Some Poetry


Monday, February 16, 2015

Zen Card


Beyond all precipitated form, pre-expression moves with direction and awed anticipation within vector intention for yet more clarity, more understanding, more raw aha — and quickly brings to pass the co-creative blessing, as if it was another life-form — this one with a unique and special key, like the origin of all the others in vital communication mode — expression without restriction, without shame, without offense — a fresh new drop to enrich the field of love without fear — without doubt — true liberty.

Sunday, August 19, 2012


Love removes all barriers.

Compassion brings quietness.

Forgiveness unlocks the gate.

Understanding this holy conversation beyond words —  appreciation swells.

I can only slowly turn my head back and forth in wonderment at this synthesis and fusion — surprise — this strange outworking way beyond great expectation.

I am you.  You are me.  We are one.  Really.  The comfort of this reunion singing joy beyond words.

Music — dance — to drive my hand drum sparks creative imagination as we move together in unexpected sublime coordination.

What a soothing balm — healing — this new gentle voice of sweetness — moving words — unfolding worlds — living waters — so comprehensible — undeniable truth.

Saturday, July 3, 2010


What happened?   Is there any kind of answer?  Does there need to be?  Of course there does.  And every person has a different answer.  Why?  Because we are each and every one unique, one of a kind, different experiences, different beliefs, different work, different cultures, different religions, different educations, different vantage points, different point of views, different perspectives, genetics, traumas,  fears,  loves, joys, creativity, happiness, longing, vision.  Longing vision.   We all project our own hologram out of our own holodeck.  And they all overlap but what is even more important, they are all very intimately interconnected.  Very intimately.  So intimately that  the tiniest part fully interfaces with all others on every angle and every angel.  What the hell is that anyway?  Without a vision the people run wild.  The mind runs wild.  The imagination runs wild.  The heart runs wild.

Then you grab a whip, chair and pistol tame the beast.  I did that.  Jarring bangs of pluming smoke.  Once you have the snarling lion, then what do you do?  Do you imagine what really happened?  Do you imagine what really happened and the screaming?   Do you imagine what really happened and feel the ripping tooth, the terror, frozen in fear the horror as your flesh is torn,  life gushes and fades?

Grow food.  Tend the garden.  She is the Living Library, you know.

My biophysical friend discovering Life Physics says the entire Universe is infinite energy and intelligence.  So does the Dali Lama and hundreds upon hundreds of thousands.  Intelligence?    Does that mean cognitive intellect?  Yes it does.  What else?  A whole whole lot more.  Consciousness with intention.  What intention?  An intense conspiracy for Life in all its forms.  And the angels proclaim peace on earth and goodwill toward men.  Epigenetics.  Interconnectivity. Mindfulness.  Fullness of mind.  Fullness of travel.  Fullness of creative projection.

Food.  Food is the basic gift of Mother Earth because, while water and air are always there the gift of food yearns for  vector intention.  Coagulation,. Concentration.  Creative Cognition.   Pick up the mattock.

And, if you do these simple things, happiness will be the result, but not just for you.

namaste . . .


Friday, May 21, 2010


I remember your wind blown face. The wooden dock, weather worn by many years of salten sea, sometimes the wild surf lapping over the pier.  It was gray with misty rain.  The smell of baked red snapper mingled with sunbaked intestines and fisheries.

And in my dream there you are my darling-one to rush together in happiness, the embrace, we kiss for the first time and I melt in the blowing rain.

My heart is broken now.

When I was eight, I saw the ocean for the first time. I never knew before what big truly was–seaweed at my feet, the primal pull.  Watch that undertow my Mother said.  What’s that clinging to the seaweed?  Oil from the ships, mama winced…careless ships.

I came down with double pneumonia that time and after that, asthma ensued for many years. Emotional, the doctor said, a botched circumcision done too early.

And later on at fifteen, I was there for music.  Our group of boys exploring the beach and piers one night entranced by African rhythms from the wild black man making twenty gallon oil drums come alive.

Time has never been the same.

And today, the projectile black vomit of Gaia blood, mile-down volcano of spewing darkness and death comes to all.

So,  all the fishermen, shrimp boats, oyster-lover’s restaurants, bells clinging on waves of black tar, stench of diesel cloak and rust of old despairing ships drown in the sea of tar.  Like sabre tooth cats and mastodons wallowing in terror through thick black ink, the sucking doom of our greed.  Storks and pelicans and gulls cry across the gulf and, on the wind,  whalesong shrieks into the night.

Goodbye my happy dolphin.

Thursday, May 6, 2010

Woodchuck Buffalo

Woodchuck stood at the edge of porch,

two feet tall and grinning,

finishing off my kale.

“Ohh, my beautiful salad,” I groaned.  “Couldn’t you munch the dandelions instead?  Must I whack you one to get through?”

Woodchuck smiled a toothy and spoke with British accent, “you are a Buddhist, it is said.”

With my jaw agape and eyes like dinner plates, I stuttered, “uh…uh…cou…could we make a deal?”

Woodchuck closed his eyes for a moment of quiet contemplation,  pearly whites still agleam.

