elemental

A cloud Lifted and then burned away By the sun

A seashore Eroded and washed By the tide

A river Carved and recarved By the mighty flow

A heart Forged and shaped By the heat of love

We become what The forces of Nature make us

This begs the question: What then, Shapes our faith?

#poetry #museum #orbit #gravity

2024-10-19 16:31:29

bare branches

Before dawn’s whisper, I rise— A navy sky not yet ready to sail. A body still heavy with sleep and confusion.

Then, suddenly, the road Is humming an old hymn Empty twilight nibbling Headlights in the fog.

A mind hitting on the Black fuel of morning While silent prayers Drift up to the unseen.

Glass eyes and smiles— Because he knows what waits: A day of light and truth, Smiles and hugs and love.

He calls them brother and sister Like they are lost family, Because they are. Lost in ways they don't even know.

Joy is the hilight, even as The soul knows it drifts Further from shore Than its ever been.

Faces of happiness fair winds One lost in doldrums Prays bring him home.

Or at least in the Right direction.

A Program begins, Lubricating the soul. Eyes glass again and a chest Feels tight with missed joy.

Every synapse is suddenly Alive with memory and desire And a longing to be one thing: Good.

HE is here, there is no doubt. After all, 'wherever One or two of you Is gathered together'.

And that is enough, Even though so many Are missing— So many.

One or all, the break Is no less real. Prayers and prayers And prayers

Because what else Can a lost and Broken soul Offer?

But to ask for help.

Ache and pray. It comes and Is part Of Worship

For what Father Does not wish to Know the failings Of a child.

Not to punish, But to salve And sooth And help.

Like light into A window, Spirit pours Into this soul.

And out come whispers of thanks. For truth. For hope.

For the days to come And their morrows To bring every loving One back to this place.

Of peace. Satisfaction.

And joy.

#poetry #amber #museum #orbit #undertow #weather #ghost #gravity

Wendell Berry – 1934-2026

When despair for the world grows in me and I wake in the night at the least sound in fear of what my life and my children's lives may be, I go and lie down where the wood drake rests in his beauty on the water, and the great heron feeds. I come into the peace of wild things who do not tax their lives with forethought of grief. I come into the presence of still water. And I feel above me the day-blind stars waiting with their light. For a time I rest in the grace of the world, and am free.

#poetry

Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief, 
So dawn goes down to day.
 Nothing gold can stay. -Robert Frost (also, Ponyboy)

I'd like to say I knew this before reading and watching The Outsiders, but i'd be a liar.

#poetry #museum

2024-09-18 13:01:12

And other things. (case: 260902)

The Dream

KH Q/A study session RV conducting. Doesn’t call on me. For some reason, I have to go outside to get a box of literature. Stacks of books, hard to carry.

Since I am near the front of the building, I decide to open the stage door. I don't know why. I'm COMPLETELY embarrassed when I try to go in next to the stage and the sun is shining in the door, the heat rushing in, and the entire congregation is just staring at me.

I sheepishly extract myself and close the door.

Go to the main entrance at the back and slip in.

I try again to participate by raising my hand, but the conductor continues to ignore me.

As I stand out of frustration, someone points out that I am nearly naked, standing in blue underwear.

I complain I never get called on.

The conductor, RV ends hourlong discussion 30m early.

I grouse to those around me that we shouldn't be stopping so soon.

AG walks onto the stage, he seems to be our chairman.

I can’t understand him. He is speaking loudly enough, but his words make no sense. Like the wah-wah-wah on the Peanuts cartoons.

He starts to play a video.

Suddenly:

I am on the beach at a wide lazy river. Lots of people float by in inner tubes. It is very easy and lighthearted. Everyone is friendly. Like a 1950's suburban bar-b-que. I feel like I am having fun. I drink beer.

An otter swims up and nuzzles and cradles in my arm.

Everyone e ‘aaaawwwww’.

But it makes me nervous. I can feel/smell its waterproof coating.

But the kindness of the watchers makes me relax and enjoy the encounter.

I hug and nuzzle back.

Then: real life comes stomping in.

MW wakes me up. It is predawn, orange shards are dappling the wall past my feet sticking out and dancing on the shorted covers. It looks like there is wind this morning. Probably just the sun heating the atmosphere.

I was up late, so I lie and take in my existence. Pray. Breathe. Think of a poem about the dappling light.

The Poem

Pigments wake early, before the world, to play.

They are little gorgeous children.

My children this morning, mischievous.

How happy my babies are.

Land-O-Nod

I fall back asleep.

