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Be Alive
when the world feels hopeless, be alivebe as alive as you possibly canthe river never learned to drink of its own marrownor the hummingbirdsof a nectar that is anything less than holyremember that.never cease to say, “aha!” when confronted by the vast miracle of thingsand allow the child-voice within you to sing with an abandon…
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The Rules (A Morning Poem)
1. treat every morning as if it is the first and the last2. drink coffee as if embezzling its nectar for some sacred purpose 3. walk as if planets align with each footstep; and remember that this, too, is a form of prayer 4. feed the crows—and don’t forget to compliment them on their bewitching…
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Let Life Go to Your Head
let life go to your head let’s run as if the world never stopslet’s inhale after rainand parachute on the backs of dragonflieslet the sun get in your eyesand the juice of a tangerine run softly down your chinlet’s ask questions and allow the bluebirds to answerlet us let loose the moors of being until…
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Morning Poem #3
if there ever was a sight more perfect than a pair of early morning bluebirdstending to their nesti haven’t seen itthough there are, perhaps, other ways of sensing that God is among usjust as coffee fills the cupsand the teeth are polishedand the pants pulled on one leg at a time as the earth puts…
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Morning Poem #2
some mornings, the eyes open widerthe first slow stretch of the muscles as butterflies unfurl their wings, etc.the coffee, ripe as a sunand the little birdsmaking arabesques of time outside the window frameremind us of the writing and rewriting of thingsno less cosmic or supernaturalthan simple things which aren’t necessarily so
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Morning Poem
this morning, like any otherunfolds softly in first impressionsthe coffee and its familiar aromasas siphoning flowers in early Aprilor better yet, as petitionsto the gods, perhapswhich can move galaxies in our direction or a length of sunshineas the shoelaces are tied and the shirts are buttonedin a ritual that can only be described as cosmicsoon…
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Everyday Poem
of not so distant things and peopleas galaxies woven into the cotton, this is the constellation of happenings that make a life, sacred as washing behind the ears andpulling on the jeans, etc.and no less cosmicthis experience of floating through spacewithout knowing how fast we fall
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The Harvest We Carry
i could die in a field of wildflowers if they would have mei could sift through November leavesquiet as a birdsearching for answers to cosmic questions while rain pelts the windowsand the cookies in the oven grow tall, like little domesi could write tales of kings and queens, of sorcerers and witches and warlordsconjuring images…
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Part of the Silence
when i go into the forest, i am often overcome by an unshakable sense that silence is a placenot a building, but a cosmosand when i plant my muddy boots on the welcome mat, i am there to visit, to knock on the door of silence and, if i am lucky, be invited in for…
