Inspired by: Traitor, GuilelessResearch and the voice of my Ovation guitar–given as a birthday present 46 years ago–still bright and sonorous.

Follow The Aah

What if nobody knows what’s
going on? Oh, we jump on any

soapbox, proclaiming our insights,
produce our plans to rectify

the wicked programmed fear
laid in place over suffering

generations. We hint darkly
of the deep state, or inner

cabals, alien confederations tightening
the nooses round our delicate

necks. Humanity teems over each
scrap of darkness projected

by unfettered greed. My awareness,
my attention, my imagination

sincere and unstoppable
the most precious resource

sought after, cajoled, seduced.
My very spine aligns

the priceless antenna
receiving sacred now.

I sit in this newfound
commitment moment to moment.

There is no other life,
no future gripped in the talons of

the past. Opening like a blossom
unfurling each perception

releasing the false narrative
with simple reflective breath.

Now commands every sense
as I arrive

letting go of time
and space and story.

Into the not-knowing
field of always available

–what is this–love?
a hummingbird comes to the screen

chittering, the poem listens
as I fill the feeder.

Inspired by: Scrap, Rectify, Wicked and Sincere.