you are the poem

sit silently with your self;

listen to your breath, to last

night’s dreams, to the hammer

heart-beats which carried you

 

through. listen again. do you

hear your treble, the shaking

space between your stanzas,

the tremble of your verse?

 

you are the poem.

 

stop letting in all the noise. make

your own noise—just for you. if you

don’t want to rhyme, don’t. let your

capitals go. be un-titled. let the

 

line

breaks

surprise

even

 

you. swim in the imagery, steep in

the buzz of beginning over that of

belonging. watch a being give

birth. you are the poem. it will

 

all be over soon. taste each syl-

la-ble in your mouth, feel the tug

of adrenaline in the pit of your

stomach: the closest to the center

 

of child hood you will ever get

again. take cream in your coffee.

romance your selves and those

clinging to them with satin

 

static. if you take a title, own

it; sing it out with each pulse.

hug the children, love the world,

speak the beauty, love the poem.

 

you are the poem.

 

 

 

 

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to enjoy what was

take me to your timberline,

show me where your true self ends

 

and your truer self begins.

i want to see in:

 

i want the spiral of a dream to take me

out of time,

 

put me in the womb,

put me on the edge of battle,

 

put me in the pack

chasing survival;

 

to forget the forgetting,

to feel the source,

 

to see the spine of life continuing

as it passes through doors.

 

to enjoy what was

is to carve joy

 

into what is,

into what will be again:

 

it is all the same clay, the same

tools, the same deep grooves.

 

you call me to the fire, and

i answer with water;

 

and we sit at the edge of the mountain

and conspire to love.

 

 

 

 

 

 

burn all the money

you write me into existence with

those beautiful veined hands;

 

your phantom sweetness bleeding

through to greet-create me.

 

this world was made to be free,

to be met head-on with abandon:

 

rolling down a grassy hill, throwing

all your gold over a cliff into the sea.

 

do you hear me? all we need comes

from the earth; every-thing we eat:

 

grown up and out like what we know

in our roots to be the ancient

 

trees of self, of

abundant anti-greed.

 

 

 

more & less: 16 intentions for 2016

 

20151231_131703 Addendum: Work on handwriting and aligning columns? Nah…

Note: The blur on the left column was not intentional… but it fits. Focus is on the right.

Happy New Year to all! ❤

give & receive

taking and receiving
are not the same.

receiving requires open
hands: waiting, breathing,

trusting; it’s
softer, slower.

taking is
like a jab:

in & out, getting
what you need,

reaching in with
one hand while

keeping a fist up
at the face.

are you on
the take?

hungry to
feed?

or are you listening,
watching, breathing,

ready to wait; to
linger; to hurt;

to bleed: are you
ready to receive?

love: a valentine all to your self

20141110_150214 (1)

love your god

love your child

love your clan

love your pet

 

love your friend

love your neighbor

love your town

love your world

 

love your humble

love your stars

love your boys

love your girls

 

love your weary

love your homeless

love your inner child

love your inner goddess

 

love your play

love your work

love your silence

love your words

 

love your weakness

love your strength

love your order

love your mess

 

love your past

love your present

love your future

love your senses

 

love your drive

love your sloth

love your spirit

love your naught

 

love your loss

love your dance

love your certainty

love your chance

 

love your heartbreak

love your pain

love your surrender

love your sustain

 

love your triumphs

love your mistakes

love the haunting sound the train makes

love the tree, the flower, the grass, the bird, the sunrise, the moon, the thunderstorm, the surge

 

love your self

love all that is yours, and all that is not yours

love that to have and to hold goes beyond the physical realm

love that the most beautiful things are not things and are too vast and miraculous to be possessed

20141117_171325 (2)

 

four-teen

20140825_083527-1

my daughter is

writing poems and

 

playing piano

keys while the

 

world is spinning, telling her

she should be working.

 

the singing apple is still falling

from the tree

 

in slow   motion

ecstasy;

 

obelisk of beauty and utility:

reaching, perching on the edge

 

of still pools, longing

to be space-craft.

20140730_162545