I’m your neighbor, I’ll just be listening.
          Something like Loneliness 01
we could say boundary, yet frontier seems more right, border seems more right.  more untouched.  more close as breath.  more fertile.
ten fingers, two hands, arms, shoulders, one neck.

I rather like putting new words in the dirt for a while.  let them get dusty and ripe.

a border is where we watch people change.  here people and there people.  fluid the way warm butter is.  tangential.

injuries.  broken leg, four years old, broken wrist, broken kidney twice, broken hearts, broken door, broken blood, broken cure.  keeping this list of injuries.

what is your list of immaculate dangers?

does head know hands, as likewise, hands know feet?

how close is close enough?  would you answer differently one year ago?
one mouth, one nose, two ears to touch.  audible.

writing is meditation.

spoken in public, it reminds me of new and better hope.

if margins are about edges, there’s the edge of a cliff.
my solar plexus is a kaleidoscope moving south.

is there a geography in how you feel being here, being you?  is there a north and a south?  maybe tiger stripes.  are there independently minded states of self?  any civil war declared?

here too, look see, there’s a fracture in the universe.
it’s attention that motivates the flow of time.  and identity.
two eyes, one chin, one brow, two lips spoken aloud.

are you alone in a crowd?  who is the you that feels alone?
who is the who you keep talking to?  who of you speaks first?

are we made of one substance or many, in body and in mind?

blessings.  dawn alone in Pacific Grove, better friends than myself, being loved, being, saving that one seven-year-old picture of me, my cowboy hat, a pocketful of ceramic buttons, listening, listening.  words.

forgetting.  then.  remembering the two of us like a seventh wave.

material is mostly empty space.  as they say.  so then, what’s space?
is space substance?  is there no being alone?  are we bubbles, you and me?  two traces of silver thread?

meditation is writing this.

like the world needs wolves.

01 Something like Loneliness is a short film directed by Seth and Ben Epstein, and based on the award winning play by Ryan Dowler.
credit where due, thanks to Ren Powell and her Nothing But Metta4, Fish Pose, for starting this ball rolling downhill.

must be elephants

the thing about making things hidden is to put them right in front of your nose.  that’s said by experience.  literal.  figurative.

if I’m kind, I’ll give attention as observational, rather than judgmentally.  habit wiggles its ears, entering the room.  tonight I think, I’d rather not even observe with a mind to correct.  would that be ungenerous to simple honest seeing sight?

there was a point, young-time, and specifically so, when I changed.  long recognized as pivotal, yet equally so, untouchable.

a black cowboy hat with white trim, a sheriffs badge, (and sorry, but) a holster and toy gun.  no boots, just shoes.  I was a walking talking dream on my sleeves.  but costumes are symbols for water running deeper than common sight – props are just props, but past wet roots is an answer to the question of not what – not about furniture – but who.

I remember the day.  I was young.  suppose no one yet had ever said an unkind word to me.  thus ill prepared, another kid said something to invalidate my fantastical view of life.  just now the feeling – what was damaged was my sense of the poetry of myself, my life in whole.  and yea, my choice, feeling smaller, feeling judgmentally curbed.

how did it really feel?  my happiness went to sleep.

alright, no discussion heals history.  neither is that why I am here.  what I always left tabled when remembering was & is who was I before my path went another and half-hearted, blinds pulled down sort of way.

when I looked I looked no further than the point of change!

anger has had more appeal than a wondering thirsty sight.  is it about vibration?  confusing calm versus a loud noise?  even today I notice some second glances when confrontation’s in the neighborhood.  but it’s the traditional ice that once sank a boat.  mostly underwater.

I’ve both fondness and faith in free-association.  reasons might render understanding, but no illumination.  it is more than embarrassing to forget so thought-fully, so shadowless.  maybe a notion in palm of simple kindness?  do I wonder what that child would think of me now?  but more my place to hold the sugar here in place?  forgiveness.  generosity.
looking is not a passive process.
what you bring becomes a lens.
there’s a notion that much of our sense of self is rope-bound onto place and people.  change those two and history takes a break.  I never did that intentionally but by circumstance.  moving home, arriving seven hundred miles from my life time geography, a different me came into the light.  what was discomfort was now nourishing.

maybe enough, saying hello to a ghost?


generosity associate face-to-face steadfast dilation
wonder wide wider home burning log windowing
ferryboat feathers wings.
first fingers float ocean sea water boat parent speaks
photographic paragraph one & only sight crescent moon
fatherless sand & fruit.
what’s in-between in-between?
there’s a way of wonder, what was
what before a thought.
define tree wind breath motion breathe
nose & mouth and eyes, higher up.
vibrate voice parse confluent
ice cream pie the number two.
eyebrow thoughts, disperse.
closer lips, illuminate.

here, swallow this

the elephant in the room.

what you swallow becomes what you think.
what you swallow becomes what you feel.

