the point is Being

The point of religion
[yes, the reviled "r" word]
as always intended
being to live intensely
and richly, here and now,
a life overrun by significance,
daily lives integrating rapture
and insight stemming from
dreams into the human experience,
and strength overcoming
their terror of mortality.
Aspiring to live generously,
desiring to inhabit each part
      of their humanity,
living large-hearted
      and justly
are these faithful.
I pity the grasping
and mean-spirited.

Divorce

I've been married before
a state in which I chose to live
but not like Washington or Oregon
and I've been divorced
but that's a condition
not a state to my way of thinking
it's being dis-married
or un-stated
I am an un-married man

Those Whom...

Those with whom I've lived
those I've always loved most
     deeply and passionately

whom I wish I'd best understood
been present for
and been able to pour out myself
those for and from
whom I need forgiveness most
and carry forever forward
in heart engulfed 'mid confusion,
longing and regret;
perhaps, and only just so
it will ever be they
who move my heart
in many a name,
in many a guise,
in many a rapture
     of joy and of sorrow

Forgiveness

At once complex
     and fundamental
elusive yet necessary
it remains easy to say
     what it is not;
but being rendered insensible
by wrongs inevitable
visited on human life
leaves me hollow.
I count the capacity
      to forgive
a prerequisite to freedom.

Waxing Philosophic

A dreadful life, Philosophe!
Wary of imagination
and certain of nothing.
But I, certained of this,
that the minds' eye,
a sacred faculty,
prompts holiness
in heart's affections
and the truth of imagination
makes beauty as truth.

You Decide

Perhaps knowledge is tacit
and not consciously acquired
integrating vast observations
and data
into a focal awareness
subject to interpretative frameworks
rooted in an inextricable position
in ill-tempered hearts and minds,
the speed and complexity of integration
racing ahead
of the ponderous processes
of logic and inference,
or,
perhaps I'm full of shit.

A Rejection of Theology

Modern secular humanism
more lethal than religious bigotry
reveals an innate destructiveness
in man's inherently feral idolatry
set as absolute value
(by some called nation, or reason,
or religion)
that, compelling annihilation
of all rival claimants;
but to allow the ineffable Reality
an alteration of life,
seeing through the finite symbols
to the God beyond god
past theism and comprehending,
now, that is God;
that God appearing
after god has disappeared
in the anxiety of doubt.

Complex Creature

What manner of creature, I?
Complex with faculties
of intellect, memory, will and love
yet seeking that eikon
yearning its archetype;
full beyond counting
flitting this way and that
and nowhere an end in sight!
This being the force of man
living a mortal life.

Beyond Thought

thought can't venture
beyond what was
too, imagination is bounded
by beginnings, while
in becoming Man
He stays incomprehensible
revelations showing He remains hidden
reason that He is utterly unspeakable
and intellect that He persists
transcendently unknowable

i have become
heretical to some
for experiencing Him
in silence,
that alone apropos
for what lies beyond words

what is Everything

I'd feared for God
in this day of science
where a-theists strive to prove
that what is Everything isn't
and in His purported nothingness
He exhorts,"Let go"
that i think to know
and live a truth in beauty
beyond mortal dreams -
how do they presume
the last word on the infinite
the Whom could never be
yet Always was
might be reduced to finite?

On Plato

Were Plato correct
love as virtue
would be an objective phenomenon
existent only independently
on a higher plane than achievable
and but for her
the resultant paradigm
by which all verbs of love
are to be conjugated
I might agree
for this I leave here
everything I can think
choosing for my love ever
what lies beyond imagination
for she may well be loved
but not wraught
and by love caught
but held by thought
never

Three

Moments indelibly etched,
that touch of mystery
essential to ecstasy,
of which there are three;
those still-new lives
half me, half you
account for two,
remaining but that kiss
where first I tasted bliss

What Value

As I come to the end of words
I realize the true worth
of my poetry
was to help me live
my own life
Not having any life
except in poetry

Beauty

Beauty, what have you here?
Why haunt this brain
where in vain
I thirst your kiss,
to quench the fire
of exiled heart, a dreamer
'mid the thorns of an iron world
of law that brings a miss
to heart-stabbed pain.
Perhaps a portion of this dream
of life lived full
in a glade supremely blessed
where you in court sit queen,
here Beauty I would seek,
and deem her home.

