free moose

I am moose.

I belong to trees.   I belong to hills.
I belong to god.   god made me moose.
      god set me free.

      but not alone.

I walk in the river.   a river made of Light.
me and Light, we are only a blink distant apart.

Light feeds on seeing me.
I am brown.   I am tall.   I have four limbs
      sprouting feet like stones.
Light follows.   gives breath a shadow leaning
      into purpose, like being alive.

as well mother, gravity.   she loves me
like trees, like dirt, like stars.   all night long.
      even in the day, even when we’re blind.

wolves and bears, others sometimes, rarely,
maybe, even you.   you eat me sometimes.
      no fault.   I love, all the same.

Light brought us here.   Light breathes like tide.
      shadow mirrors our direction home.

there is Light inside sky
there is Light inside water
there is Light inside trees, inside grass, inside rocks
there is Light inside a moose.

when there is shadow, Light is near.   no fear.

when you say Light, does Light hesitate.

I am who I am meant to be.   I am this poem.

I am moose inside Light.

      the deeper that sorrow carves into your being,
      the more joy you can contain.            Khalil Gibran

image:   © Delphine Margau,   Delphine Margau Art Photography, France
this image is part of her chapter/series, Under The Woods of Childhood.
kind permission granted for use of this © image.   with our thanks.

please visit her website to experience more work by this exceptional artist and photographer.   her work is also shown on the Edge of Humanity arts website.


                 Under The Woods of Childhood

      What is hidden in the depths of the soul will come to the surface
                                              one day or another.

      Go a little deeper, in the dark, that’s where the light is. If you
           are afraid, then go ahead. Go and join the waiting child.

           Delphine Margau


w r i t i n g   b l i n d

          she said it herself, leaning in.

      imagine the most endearing poem you’ll ever receive.
      this wants to be exactly like that.     like being found
      just when you were certain of being far and lost.
      imagine that.         I am.


what if we cautioned you this poem might leap off the page?

would you add extra milk and eggs to your grocery list?

      what if we left this middle intentionally blank?
      will you grant this grace?
      will you understand?
      will you sympathize, conspire with us?
      just go along for the ride?
      forget what you were doing here anyway?

      perhaps this really is your poem after all
      and you’re just a flinch away from everything
      coming back beyond slight of hand.

      soon you’ll be asking for your favorite pen,
      asking for your old writing hat.

      close your eyes.   go ahead, begin to write.

      this ink might become invisible any moment now!

what if it rained and your umbrella was out of town?
would you remember you came from the sea?

close your eyes.    taste summer salt.

close your eyes.    write my face.

reprise:  originally published 23 July 2011 in a slightly different format and text.   there’s also some comment conversation about how poems breathe.

some things aren’t done just ’cause we think they are.   this one wanted to raise its hand again.   who am I to be saying no.

my thanks to Margo, Irene, Elizabeth.

post script

what else?   I was going to use this image one more time, something more of past and present I feel, but then, maybe that would be too much bread on the table.   so now.   this here, instead.

this ceramic face mask was one of many by a French artist, exceptional.   I gave coin for this, very many years ago, in a climate far more temperate than now & here.   it is to me, life-size, life-like.   I like the theme, the notion of emerging, but it is more personal than merely art.   in those days of loneliness, this face was maybe a friend, or could be, and near enough to be close to me.   imagine a lover.   I could.   as near as one kiss.   so it does not merely hang on my wall, it hangs inside my heart.   would that I could write a poem to be such a friend to you.   then some resonate voice over my shoulder might lean in and whisper, well done my son.   I would be home again.

imagine this is a poem just like that.

ten dimishing virtues

say hello when you meet another face. △ any face.

listen. △ that noise you hear, that’s another universe.   let it into you.

speak kindly, appreciate. △ no excuse.   none that won’t cost you dear.

let your eyes speak for you. △ a smile is nice, but eyes are genuine.
notice the smallest things with the rest. △ we’re pretty small ourselves.

you may have more mind than some, but not more △ Light.
       balance counts.

remember, meditate. △ questions & answers are one coin.
say goodbye.   for real. △ circles you know, they complete themselves.

wave. △ use your hand.   it’s good practice, like grandmother did.

remember to check the Like button △ after reading.   granted, only a mouse worth praise.   makes me wonder, where’s that Love button at.   used to regard that labor with disdain (hardly just).   retired now from that history, meaning, yes I’ve been here and read your words.

       my finger is on the page with you.

header image:
Children at Raja Yoga Academy, Point Loma, California 1915.   Public domain.


he does not mention love

and in this story, as in all good stories, there is a ghost called upon to tell the truth.

I can’t tell this story the right way now.   I know too
much more.   Makes past something apart from me.


could’a been me.   that much, yes, I can see.

(I confess, I like how I see) (a better bowl arrives)

there is a desire to connect.   isn’t that obvious?

          mutual.   her picture in his hands.

no, didn’t then all understand (appreciate) what
those feelings meant.   all filled up, bright inside.

attraction meant exactly that, like a planet and
a moon.   something round.   easy

          without a thought.

we wouldn’t always feel as now, more than memory.
sometimes when, forever just seemed natural.
no end in sight.

hand in hand.

and now.    bigger than.


in good wilderness

in absence then, my heart will speak for you.

so dear the conversation, I cannot be away.

here, two legs, one for the each of us.

I am more grounded thus.   like cradle Earth.

good heart.   good sky.

thus was it made, and meant to be.

we are joined.

here replied.

making home.


two feet on high

she sat beside the lake,
was that a smile on her lips?

but it’s a lake, not the ocean,
he said.   foolishness stuck

to his skin.   like memory.

but see, how close the stars
are here?   one of heaven’s

gates.   her response.

yes, he said.   then lets us
be the moon.

how close can two stars be?

this much, two fingers close.

one to the other one, is one.

     ty wg   nov/pm

encouragement like this


sometimes it’s to look at a painted tree
without looking away

unblinking reveals what goes blind
while asleep

yes, maybe I’ll change my face
today, be someplace else instead
of me

another life, a different street.

all those memories will be
painted over.    forgiven,

water lapping against the hull,
left to drift free of lovings

not even Autumn would disagree.



My half-sister Ione.   Beautiful.   She held me as a child, her distinctive braids.
When parents parted ways Ione returned to father’s side of the family.   Lost to me.

If somehow you are reading this – hello          No period.          hello
Ceramic rendition done by Robert Coates, a multi-talented odd sheep of the family. He did watercolors, oils, ceramics, wood carvings, sailed on tall masted wooden ships to Alaska. Died too early in life.


the sky is inside a shell,  
earth too and mountains, the least of them.
rivers aswell and oceans and fish and balls
of rice.  all shells.  this chair, this book
I read, the very light in the air.  that hat,
cousin to your brow, also a shell.
pleasing the way our fingertips feel that
texture just below our beaks.  it’s only
that sometimes we forget how fragile the
face, how easily misplaced but then
rain forgives a lot.  and when we awake,
new feather wings, and when we sleep,
sky is all curves.

curving beneath new-made wings.