Monday, that’s the when I said I’d begin,
begin taking my new medicine.  three pills.

more than enough.

ten in the evening to be precise.  here,
set the alarm.  distractions are easy for me.

the brain is a survival machine.  but,
define the kaleidoscopic notions of survival.
in one way, that means maybe no pills
instead.  resistance is futile, they say.

imagination is painting paths that include
no harvest of medicines.  how do I get out
of these ropes?  consequences?  yes.

I’m not much for dramatic decisions.
but thoughts are busy butterflies.

the hour approaches.  years past when
they first said cancer I was not afraid.
still not.  but here, creative thoughts.

unkind.  ungenerous.  unconnected.

my blood is becoming confused and sour.
the remedy is toxic too.

do, don’t do.  I think I already know.
but I’m a cat in water with no traction

when my mother’s late life dementia
became severe.  cruel in a manner of
thoughtlessness, better just letting go,
came the thought.

but really, would this be the last sunrise,
the last sunset?  not easy then to say.
not then.  not now.

reasons to go.  better reasons to stay.
let the universe call me home when
it wants.  I have a different job.

when it comes to writing poems I have
only one real rule.  don’t lie.

tell me, where do you see Paradise?

I may fall away from good seeing, but
that is me being blind.  the universe is
eyes open.  no fear.  no lies.  don’t lie.
      love loves difficult things  01

      the answer to joy is life
      the answer to sadness is being
      the answer to promise is spirit
      the answer to pain is love
good boy.  nice elephant.

01 This poem is a rephrasing of All This Joy written by John Denver.

    If life is a question, then the answer is…

say something

as an antidote to fear of death I eat the stars
      Maria Popova
too many words.  too few spoken aloud.  stumble is good.

my child, you are beautiful.  I feel pain saying that to myself.

I used to think myself innocent because I didn’t inflict myself outwardly.  that was the justified story.  but no, merely subterfuge to have my way.

speak.  stumble.  be seen.  be known, be known.

when I hear secular, I wanna say sacred.  yea, sometimes I’m amused being contrary-wise.  yet one-side is always a parse of the whole.  tell me how we see two of anything.  are secular & sacred mirror imprints of our existing?  unified.  two hands, is that a clue?

no, most churches wouldn’t much care for me.  I agree.

The essential quality of the infinite is its subtlety, its intangibility.  This quality is conveyed in the word spirit, whose root meaning is ‘wind or breath’.  That which is truly alive is the energy of spirit, and this is never born and never dies.

      David Bohm, physicist 01
I take this truth to be self-revealing.

what is, is.  what isn’t, isn’t.
yet there’s a lurking sense of humor.  everything.  everything includes everything that is and everything that isn’t.  that’s by nature, by essence.  by secular logic too.  does that feel right?  your choice, you know.

these notions sit quietly in the corner of my head and don’t seem to want leaving.  so this breath is how I see trees that move and wind on my skin and water on my feet.

put it this way.  I see sacred in secular.  said either way.  no exclusions.
isn’t that love?
defining love.

my one time teacher had lots to say.  about existence, about everything.  I think we were aligned.  how all this came to be, why it is the way it is.  all that stuff.  but I had an exception left feral outside on the doorstep.

what is, is.  yep, no problem.  but he included more.  affection.
I did not.  it didn’t seem a necessity.  but that was my hidden disguise of pain, of fear, me thinking myself alone.  he had better eyes, better heart.

I was wrong.

he loved me.  I wouldn’t love him.  too discomforting to see, to say.
what proof?  be kind, be generous.  the proof is unconditional choice.  and we can’t give it away, only demonstrate.

some say love doesn’t even belong to us.  no more than we own wind.
defining intimacy.

do we say, a genuine open willingness?  yet often palliative solutions abound.  ain’t that normal?  saved for only one?  withheld for only one?  does intimacy mean you gotta live with some only-one, love only-one, bind for all time?  I discovered one-day that I could feel intimacy for even one-moment, and it was as rich as a thousand years might pretend.

does sky breathe for only one of us?  choose.
long way to say, that’s how I want my writing to be.  me too.