Ventana Thoughts

These are all ruminations that arose from my recent weekend in the Ventana Wilderness

Needing to bring spiritual realities
into the press of raw humanity
amongst the most humble
the dreamer seems visionary
Addiction is a mirror;
if I look into it for long
I will see myself
attempting suicide

With my conscious mind in tow
I descend into my heart
through imagination
there learning your memory
is the sunshine
each new day bears


A covey of fat
mountain quail and me
we surprised each other
on the trail this morning
at just past six
the significance of this not eluding me
having already had my manna

In a field of false lupin
spilling the earth
an unearthly blue
surrounded by young madrone
of vibrant green and neon brown
sprung from the ashes
of disastrous fire
i chanced an encounter
with One who has all power
in taking a chance
on His love


They are
perhaps not stars
but distant openings
windows to beyond
to back where i started from
ever His intention
i find my way home



It would make more sense
were my gray matter
yellow or white
with a goldenrod center
given the scrambled
and fried responses
it comes out with

To Fly

I'd like to be a bird
unconstrained at land's end
to rise and dip and dive
perhaps a tern or a kite
or a great soaring albatross
giving no thought to where to light
nor where to sleep tonight

The Sponge

Though beautiful,
she adorned herself
to conceal an ugliness
a sponge-like soul
that could render naught
when squeezed
but what it had sucked
from me

Skin Art

I would own a tattoo
if I didn't have to get one
not for loss of enduring sentiment
my children's names are permanent enough
nor for economic dis-incentives
how much could permanence cost?
or even that a strong discomfort
might rise to the level of pain:
it's much more to do with fear
that at my end they would say
"Was that the best you could do?"

Another Kind of 5th

I've done some horrid things
that others admire
and find but few
of life's conjectures
with which I am in harmony
my grand planned path to happiness
abandoned mid-draft
favoring another specious endeavor
the sought-after solution
only solving the equation
for the moment in which it made sense
still,
in both it's common usages,
my life not a waste
full-time a fool
and part-time poet

Sit With Me

Sit with me here
for one last poem
our eyes connected
deep, as the bay.
Don't walk away.
Sit with me and listen
though I've nothing new to say.

The crazy bird that sang it's countless tunes
outside our bedroom window at dawn
has likely found new sky
another place to hide
new arbors to call home.

And yet the moon will rise
to linger over your shoulder,
to reveal the auburn hue
of the mis-placed hairs framing your face.
Even through my doubts
you have remained, a constant
either at my side
or in my heart.

A Poet's Lament

Had I time
to learn a craft today
it would not be poetry
perhaps quilting using batiks
or other fabrics
that tell tales exotic
or maybe origami
with it's well defined shapes
for with poetry
not unlike ivory carving
good material is scarce,
there are only so many words
the comprehending will stand for

A Time to Ponder

From time to time

speculation as to when and why

and subsequent regrets

creates preoccupation with time,

a morbid fascination with watching

the second hand circle,

certainly not clock - wise

and relentless, as I observe it,

persistent and pesky

when I think on it,

there's no slowing down

no turning back,

morning's song now a memory,

the day too far along

to be denied.

Were I to smash my watch,

"That'll be enough of you!"

and it would now be 2:01

then 2:02

and suddenly 3:20

in the afternoon

and I see that I am

simply going along, in motion

and no longer speculating

as to what set me moving

but noticing

I am much less sentimental

in the afternoons,

and for what it's worth

the only place where time

is bent to my will

is in the movies

Writing on a Rainy Day

a monochromatic blend of sea and sky
sullenly ashen gray
chills more deeply as a biting wind
carries stinging salt sweat
from foaming horses
driven headlong to dash
in an explosive jujitsu
death on the rocks
and neatly dissolve visions
of yesterday's aquamarine tide pools
and the gentle surprises of life
amid stone and kelp
and this image too will transition
becoming tomorrow's Kodachrome dream

A Cat Poem

The marmalade cat
dozing among the nasturtiums
likely doesn't think herself as such
she simply is what she is
and does what she does
inventing herself moment to moment
as she goes along

After Always

After always
when love becomes a dream
infinite and unforeseen
it takes you by surprise
and there before your eyes
a place yet you know
a place you've always been
infinite and unforeseen

Freedom

I flirt with Freedom
in these days of practice
but it's more than a theory
Freedom.
I court Freedom
in the practice of surrender
where I become free
to be myself.
I woo Freedom
in the practice of letting go
of others to be themselves.
I encounter Freedom
when I subjugate myself
to Him
and to Love.

