when the sky is fire
be not afraid
of the wind
the coming storm
the dark clouds
touched by flame
of the rising sun
will water an
earth that is
and you too who
the burning sky
with dry dreams
shall find them
wet with rain
i have been remiss
let the cares of this life steal my bliss
lost in my impotent rage
i have forgotten to put pen to page
and so the without meets the within
and the words run in my soul again
for i know i am a better me
when i give in to my inner poetry
the sun is a warm friend upon my face
a constant reminder of daily grace
the morrow has enough worries of its own
and the seeds of yesterday have already been sown
now all i have is this day
to wonder at what may come my way
the stuff of life its joy and pain
warm friend sunshine cool friend rain
i keep putting the words down
i keep typing one letter after another
i keep hoping i’ll write an answer to the questions of today
i keep praying that this chapter will end better than the one before
i keep writing because i know no other way
the letters become sentences then paragraphs into a story as yet unknown
i keep writing because this is how i pray
Photo: Self-portrait, Mexico City, Mexico, 1995
Returning to places once traversed
and giving verse
to the journeying
offers grace to the curse
and where first
I began my learning
Angelic manequin hovers in the air
if one is discerning
while my apperture stare
reveals a reflection where
I am returning
When my heart is willing, but my body is tired and my mind is weak,
what does it mean to follow my heart and continue to seek
that which warms my soul?
If the journey is what matters, not the beginning or the end,
then how do I learn from history, continue to envision,
and move towards a goal?
If the light best shines through the cracks in my brokeness,
then is my losing when I am best
with no obsession over what is my role?
And are there answers in these questions if I read between the lines,
a sudden gift that I did not expect to find,
that the best healer is one who knows he isn’t whole?
The man with backpack and poles catches me out in the open reading aloud to the vista.
He says he is a through hiker.
I say I live nearby.
We talk of friends who have had surgery on the brain,
who are different yet still the same,
who sometimes lose their way.
May the trail be good to you, I say.
I do not want to be a through hiker.
I want to walk in circles around a common space.
I want to gather where I’ve been, who I am, where I am going, what and who I love around this sacred place.
I want to be a resident, not a tourist.
I want to feast and not simply taste.
I want to be rooted and still feel the wind of the Spirit on my face.
I want to be the one with you in the cottage by the trail whose door is always open, who tends the flame, who listens and learns from the visitor and blesses them on their way.
I want to be close to the mountain, but live in the valley.
I want to know the trail, but still be surprised by its offerings each and every day.
I want to be well-traveled in the world within, so that when I circle around to home again and again, the findings are laid down in grace to walk beside the wanderings of faith.
(Written: June 1, 2003)