I am at the beach again. But it is noisier. Ocean now. White sand and wind. No people this time. Just me. All of me. The water is green and I can taste the salt spray.

My hair is sticky and matted like I've been swimming. I run my fingers through it to break up the clumps. I feel it turning blonder, like ice cracking.

I always like salty hair.

Another otter comes out of the surf and sizes me up. This one is larger, but likes me. It comes and we lie in the sand and it nuzzles and hugs me.

It feels so warm and soft. The fur is like a blanket warm against the wind.

I want to share this comfort with my friends, but they are not here.

I wake again. The light is fully up now.

And, I suppose, so am I.

My read: The Otter Knows Me

Look how social I am. :–/

Public and learning. Love it! But I don't get to share. :–( Try try try, but I feel ignored. Unseen. Invisible. Until I get ridiculous. Until they need a weak mind and a strong back. then: EXPOSURE!!

The sunlight. The heat. They're all gonna laugh at me!

And then, wonderfully cruelly, I'm not merely embarrassed—I'm almost naked. but, notice, I'm not paralyzed. I recall? shock maybe, but then just keep on keeping on. This is me baby! Like it or lump it!

Dream logic: I want to participate, but when I finally enter the room, I discover I've been participating wrong.

not being heard not being seen and dismayed but not terrified of being seen too much

TENSION!

My big complaint isn't 'I need clothes, cover me.' it's 'Why won't anybody call on me?'

The dream's answer: Because I'm already worried about what will happen if they do.

Blue underwear. At least I had them. I wonder why blue. Blue is a comfort color. My favorite. Def not a sexual input. Just regular, awkward me.

Human.

All the social mores are kind of dumped or deleted:

No books. No proper entrance. No role. No authority. No carefully constructed participation. Just me.

And then RV ends the discussion early. I am frustrated again because there wasn't enough time to be heard.

Comically consistent. Like life.

Then AG becomes chairman and speaks loudly—I hate that I think I've come to dislike him to the point of avoidance. I need to work on tihs. I can feel the emotion in my dream.

Or maybe it really is him. Perhaps he has come to disdain me... wicked man that I am. Other women's wives and all. Some people like to get offended for Jah.

Maybe that's why I can't understand what he's saying.

First, authority figure won't call here; now authority figure is talking, but language itself has broken down.

“Wah-wah-wah.”

The institutional/social world has become meaningless.

Down to the River

Video: And the dream escapes. In comes the otter.

Wild switch. Super dreamy. And totally made sense in the dream. I always love dream-logic. Or its' absence. And the intensity that comes and goes on the astral plane.

Swap from big room full of performance, to the wide open wild where everyone, even nature accepts me. Loves me. Desires me.

No evaluaations. No questions. No conductors. Permissions.

Just easy, enjoyable floating.

And beer. Beer is always nice.

The atmosphere is almost aggressively wholesome: 1950s suburban barbecue, friendly strangers, innertubes, beer, sunlight, water.

A world where participation requires almost nothing.

Just jump in and join the current.

And we switch again when my friendly otter arrives. No explanation required. No questions No right/wrong answers. Just nuggles and water. and plenty of good energy.

EVERYONE loved me! That was really wonderful.

The social gaze that was horrifying in the first half has completely changed.

Wonder: did the audience change, or did I?

I definitely have.

Yet, I'm are nervous.

There's a word for that aroma water-born mammals have... can't think of it. Strange I noticed it... or was aware of it. Scent is SO powerful.

Smelling/feeling the oil on its fur.

This ain't no disney cartoon. This is REAL!

Wet. Oily. Strange. Alive.

But not entirely comfortable. There's some awkwardness, but it quickly dissolves.

It's really kind of beautiful that that I think about it.

Like I'm learning: I can experience something strange without immediately needing to retreat from it. I don't have to pretend the otter isn't weird. I don't have to pretend I'm not nervous. I can be nervous and stay.

Then, I accept it. Wholly.

Aaaaaand MW wakes me up. Bad timing. I was really deep.

So deep, i resist the urge to immediately get up and resume the machinery of life. Just lie there. Prayer and breathe.

Do you think those are the essentials of life? I do.

We need to revise the rule of threes: Air – 3 minutes or death Water – 3 days or death Food – 3 weeks (or is it months) or death

Where do we put prayer in that pyramid?

Pray incessantly, after all.

My dumb little poem. I like to write about morning light. It feels unique and intimate. Even though everyone experiences it. Wonder if anyone else ever cries thinking about light.

I don't. Not all the time anyway.

Here, I am simply experiencing existence. Light. Breath. Prayer. Thought. Being.