A Season

Eyes rubbed raw
in pain and grief
have darkened the face of spring
while new life takes leaf
"It's nothing but a thing"
say some by way of relief
but that "thing"
was a significant part
of my life
was my other
and still I sting

Oblivious

Ahhh - She was that beautiful
so that men's eyes would fasten upon her
as hands molding her form;
and I don't think
she ever caught on

Oenology

Bold and salacious
with overtones of lust
and soft, deep kisses;
loaded with subtleties
hopeful glances
gentle caress'
and laughter
with a finish of sorrow
and painful regret
if relationships were described
as a wine
how do i really feel
when I just can't drink?

"Good Enough"

Had I to go some place
to be in His presence,would I?
"There are limits,you know,"
and, "It's so far,"
or, "It's not fair."
And since being "good enough"
really isn't, and
how I spend my days
is how I spend my life
I now cease to ask
"How far must I go,"
before it's considered
a sin?

Sticky Messes

Br'er Rabbit me
still tries to best Tar Baby
still gets caught up
in the emotional mess
as an ego-maniacal half-wit
when the best approach
is to not approach,
as if staying out reach
and staying out of touch
were one-in-the same
as running like hell
in another direction.
But as a gluttonous masochist
two, maybe three, times each year
I'll stand within reach
and swing away. No.
That is not letting go.

The Ripple Effect

a grain of sand
cannot enter the water
without creating a ripple
and she is more than that
and I am more
than I might have been
because of her entrance
into my life
her ripple having moved through me
and lapped every shore

A Wish

Have you been there?
Somewhere so far removed
and there by choice
yet you'd give anything
to be back where you are now.
Oh, I so have
and on return found it to be
something other
than what I'd left behind
and as wishing for a better past
can not make things so
I think I'll stay put now.

For A Friend, On The Occasion Of Her 20 Years

In the theater of our minds,
each we a magician of sorts
the requisite patios
and stage set to our design,
we can spellbind
at least a few
and enjoy a season
where it's fun awhile
until enters one asking
"Why do you do that?"

The disappearing silk scarf trick
was not so entertaining after
and then cognition falls hard on our construct
practiced to keep loneliness within reach
while performance anxiety increased
(it is only during performance we momentarily forget).

I could never do levitation,
but He does it well
raising me off a collapsing stage
saving me from a second career
as a comedian
in search of a punch line.
No, delivering a monologue of truth
in a world of love and beauty
is far more satisfying
than living with a coin behind my ear.

Sharing

I don't want to own you
can't, really
You are not yours
that I could possess
but if you, and yours
would share of yourself
we might come
to a new
understanding of love

Blah, Blah, Blah

Your lips move
like fishes' in a bowl
but I hear nothing
of what you say.
The shell held
to the side of my head
is more clear
and makes more sense

Judgementally Yours

I find him dull
she makes me nervous
they have much to consider
we are wise
you look angry
she is shortsighted
he needs to quit drinking;
my ability to constantly judge
frightens me.

Imprisoned

At times
I may envy prisoners
captured in a just war
confined by a physical enemy.
There's no effort to bore
under the skin, to heart,
and play that sliver of hope
haunting a simpler cell of passions
clinging stubbornly to a silk rope
fraying in full light
of solitary confinement.
No, I'm none-too-bright
for remaining in bereavement.

Honest

Growing from a
shallow pleasure-seeking male
tragically un-self-aware
in his crude long-distance attempts
to violate your form
to a more faceted man
now aware the effects
of his brutish behaviors
I make no apology
for my dis-like of sleeping alone
but I'd rather win your affection
first

Blindsided

How has it come?
there was youth,
then Love;
a certained indefatigable Spirit.
Tending memories, coddling pasts,
those pasts, her,
recalled experiences as exhilarating
as the finest spring breath.
He'd left it all to chance,
or specified women, and now
blindsided by loneliness
and loss,
waxing and waning unpredictably,
but mostly waning;
an ordinary mortal
leads an un-heroic life
until nothing remains inside.
No, tears are not just water.

