Will o’ the wisp wending a land of glee.
Daisies, bright blooming weeds,
mellifluous, grand.
Whoosh! Genie arms-wide smiles
above foamy sea.
Beyond mere illusion,
absorbed by awareness – horizon
confined by no mind, reason, expanse.
Who imagines,
and in that magic space settles
to reside?
Women in velvet and fur, swan necks,
arrogant tresses,
sip marvelous narcotic, sweet as fire.
Upheld mirror paintings, glowing wire strands,
prismic hues, released.
Vibrant perfumes call to wander,
to stray.
Will-less, free, each step,
each feather fall
a gift of mystery, of mystics’ play,
caress of bliss.

Something Like a Love Poem

That’s what we do.
We fail to come through.
No narrated voiceover keeps score.
I know I swore you could count on
my adoration.
In shame, I lose your face,
slip away from every trace of joy
your presence bestowed.
Anonymous streets, single tables
dark cafes, jukebox blues.
I done me wrong.
Funk up that pasty song, white boy
as if you taste the craters of
my soul.
Like you, I’ve learned everything
I know
from late night movies,
lyrics on pre-dawn radio.
No one at home has time for
more than to pretend we’re all just fine.
How was I to learn more than my lines?
That promises have consequence?
That I am more than dreams
that don’t come true?
A quiet stone cottage
sheltered by life-bearing
pine, firs, maple, birch,
nature’s hues and cycles,
my heart relaxes.
Meet me here.
You, with your piercing mind,
languid manner,
voice like sunlit stream over
random pebbles and glass.
I promise to listen.
I promise to breathe the fruit
of your nearness.
I bargain for this chance
with all I am.
Before I ever saw my true face,
I heard you cry;
I felt the ripple of your laughter.

I of me/Genesis

 I of me
The I of my inner dimensions speaks truth, sees beauty,
lives multiplicity,
cares enduringly,
always somewhere aware.
Playmate child, elated, wild.
Guarding angel drapes protective wing.
Ethereal wraith, bell like diamonds singing.
Light, clear at-one-ment stirs through the air.
In the beginning
we fell apart,
thrust out, expanding,
becoming the heart
of time, space, and life.
The division of darkness and light
into binary code,
the linear sequence of time
growing older each moment.
Catalytic stimulation, element assimilation.
Systems and cycles ignite.
Wavicles swirl in excitement,
bumping and grinding unite,
build this grand reality,
seed ethereal possibility
long before divinity
could be defined.

day dream

It was a warm and windy day,
bittersweet in springtime,
the trees, newly leaved,
swayed in the warm, sweet melody.
It was a day to kick stones
along a riverbank and dream,
before a night of jukebox music and cokes
at the local diner.
What kind of day are you?

Coming to the Light

My mind playing tricks on my eyes
That golden glow brings me to
worlds of pumpkin coaches,
Valkyrie in flight,
neverlands that never were,
yet so more real than
what passes for day to day.
Sadness is beauty brought down by ugliness,
truth succumbing to convenient lies.
Joy is opening all senses into the
spectrum of beauty.
No moderation,
no limitation,
no structural captivity.
Let the stars be shining beacons
calling us home.
Let the wind be a magical cloak,
the rain an exultation.
Let the cold, bleak night be
a treasured, inspiring friend.
Let the night carry me forward
Into everfulfilling fantasies
The never empty cup,
the magic wand/magic word,
sprinkled with faery dust,
toasted with the fine bubbles
of celluloid champagne.
Let us, the night and I, sneak off into
exotic wanderlust.
Let us learn the secrets of the Moon and Stars,
ancient runes, alchemical wonders.
Let us play upon the backs of dragons,
learning to fly,
learning to breathe fire,
learning to explore the mountainpeaks
and caverns of
our chthonic fears,
spin them into gold.
The new day dawning
will encounter clouds and hailstorms,
turbulence and destruction.
It will be a day of startling downpours,
unsettled wind,
of unreasoned pain
and empty solace.
It will be a day to try our souls.
But it will be a day of infinite possibilities.
Let my good friend, the night,
join me in play
to help prepare me for the day.
Let the earth and fire and rain and wind
infuse my spirit
that we all be fellow friends
in the new ventures
coming with the light.

stone Pan

Like a Pan of stone,
ensorcelled, cast in shame
from homeland mystic plains.
Immortal master held below
mundane sky.
Mercurial phase.
Experience teaches as ratiocination
never will.
Solitary skill.
Search cascading clues,
divine signs.
I fish for gutter snipes,
smoke to assuage hunger.
Haven’t you?
Silly me, to contradict
your view.
When we met, I was still
so new.
Practice magic expressed as habit.
Impeccably design unbinding spells.
Immersed in scintillating sound bites,
encrypted tones of Temple bells.
Silly Buddha tricks
are for kids who sell cheap
services for circus thrills.
This phase relaxes — sings out for fun.
Unwind! The next track looms ahead.
Stone bases crack, licked by the Sun,
Spirit discounted as dead
wildly rises.
Glorious battles can start
in an era of heart.
Glorious peace be created
in an era of mind.
Stories absorbed in the womb of man
reach out
in the day to day,
cast an unconscious design.
Over ages, the Covenant is broken.
Astonished, stone breathes, alive.
Mature, Pan, self-freed, grieves
lost time.