Kind of perfect.Which is why I fell back asleep. X-D

Ocean Side Property

Rarely to dreams resume. And this one really didn't In fact, Otter 2.0 is different. The first one was social. This... this is private. Solitary. Intimate.

No one to impress.

Just: the beach the ocean the wind the sand

Explicitly: “Just me. All of me.”

Is it weird that I feel safest of all when I am alone?

Shift and molt as needed.

I do love people and my friends. Some are just easier to absorb than others. And I feel like so few absorb me.

Not that they need to.

I think this is the heart of the dream. Not alone in the sense of abandoned. Alone in the sense of undivided.

Part 1: a lone wolf trying to find his place among people. Part 2: the lone, finding audience when no one is asking anything.

Wish I had salty hair this morning. It's so long. it would be perfect to dunk and listen to it turn blond under the waning summer sun.

Fingers through the hair. We all carry a built-in comb.

I like that the otter doesn't just accept me, it sizes me up.

“Is this guy okay? Yeah. I like this guy.”

Very different from the opening scene. I spend the first part of the dream trying desperately to get an authority figure to choose me.

The final authority figure is an animal. And it just... chooses me.

No shirt, no shoes, no hands required.

The two otters:

Otter 001: Being accepted by others, a social world. Everyone sees the encounter. Everyone approves. Or doesn't. Clutched pearls much, m'lady?

Nervous, but approval helps you accept the experience. It's almost: “Maybe I can let people see me being vulnerable.”

Otter002: Being accepted by Meeeeeeeee! Nobody around. Doesn't matter what anyone thinks. Simply me and this creature.

And it likes me anyway.

WhOA! A big movement from social acceptance → self-acceptance.

My coupe de gras: “And, I suppose, so am I.” That's a killer ending.

This thing has three meanings sitting on top of each other: Physically woke up. literally up. Something inside has risen. Do we call that metaphor?

I'm a writer, I should know. Or at least google it. Too lazy. you get what you get. If you stuck around this long, wrong language ain't going to shooting milk out of your nose.

This isn't some grand spiritual transformation. Not: THE SLEEPER IN ME HAS AWAKENED!

Just: I guess, I'm feeling a thing this morning.

Do you like me: believable Tentative. Humorous. Grounded.

Ironic to feel so comfortable writing about this after a dream that spent so much time worrying about being exposed.

I am tired of having to earn my place in the room. I want to be heard, but being heard makes me vulnerable. I want people to see me, but I am afraid of what they will see. I want meaningful participation, but the structures in which I am trying to participate sometimes feel increasingly arbitrary or incomprehensible.

I don't always have to perform my worth.

🛟 I can float. 🍺 I can drink a beer. 🦦 I can be nervous around an otter. 👃I can smell the animal and feel its strange waterproof coat. 👀I can be seen. 💧 I can be alone. 🌊 I can have salty hair. 🏖️ I can lie in the sand.

And something wild can come out of the water, look at me, and decide that I am worth cuddling.

Maybe the deepest contrast isn't congregation vs. beach.

It's: “Will they call on me?” versus “I am here.” And the dream ends when you finally realize that the second one might be enough.

Miss you, otter.

Miss you, a lot.

#amber #orbit #poetry #ghost #glass #undertow

California state of mind

I stayed once On a boat, Marina moored, In San Rafael.

In my mind It was to be glamorous.

But in reality, not so much.

Where were the Yachts and The beautiful girls In bikinis?

The drinks And boat shoes With parties Into the night?

Instead, Moldy aroma, Galleys too small, hand-pump toilets.

Charming is Too generous, But certainly Memorable.

Sad captains That all appear To be divorced Dads who got little Else but the aging Houseboat.

Ironic that among All these bound vessels There are so many Souls unmoored from life,

Adrift in a universe That hardly knows they Exist.

Here, in San Raphael.

A view from an evening at Heinold’s First and Last Chance Saloon

Okay, so it was not quite so melancholy as my reflections sound. But it did rain the entire time we were on the water. And the characters really were quite shady. But we had fun. It reminded me of van-life, only you could drown. We had a great time, I recall, watching Jake Gyllenhaal host SNL and watching Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang late into the morning.

And San Rafael was a delightful place to live for a short spell. We took in a great film festival and met lovely people. I think this was the first time I recall the clash of a very posh environment with the homelessness problem. Of course this was more than half of a decade ago. So it was quite surprising then.

Jellybean loved this little organic Tibeten place. All vegan as I recall. And a view of the bay bridge from Berkley. Hey, how can you tell if someone is vegan? They’ll tell you.