In My Cupboards

There are Jaipur vegetables
in my new home,
Craisins, clover honey,
and maybe twenty different teas.
Pastas, Clabber Girl,
Real Mayonnaise and Agave Nectar;
things with names like
Kashi and Bumble Bar,
with canisters of cocoa, coffee
and Whole Foods Shake
vanilla flavored,
Green Vibrance (what is that?)
and Whey Protein Powder
also flavored vanilla.
But there is no vanilla,
and I'm searching for love.

Math as a Tool

His life a celebration
of geometry applied,
geometry being
the language of reason;
insignificance, silence and
dissimulation became
his most powerful tools.

Awe-Struck Fool

In awe her beauty
when first we met
my pen took flight
and I enrapt'
as fish in net
dreamed her above;
far removed
from human love.

For that same why
I could not kiss her
and now she's gone,
Oh, how I'll miss her
and rue the cowardice
that ruled mis-start
and cheated joy
from mortal heart.

Dis-ease

Cruel in its' envy
and in its' greed
dis-ease stands ready
to replace each need
with sickness that
would scatter seed
'cross any path
that might lead
a troubled spirits'
valiant efforts to succeed
in vanquishment
its' vile deed.

True Beauty

In renouncing vanities never possessed
for which she held no desire
(airs of non-aspiration
so clung to by society's
idle economic thug-ettes),
her natural charity,
called Love by some,
usurped the driving force
and multiplied her beauty.

Willowy Woman

A tall, fair broomstick
of a woman,
mild blue-eyed,
and generous of expression
and possession,
a comely scarecrow
begging crow
to take her corn.

A Kiss

Gently they brush in glancing caress
soft, without sweetness
 no sweeter
than
no softer than cream
then sink to soothing depth,
the flare of your mouth
so soft as cream;
I long to kiss you deeply.

False Dreams

As if flying in a manner
both swift and slow,
graceful and absurd,
he leapt abandoned
to descent into madness
as the sky disappeared beneath
and false wings folded.
In ensuing insanity
perplexing and tumultuous
incongruities in conclusions
delayed re-entry to systems
with contemptuous motive.
While laboring under illusions
of that lost society's offer
and accepting the vital transplant,
in faith his spirit restored.

Secret Comfort

I know myself
and the worst of that
which finds me capable,
and of what I am guilty;
what I know best,
my own inner evil,
my secret comfort
for which I recuse excuse.
And as a snake sheds its skin
that certained disquiet-ness
gives way to a spontaneity,
while short a sense of happiness,
becomes a new secret comfort.

Purpose

To remind they
of that which
no one can stand
being reminded of.

Fear or Shame?

Afraid, perhaps ashamed
to say "I don't like you,"
he yawned
and scratched himself.

No Longer Mine

Having a first name
relationship with regret
we sat together front row
to watch the breaking of my heart.
I cried to the wind
to touch her ear,
but she belongs
with someone else;
now she belongs
to someone else,
where she once belonged
to my kiss.
But love is short
and oblivion so long,
and I loved her
and once she loved me, too.
It matters no longer
that my love couldn't keep her,
the rain's chill reminding
she is not with me.

Patternless Rhymes

He is and has been
so many things;
and today he is starved
for the affections
of she who sings
in tones that force
recall of when
life didn't divide into sections
that in due course
would hold a heart carved.

Loose Lines

The mooring lines
that tethered him to reality
began to part, silently,
and then came the sickening lurch
in his being...
Actions with eternal echoes,
rolling world after world,
tugging loose threads
from cosmic tapestries
needn't have spread,
yet did,
until changes of poetic proportions
overtook and overcame
a personal objection
to same.

Chance Avoidance

At first a distant disturbance,
as ripple mars still water,
as gentle breeze
chucks at aspen leaves;
And none too smart
in chance meets,
gaze falling beyond
avoids the lightning strike
and fluttering heart
of Love's accomplished feat.

Intensity

Never his intention
to live at this intensity -
the excessive temperature
suggested by opera -
the shape of his life
was not peculiar
yet still original;
health became the new orthodoxy,
the new criterion by which
he was judged of the fold
or outside of it.