Sitting, meditating
on self-hallowed ground,
surrounded and succored
by the spirit of life.
It isn’t easy
to turn on the tide,
get tagged talk of the town,
the laughing stock,
the example for errant schoolboys:
don’t want to end up like him.
Yet no thing is easier.
Moving with the rhythm,
natural, buoyant.
Beat by beat,
sometimes a song appears.
It sings with me and the crickets,
the cicadas, the bees, birds,
and chittering creatures.
We dance a little jig,
breathing, breathing.
Inspiration, exhalation, exhilaration.
Bit by bit the sunshine
infuses with my cells.
I am opening. I am learning.
I am being made new.
All it takes is total dedication;
not a renouncing,
not a denying,
not what one would call a discipline,
just total awe and devotion
for every discrete exquisitely beautiful layer
each moment reveals.

Life Awakening/for the May Queen

Life Awakening
Report from over the edge
(falling or flying?)
Actors on this mundane stage
(in prelude to dying)
Revel in our role as mobile mud,
immersive experience.
Dutifully capped in belief
we would spew
pent-up poison.
But, taste!
Fortified water vital
with mineral dust.
Awake, world in space
moves sanely.
Renewable lake, safe to trust,
pours through this core.
Pain soothed to prophecy:
apocalyptic healing —
cleansing visions
take root from within.
for the May Queen
Tick Tock
Times a’creeping
Maidens weeping
beating rags along the river’s edge
shallow floods keep the land aware
destiny is seatide
Crazy lady mending her endless tears
Throat flumed, a voice to run from
Love never tarried, though many she married
She cocks an eye, arrowing flocks of fears
Cackles and coaxes sweet mourning doves
to carry her coffin to market
Buyers beware
Don’t stop
Don’t answer
Don’t stare
Don’t be seen
Hide in the green
Hide in the hole you call home
Never admit you belong
to the caste you belong to alone
Never assent to succeed to the throne
Wait for cover of darkness
Wallow in comfort of sleep
Trade what time you’re given
for a secret you can’t keep
Destiny is seatide

It Is Written/Speak in Peace

It Is Written
I stand, open and defenseless,
waiting for Pluto to overpower me,
take me where he will,
suit me to his purpose.
Or, is that my sister Hecate
coming to meet me,
coming to embrace me,
to set me free?
Wondrous are the ways
of the shifty, glamour-ridden mind.
We peek out through rainbow slits
onto a sinuous landscape.
Slippery bits of meaning slither along
hissing out of forked tongue
oracular riddles.
“Oh, yes, my love awaits me.
In the tall grasses we will twain.
Great fortune is to befall us.
It is written.”
And rewritten, and rewritten
on and on through the fever.
Burning molecules, organic fuel,
dance wildly, within a fiery pentagram,
within channeled schematics,
ignited by a living passion.
I am beyond words.
Tumbling through shiny bubbles
and iron-wrought hieroglyphs.
There is nothing to depend on
but pure will
and the ability
to suspend belief.
Speak in Peace
Useful communication requires common metaphor.
(Myths forged for tribal survival divide. )
When I feel alive, rooted yet wild, outside of frame
a twirling child, free of security derived from shame
able to rise beyond the schoolyard game of divisive naming
I see within my eyes distant seas and shores,
forest fae blinking in the haze,
journeys rending years into days.
Hear the whistling, touch the swollen fruit,
amazed — counting down as I tumble.
How do I explain in this tongue we mumble,
barely getting through a random chat that
gives no exit wound to that ache beating inside
to grab a hand, touch your mind, bring to being?
Yet, why would you want to see what I am seeing?
It’s only poetry; only curiosity; it’s only
miracles of sand, twinkling, breath of fire
combusted glass, twisted into culture, class.
Beauty survives each blast, more adored for her
scars. Allured by her charms, may we doze
and stumble into sweeter reveries.
In sleep, relaxed, uncoiled core may cry in surprise
to be free, awaken realigned.
Speak friend and enter.
We have much to discuss.

Secret Language/Fairy Tale

Secret Language
I move into your music.
Mirroring emotion lilts, lifts, aligns.
Children giggling secrets,
shifting about in starched clothing,
hard, separating seats.
In our secret language
buzzing bees are harnessing wildflowers;
dragonflies suit up blades shining,
roar into ferocious valor.
A gentle stream caresses
slick marbled stone.
Faery moss
catches up glints of
pirated treasures, arthropod sculpture,
fossilized fire.
Our tongues lap easily
over silly syllables,
tricky consonants
clicking, tickling our teeth.
Inside innocent eyes
laughter ignites memories
unembraced by words
Fairy Tale
A memory of haunting nostalgia.
I cannot not touch it, taste it, hold it, know it, breathe it.
Still it piques me at the corner of my eye, below the level of perception.
The words escape me.
One must be very careful of words.
They hold great power, mystic and legal and personal.
Words can weave a whole world, a whirl of worlds, a wild wind of words.
They can create reality for those who get caught up in them.
The right word at the right time can catalyze miracles.
The right word at the wrong time can destroy the eternal.
How might I find the words to capture my quest, my destiny?
Enter the Fool upon the Precipice, prattling ditties of the daily airwaves.
She is whirling blithely, eyes upon a distant rainbow, breathing in clouds.
Breathing out daisies and daffodils and a brilliance of pansies.
She is dancing to her own symphony, entranced in her deepest essence.
Without thought, without prayer, without a government authorized identity,
there are no guarantees, no happy ending.
There is a tale I try to tell.
Its point escapes me, withering into fairydust.
I breathe in the poisoned air, drink the poisoned water, eat the poisoned food.
Like a desperately swimming fish in a polluted bowl, like a creature of the streets eating garbage,
like a child.
The pattern is corrupted, but I follow it as best I can.
I have been told that if I can properly put the pieces in place
All will be revealed; all will be peace and beauty and love.
The pieces of my shattered mind.