I fail a lot.  I think too much.  say words that are only thoughts.  easy habit.  common habit.  shared habit.  lies I’m unwilling to break?  visceral feelings have better moments to explore.
free association.  a downhill stream.  trust is required.  trust is the reward.  say blue, what comes next?  the answer you get is the answer you get.  a certain lack of effort, struggle, except in letting go.  there’s that sense of humor again.  rivers don’t laugh, but they do smile.
this time of year our garden abounds with spiderwebs.  foggy mornings witness their thirsty tapestries.  I appreciate their companionship.  about writing, I’d like to cast good threads.  it is less about what I say than what you discover of your own relationship with experience.  that’s you more than me!

I’ll miss spiderwebs when I’m not here to see.

I’ll miss the imprint of a maple leaf in wet, now solid, concrete.
and while my thoughts and feelings spiral about a breath, consider who we are.  mostly hydrogen, mostly water, mother sea, mother star and mostly only slightly occupied space.  David Bohm suggested when gazing into the heavens, rather than empty lifeless space, see the fabric of energetic spirit, a matrix filling everything and here and there bubbles of matter afloat in that sea.

so then, walking down the street, the wonder of galaxies whose faces I briefly meet.  maybe fall in love.  do stars too, love all the light they see?

now too the doctors say, here take this pill.  do this for so long as your life takes balance.  when they said cancer, years ago, fear was never a companion for me.  life wiggles a little differently is all.  but now, third time’s a charm, it is the financial side that says distress.  never was my charm.  it has no mass but it does have weight in thought.

writing I think, I feel, will be the better of medicines.
01  Infinite Potential, The Life & Ideas of David Bohm (YouTube video)

being moon

does she come to the balcony tonight?
half the light is in my hand,
nothing spills, no image lost.
you are as near as my imagining.
faded gingham folded into a gaze.
cheese and bread, toasted close.
my voice is bright undercover of night
yet in the day, whispering.
your hands more lips than voice.
grandmother Janet is silent now.   neither does she listen.
great uncle Louis talks no more.   doesn’t teach me tools
anymore.  mother, Virginia, is only a photograph.
those were gods in their days.

the thing in my head

NOT BEING A POEM  or just treading water?
A Voyage of discovery consists not in seeking new landscapes, but in having new eyes.
      Marcel Proust
what do you do when you look in the mirror and no one looks back?
no, not writer’s block, more pervasive.  red blood knows.
room for rent
you’d of thought I’d heard, remembered remembering, wouldn’t you?  if someone says, oh yea, there’s a thing in your head.  memorable?  but I didn’t, even as local knowledge says otherwise.  meningioma, they said.  like a distressing thumb pressing home.  less memory, less balance.  less.  what to do?  take it away, they say to me.  they do.
yet another uninvited uncle remains, just won’t leave.  it has a tail like a question does.  but words say nothing of experience.  being me.
3 AM.  my sugar is low and I’m feeling it.  some sweetness and soon I’m mended right.  go out to the balcony.  wandering rain is washing the Washington fire smoke away.  some, but only some.  a Puget Sound fog horn makes its low slow song out in the dark.  sailors beware.  I am comforted, made right again.
the horn is like my writing is.  finding home is water I don’t know.  two poems, first in few.  one about the companionship of snails and a white butterfly in this pandemic haze, another day in paradise.  and the other, this one here, the thing in my head.  literal story telling.
not really a poem.  just something to say.
better wisdom recently sown says, what isn’t a poem?  I don’t know.
What is human existence?  It turns out it’s pretty simple:
We are dead stars, looking back up at the sky.