Is It Love

A combination of syllables;
physical, devotion, loyalty, joy,
shared interests, values and times -
what do you call this
if not love?

faultline

Tangled and inseparable,
two lives, one love,
as trees grown together,
a single trunk
faulted at the heart.

The Serpent

In my dream he appears,
addiction rears
ugly head; an enormous
stained-glass serpent
that shattered inside my heart
but still moved about blindly
trying to reassemble itself.
And all I need do
to keep beast subdued
is stay in the midst
and kick shards apart.

Sabrina

It's the same each time I see her,
these visits of my volition
but drawn by a spell.
It's her eyes that compel.
Dark chocolate eyes,
one fringed blond
and one brunette,
semi-sweet and softening,
smiling,
dancing,
listening,
keenly alive with interest
holding my rapt focus.

Rockhoppers

A crazed pattern of granite eggs
washed clean by foam
carried on lunar swells, begs
my attention to youth at home
hopping as sandy fleas,
rock to rock
with squeals of glee.

Lover's Point

Dawn's chill dispelled,
above the waves
stroll hand-in-hand lovers
at this grove of cypress
along pacific shore.

Sunset

The day failing,
an orange sun descends as a comet,
with near frightening rapidity,
and ruby light pools
along the horizon like blood,
hammering the serenity of the bay.
The last horizontal rays
cast diamonds to the oncoming night;
sunset is God's gift
to my eyes.

A Thunderous Silence

Her memories had her waiting
for his oft' tardy appearance,
and in her patient time
perhaps wondering,
"Has he ever noticed the scar
below my kneecap?"
His litany of lateness'
was covered by a bond
of mutually assured affection.
She'd never hold him to a sundial.
And in those times together,
four eyes flickering
with a lingering seep of memory;
each owning a piece of time,
holding it to savor,
watching her, pleased more
by her company
than any assistance,
silence seemed to have been there,
waiting for them.
And in that moment's breathless anticipation
his realization was;
he'd wait an hour to watch her mouth,
the scintillating way words
unspooled from her lips.

Black Velvet

Night, and its comforting blanket
envelop my mind,
and a vision of your shape
spreads across inky velvet,
softer than tactile memory,
leaps, and growls quietly,
vague guttural urgency
calling back to fore,
replete with scents.
These thoughts of you enliven me.

Superhero No More

The black and lighted
vacuum of space is littered
with the remains of my cape;
demotion from superhero,
humiliating and thorough.
From my castle in the sky,
this thunderbolt un-knighted
abrogates desires left tattered.
But it's silly to pretend
I'll never wish on a star again.

On Reflection

Periodically each day I pause,
consider the world around me:
strapped as I am in my
steel Ford cage going somewhere
that could be anywhere,
yet only where I decide to be;
and here I am again,
walking through a treed countryside
yet suddenly, there are black and white sneakers
dangling from overhead wires.

And there I go:
struggling in front of years
of guilt and shame,
and wasted opportunity,
and forfeit love;
and there I go again,
with self-condemnation,
even my unspoken intonation
mimicking speech patterns.

From, ""Here I am," to, "There I go,"
and back again and again
in a once besotted brain
that now remarks more on the obvious.
We all go toward something
taking mental notes and past along.
I think it has become too late
to rethink things.

Kaleidoscope Pixies

Watching the sunlight shatter
across the bay,
and regroup to sliver
again in refractory bliss
evening shadows lengthen
and the kaleidoscope pixies
play across my eyes
while the silent hiss of sun's set
under rose and lavender skies
etches my life.

Emotion, or Reason

Should emotion ever
be ousted by reason?
That heart tug,
ineluctable as gravity,
bears more to relish
than philosophy, who in observation
sees little human. No.
Love is more serious than that.

My Water-Dreams

Those days have passed
when my sport was to be tossed upon the waves,
dark hair and weathered skin
and hand firm at the helm.
From the sand
your music takes a formless tone,
and your rhythm has lost meaning.
My weather-beaten boat
hops harbor to harbor no more.
Oh boundless water-dream,
you once spoke thunder.
Do you weep, too, for sailors
landlocked by blunder?

