days arise and fall
as time flows
without direction
and I don’t know
what season has come
or if there is a beginning
or an end this time round
(February 26, 2026)
Category: meditation
-
i don’t know
he says to himself
about nothing in particular
and then smilesfor he knows
for once he’s right
(February 25, 2026)
-
Walking into the kitchen
I forget my reason
for going; I stop,
and retrace my steps.
As when I am reading
and my attention drifts
lost in the dream of text,
I must return, sometimes
pages back, to regain
myself and what it was
I was looking for before
I wandered through the door.
(February 24, 2026)
-
What do I dowith the I here,
with the voice here,with an other
who is just me;yet, not as well?
For so long now,I have written
into my lifeout of my life;
I know myselfas different,
something otherthan what I write.
Someone must breathebehind these words,
must speak slowlyto understand.
What is beingsotto voce?
Am I speaking?
Or listening?
What tight constraintsmust be applied
in order to saythat I am here?
(January 7, 2026)
-
It’s the lopsided charm
of this day’s superlatives—
the shortest day,
the longest night,
which for millennia
provided power
to the metaphor
for hope to console us
with heavenly promise
that peace will return
as easily as morning light
washes over dark stone.
(Winter Solstice, December 21, 2025)
-
then there are the dreams
you do remember
not just wispswhich vanish forgotten
at fingertips’ ends
but the ones that clingtheir razor tipped claws
toying with your heart
late into the afternoonat the end of winter
(December 6, 2025)
-
No blood splatted rubble
no violent clashes
between blind love’s
engendered hatreds
no screams
nor whimpers
of the dying next door—
only a silent room
is left to clarify
another day’s first light
as it expands
through an open window
(December 1, 2025)
-
The fool’s dog’s sharp yip
is not dire enough
to ward off the fall
into the canyon’s echo.
Is it worth the death,
this life? The timidity
to make an attempt
is inlaid as context.
The sun sets in context
of a new risen dawn.
The view of other’s views
block vision’s sole vista.
What’s left is improvised—-
each day a blurred whirl,
simulating a design,
as the dance continues
teetering along an edge,
one leg in the air.
(October 25, 2025)
-
to fill the soft holes
the auspices
have left behind
for our memory
like tattered tarot cards
to make sense of
for our past to exist
in this present
dénouement
which of course
our future will
ignore as blasé
as conventional wisdom
bangs out a beat
on a tattered drum
we must insist
like the birds
how this story goes
(October 16, 2025)
-
O the hell
we must breathe
with the dust
of redemption
as our ghosts whisper
— revising our past —
our skin glows
with angelic sweat
like saints gilded
in gold leaf
over brick arches
in byzantine cathedrals
all these obligations
we must attend to
as the day descends
and night grows
from shadow
nearby
(September 19, 2025)
-
It’s rumored one sees
as you die one’s life.
What if what one seesis the life as lived
unfolding in timeso fleeting, yet vast?
Each momentarilya live memory
not a life once livedbut the life you have.
Then it disappearsas if in a dream
of which one forgetswithout waking up.
(September 4, 2025)
-
Still Point
by
Ritual consoles
through repetitions solace:
“I’ve been here before.”
(August 16, 2025)
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