      Dr. Michelle Thaller
what star ever dreamed of becoming me?
me, I like to say heart rather than think.  heart is visceral.  is that me?  thoughts some folk think they should eschew, but nothing wrong.  thoughts are how we make peanut butter and jam sandwiches.  a very useful skill.  left hand, right hand.  but ask, what comes before the thought is a thought?  is that also radiant of my body and head?
I’m tired of being woken up from sleeping.
three in the morning, but not the same as before.  I am feeling afraid.
I have a spinal tap due later this day.  I feel afraid of the pain.  and pain has been a frequent companion these last several weeks.  that sense has made some memories.  but are they feelings or actually “thoughts”?
fear I suspect is me not listening.
I am being too loud.  three in the morning is both shadow & whispering.  I go stand on the balcony.  I hear the many wheels of a train moving by four blocks down toward the water from me.  but I’m more loud than the train.  the lady across the street isn’t awake watching television now.  I rather like the changing colors visible through her front window there.
then I remember my first spiritual teacher.  why say “spiritual”?  his whole life was how he taught real living.  then I touch the memory of his dying and he didn’t want to go.  seemed almost counter clockwise at the time, but no, he was “perfectly” human.  one of us.  what grace is given me?
I loved the man and I was afraid of the man.  he once said to me, tell me what you need of me and that’s how I will be for you, allowing you to come close with me.  who says something like that to another human being all genuine as he was?  no pretense.  authentic.  I never answered him!  I was that measure not open to our lives.  seems impossible, but silently, I said nothing, meaning – no.  I don’t talk about that.
When I dream at night, they save a place for me, no matter how small, somewhere by the fire.
      William Stafford
home.  more you than any other meaning.  remind me please.
between head surgery and an intense pain at the base of my spine my recovery healing surprises most everyone.  mostly I feel unattached to fear.  that surprises me more than the other.
all this is inside my head.  more thoughts than stars.
as I begin to understand the words, I miss the concept, I miss the experience.  to remove something I often put a mask over it.  lost in my remembering story.
at his funeral I thought, alright lesson made, time to rise and show us all.  that thought repeated from chapel to graveside.  then the final layer of mortar to seal the door.  the lesson would have no excuse of miracle aside from us to carry home.
I am my own gravity.  fear.  loving.  choose.
me and other blinking stars.
the reality of all your shapes is here, resident within my head.
and one white butterfly where the garden breathes.  this too.

another day in Paradise

more oft these days I pray to the gods of smaller
appreciation.  no cousin kin of want.
my cloud hand shadows the curving shell of a
snail in the bush beside my knee-high adjoining
bench.  is that a resistible kindness?
a small gesture by any measure.
how many raise clammer to violence when found
on a garden perch.  crush is so easy for us.  myself,
I find delight in another life close at hand.
what matter the size of the spoon?
root for the traverse of a shimmering thread
across their green & earthen universe.
no fear.  what fills the space?  welcome home.
and sometimes, yes,  leave nature to the
footsteps familiar to its own history.  some you
save.  some you let be.
from a balcony.  below a single white butterfly.
roam the yard once, maybe twice, then
out-of-sight.  repeating day then another day.
and only one, always seen alone.  never two.
is it the same white butterfly?  yet over many
days it makes no easy sense.  I don’t know.
today a white butterfly is across the street.
it circumnavigates that garden then proceeds
south down the street.
some answers are the common denominators.
here.  this thread needs no further story.
sunlight seems different now.  unafraid?
we wear masks to hide our faces in this
breeze.  even a glance now is courage kin.
maybe we are wrong.  maybe we’re meant
to share this given world.  maybe we’re not
the topmost top?  unwelcome news?
neighbors, companions, have we room that way?
notice how language is changing in our mouths.
there.  have you ever touched that word that way
how is it that in my head thoughts underthought
keeps turning into kangaroo?
I’m unsure what isn’t a poem anymore.

the book of lies

lie.  lie is not bad, it is just not accurate.

sin.  sin is not unforgivable, sin is forgiven.  sin just means, “not ripe”, not ready.  that’s all Jesus meant.  notice it, correct it, however appropriate, done.

wrong is like right.  it’s just what’s left after what’s so is said.

bad is not “good”.  meaning simply, change, do something kind instead.

hate is an emotion that’s gone astray.

fear just means look out!  when there’s a bear in close to you, fear makes some sense.  no bear?  then look, consider your perceptions.

disgust should simply say, “no thank you, not for me.”

anger is a wall like bricks.  to start, consider using something softer.  cotton will do for one.  then consider what’s different and what’s the same.

doubt is a part of trust and faith.  it is not opposite.  it is only looking that isn’t yet done.

loneliness is just a feeling.  and really really it’s not even true.  go walk, feel the earth, your feet, see the sky, your eyes.  trees are good to start.  go make a friend, who might just be wishing for you.

regret is just stuff you haven’t done.  none of us will ever do everything.  move on.

self-sacrifice.  don’t do it.  if you damage yourself you’ll have nothing left to give.  give freely, or don’t do anything.

getting even.  this is just fantasy of a hurtful sort.  don’t do it.  you’ll be the one who gets hurt.

shouldn’t.  you know.  you shouldn’t.

vengeance.  just don’t.  even God gave up on that.

unforgiveness.  simple.  forgive yourself.  the rest will just follow of itself.

repulsion is only natural.  but so is attraction.  choose.