Lonesome Place

As I no more do see your face
at home or in my hills,
I'll sit here in the lonesome place
and soak this winter's chill,
amidst the trees and fleeting cloud
where you will never come,
and I don't look to see you now
for my time, it is done.

Your Messenger

From a distant time
my spirit feels your nearness,
your sun and stars
closer for caress,
the sweet-soft whisper
of your messenger calls
from within my own heart.

Whole

The sum of parts -
part me, part you -
defined a heart.
Yes. That's true.
The slender lash
that surgically cleaved
was not of ash
but aches that grieved.
Now, what is whole
when half remains?
When turned by role
to searing pains.

Well To Sea

The deafening surf's roar
submerges conscious thought,
echoes from a rocky shore
reminding of times I sought
solace, and peace in your arms,
held secure from all life's harms.


Treacherous green-sea pillows
alternate with lashes of foam
and dash themselves in thund'rous billows.
Beneath this cliff reverberates some
long-lost thought, another dimension
remembered now with apprehension.

Dreams sacrificed on an altar
of self-absorbed, putrid excess -
no dreams to guide causing falter,
the audience now a fathomless abyss.
I keep my mind now well to sea,
clear the rocks I wish to lee.

Untitled

A plagiarizing adulterer
felled by an assassin's gun;
forgiven by God? Likely.
But suitable for remembrance
with a national day of rest?

In Losing at Love

Having hiked a thousand miles
through forest, field and alpine valley,
and lived a life of forced smiles
while wasting time in fruitless dally,
this highway hoped to bring me home
yet no one's there to bid me, "Come."

This life seems so ill-fated now
and serves to keep my nerves at strain.
The chase that led me away, somehow
creates painful disorder of brain.
The wicked dreams became my master
then let me be to clean disaster.

How death-like it is to lose at love,
but I refuse to take his hand.
Emotions rise on wings like dove
and I walk boldly in this new land.
I've a rendezvous with death sometime
but not 'til done with life sublime.

For Nick, Frank and David

No moon tonight
But a collective four and sixty years
Of cycles since your moons
Broke from sickness' shackles.
These years of infinite love unwearying-
Not circling seasons but perennial spring!
Years of triumph trampling through defeat
the first being holy, this last made sweet
By this same love.

Gracious Memory

Though the hand of fate did force
Twixt soul and body a divorce,
It did not sever man and wife
For they both lived but one life.

A Farewell To Friends

Fair of face and warm hearted
I would ever have you be,
As you were when we last parted
Smiling soft and sad at me.
I have my leave, bid me farewell!
I bow to you and depart.
These keys I held for a spell
Made welcome music in my heart.

Theoretical Love

My thoughts often meander
from poetry to love to sex to God
seamlessly without punctuation
Unique theories lovers hold as their own
generate discourse about aches
of being with a love
and being alone

Hard Questions

They are called hard questions
not for being difficult to ask:
the answers are hard,
or hard to remember.

Recovery Verse 8

He abdicated life with relative ease,
dismissed friends, rejected loves,
and on return questions,
"Why no celebration?"

Recovery Verse 7

This passion of our kind
For the process of finding out
Is a fact one can hardly doubt,
But I would rejoice in it more
If I knew more clearly what
We wanted the knowledge for,
Felt certain still that the mind
Is free to know or not.

Absent Thought

Your absence
has a presence
a weighted vision
hangs each decision
by silken thread,
unstable of tread,
tempering thought
where it ought
not.

Not Available

The late-night freak show
that is public transit
forced a blank expression
reading "Out Of Service"
behind his well-placed paperback.

Free'd The Thought

No one should say "I Love"
until aware the resource
called for to overcome
without recourse.
For we are always in the wrong
in how we clumsily handle
being overly cautious, postponing delight
to prolong frustration through the night.
The bond of love is not an ought,
nor something taught,
and ever-so-much more
than fancied thought.
Our human nature must
come soon guileless
to that place of trust
and leaving us free to choose,
free'd the thought,
"Should I lose. . .?"

Point Of View

To the heart, there are
no dehumanized objects;
even viewed from afar
each has a given Name.
And in that place,
not of names but of personal pronouns,
where I converse with Me,
the recognition is manifest
That You and You
are also We.
And even those We think as They
still have a voice,
something to say.