WONDERFUL breakfast. PACKED early, but perfect for Sunday brunch.

Fishing vessel in Bodega Bay

A view up from our waterfront bungalo in Bodega Bay

#poetry #travel #essay #sketchbook

2018-10-15 19:55:08

What is it you would like to say?
 Say it, for this is the world’s end.

A poem about death shortly after the anniversary of losing my wife's closest friend.

How could I worry about me?

I am now struck— Struck by how much I loved her, And how through all the years, I never once said, I love you.

I laughed with her. Supped with her. Took her cookies. Listened to her. Suffered next to her. Dreamed of her.

But—like my flesh and blood, I took her for granted— This woman who gathered me in, Through three decades and five, Sometimes as son, Sometimes as brother, Sometimes as a wise one.

—

Now, it's 3:30 a.m., Adrift in the emptiness of a parking lot 
I hear the distant whistle Of a night train crying Through the wind.


The clack-clack-clack Rolling in the dark Carries me back Where these sounds once Wove themselves into her walls.

Vibrations signaling I was trapped— Not in fear, But in refuge Walled from a worried world For just a few minutes more.

How I wish now— I wish I could be trapped one more time, Just for those moments. Not long— Just long enough to say:

Thank you.

I love you.

#poetry #death #confession #storytelling #write #100daystooffload

2025-04-26 09:39:17

Trouble comes—and we must simply live above it.

When a day feels hard, remember this:

We are more than our bodies.

We are beings of light —

thoughtful, radiant, alive.

We are creators and dreamers. Music makers. Book lovers. Keepers of stories. Raisers of hearts. Carriers of grace.

Dancers. Writers. Artists. Lovers.

Minds full of wonder. Works in progress. Potential—our worth unmeasurable by what we provide, what we perform, or what they see on the surface.

All this world is a stage, and we each have only our hour upon it. Let us spend that hour celebrating who we are.

Not things to be owned. Embers glowing, waiting for breath to become flame.

Not vessels to be emptied. Rather, vineyards — rooted, growing, and alive.

Every word spoken in truth, every song offered into the night, every kindness given in another’s storm — these things remain.

May we be seen beyond our bodies. Smiles bearing spirits from one heart to another.

Let our giving come from the hearth of our soul, Where we are learning to be like God.

And when the lights grow dim, may His voice in the silence say:

'I see you. You are whole. You are beloved.'

#poetry #prayer

Sometimes we are born again through the memories we left in cold rooms.

I was looking for my hat—the wide-brimmed one I wore when I was someone else, someone who drove through red dirt roads and squinted into the sun like it was a dare. The kind of hat required in Dust Meridian.

It had been missing for years. Maybe longer. I didn’t even know I was looking until I opened the refrigerator and there it was, perched beside a frosty beer and a carton of eggs.

Cold to the touch.

But not dead.

I blinked.

“What are you doing here?”

I wasn’t joking.

It felt like it owed me an explanation. It had disappeared ten years ago. I looked high and low, traveled and called everyone I knew, but it never materialized. I lamented its loss—the countless adventures we’d shared. It was practically part of my identity for nearly a quarter of a century.

The hat turned slowly—almost shy—and answered, but the words slipped sideways, as if the air between us was warped. I heard syllables like birdcalls, like eucalyptus leaves whispering in spirals.

Like a secret I knew once, but had since packed away with my passport and the smell of old firewood.

Still, I smiled. Not because I understood. But because something in me stirred—some flicker of a self I’d shelved. Not abandoned, exactly—just chilled for safekeeping.

I held it to my chest. It smelled faintly of sweat and eucalyptus, of rain that never came.

I considered putting it back in the fridge. Maybe it liked it there. Maybe it was hiding from the heat of a life half-lived.

But I didn’t.

I slipped it on, and for a moment, the kitchen spun into something vast the wood floor cracking into gravel, the hum of the refrigerator becoming cicadas in the trees.

And there I was.

There WE were.

Me, and the version of me that remembered what the wind felt like in wild, open places. The one who once drove toward the horizon with no map.

And no need for one.

You’re covering me
 with cat hair.
 My fine Sunday suit,
 for the Lord.


You know this.
 You must know this. It gives you, no doubt 
evil glee.

But you don’t care,
 You’re purring,
 stretching, scratching
 at my pants —


getting all the joy and comfort 
you can stand. Now that you’ve learned 
to sit here beside me.


As an evil cat should. No doubt, I’ll need an evil 
lint brush.

After all, What evil genius Is complete Without his cat.

#poetry #cat #storytelling #write

2025-04-27 09:56:32