“Uh…uh…” I breathed, my heart pounding like a jackhammer.

Finally, Woodchuck opened one eye and then the other, vectoring into my soul like a royal laser, “ok geezer, here’s the deal…I eat anything and everything…and…you get nothingness.”

I stumbled backwards to avoid falling down and gasped, “uh…uh…okay.”


Friday, November 20, 2009

The Granularity

I close my eyes.  My breath is slow and shallow.  Finding myself in a field of liquid emory paper, I begin to move through it with no effort.  It seems to be the same as an ultra low frenquency sound.  A symphony of counterpoint.  Flutes and strings percussing.  A trumpet.  The mysterious sounds of the Enhala drum.

Emory paper darker than night and constantly moving.
A deep black background with tiny tiny sparkles finer than sand.

A granularity.

And superimposed, a transluscence  of light and dark shadows.  Three dimensional shapes constantly morphing.  Some curved, some square.  Some round, some pointy.  A shapeshifting DNA spiral.  Occasionally a brighter than usual diamond grain of sand.  A ringing hum.  Like distant stars in space.
Always moving.  Always changing.

And then, a cluster of bright sparkels.  Stacatto ice picks.

I always enjoyed black and white movies.  An infinite gradation between light and dark.  From the flashing bang  of white light to the velvet deep without bottom. And in between every possible shadow of gray.

And so I stare at a white wall.  A high pitched gong.  The granulated emory paper in negative polarity.  The granularity in constant transformation.

And yet another dimension.

Color.  A quartet of tetragrammation.  At first only an infrared star in space.  A tiny tiny sparkle tinkling.  A flash of red in the rolling sea of dark granularity and moving shadows of sacred geometry.  Then a flash of blue, whoosing.

And suddenly, yet another  new dimension.

Crystal clear.  The garden of the world in crisp living color.  The Piscaderian Choir.  Accompanied by the Modern Jazz Ensemble.  Garden of the Octopi  gliding in and out of sand castle corridors and passing by shards of crystal glass  covered with multicolored flashing Christmas tree lights.  A piercing  rainbow haze of Meissner fields shooting out from high resolution reality.  A constant ringing in my ears.

Oh, excuse me, here comes Dr. Wise to give me my medications.


Friday, November 13, 2009


Tiny smudge of cumulus floats across blue sky,

growing neck smoke angel morph

dissolving by and by.

I fell in nest of shamans
with hoo do voo do too.
They carried me to other worlds
now what else could they do?

All psychedelia soon applaud
the ayahausca transverse god
of dreamtime angels
I did nod.

Where the heaven am I?

Mother Earth soon gave birth
and out came Newtime big toe first
to cast the oneness spell include
of rain… and sun… and peace… and food.


Monday, September 28, 2009

Twelve Strand

Twelve Strand stepped into the field, hummed the song and quickly dematerialized into the portal, catching his breath and struggling to keep his vector intention from dissolving.

Never before had such an exit shown herself by flyaway protocol and upwards gleam about sheer energy been so relevant or so frightening as night fell and whalesong screech enveloped the mechanism of popping into unexpected showers of radiant snowflakes bound to catch the breeze of passing travelers.

And suddenly, the bridge collapsed and out he popped on garden floor, entwined with vines not known but shown to be definitely hostile and hungry.

To find the stone and not complain and get back home again, began his search of mind enclosed in the limitation of timespace quantum leap.

And there, shining in the darkness, the glistening not too stable and less familiar morphing conundrum of that which is but is not.

“Let’s make a deal,” he croaked to snapping vines.  “I take the stone and go on my way, you can eat the lizards.”

He tore the vines from his flesh, bled and soared.  It was hard to grasp and get the living stone into his bag but such he did and began the homeward hum.

“Nothing but costume jewelry,” said his mentor.  “Next time remember to pull the choke.”


Thursday, September 24, 2009

Taboo Facts

Three blind mice.

Three blind mice.

They angrily charged at the holoview,
Because of the facts, their reality blew.

Three blind mice.
Three blind mice.


Monday, September 21, 2009

Let’s Borrow From Next Month’s Salary and Jump Into the Pool

I’ll float with you,

I’ll gloat with you,

I hope I do not choke with you.

Sail away,
Sail away,
to that island in the sky.
Straight up my soul will fly,
(I’ve never been this high)
I hope I do not cry …

Mysterious, mysterious.
Gets down to the best of us.

Them reptiles green …

I truly hope that they’re not mean …

“Rob Roy!”
“Rob Roy!”
“Your such a little boy!”

” … huuuuuuuh?”

“Robert Roy, I want you to get up, put on your tuxedo,  clean the catbox, take out the garbage and wash the dishes before breakfast!”

“Yes, dear … right away dear … should I wear a cumberbun?”


Monday, September 21, 2009

Chinese Love and Fear

Ching Lang Fu and Walinda Wu,

fell in love at a petting zoo.

Now nevermind what they did do,
but, certainly, it was nothing new.

Security got all upset,
and captured them in a tiger’s net,
handcuffed them on a straight flush bet,
and flew them off on rendition jet.


her last day


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