Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Riding Shotgun

change is the only constant
i’ve been told
so why is there so much in me
that is intransigent
the habits of years have carved
ruts in me that the
wheels of my life follow without question

if i am honest i’ll admit that
i am not the driver
of this crazy runaway coach
yet honesty is terrifying
it requires a release
of the reins

god smiles
cracks the whip
and suddenly we bounce from
the crooked way
and are racing across
the badlands
the wind in our hair
laughing
leaving the would be thieves
far far behind

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

We’re Going Wrong

sheltered from the
bitter cold and
the flashing blue
i drive past my
dreaded brother
being handcuffed
against his car
while cream sings
on my cd player
we’re going wrong

Posted in PEACE GROOVES

Between Mercy and Learning How to Pray

alas i am not unencumbered
nor unencumbered should i be

perhaps it as a goal has
in itself become a burden
a distraction from
the one necessary thing

to simply crouch
here at the callused
feet of the master
the hint of a future
resurrection of someone
precious to me
hovering above in the
air of busyness
between mercy for
the stranger and
learning how to
pray

(Luke 10 and 11)

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Category 5

i have rarely been gentle with myself

at times my inner storm bursts forth and i lash out at those closest to me

it is a cyclical pattern as predictable as the spinning cyclones birthed upon the waves each hurricane season

o for the calm that resides in the eye
to trust that change will come in its own good time
that the divine does her work with or without my help or obstruction

o for the will to simply stop spinning and listen
the patience with my broken self and the brokeness in others
whose perceived stagnancy
reflects my own
and spins the inner rage
which so often overflows
in word and deed

o for the silence
that follows the whirlwind
that calls me forth from
the cave of my
skewed assumptions
into a spirit
of deep love and
quiet grace

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

The Words That Arise

when my beliefs
fall around me
like leaves
when my body
aches with the
weight of the years
when i long for
the pains of this
mortal flesh
to be washed
from me with the
morning rain
which runs
down my windows
when this gray morning
is somehow comforting
to the withering one within
i turn again
to that which
has sustained me
over the years
the words that arise
from somewhere and
sprinkle down around me
like an oil of blessing
and in the scribbling
before i begin to fade
back into the
walking sleep
that is my
existence
i find that
what i know i must do
yet am somehow
paralyzed from doing
is somehow
a lighter thing
that alights upon
my shoulder
to whisper of what
it can be

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

Bay Morning in Stereo

to my left
the sound
of birdsong
to my right
the voice
of a child

i open my eyes
to the warm breath
of the rising sun

in the distance
a dark speck
upon the water
becomes a
creature
seeking
sustenance
in the depths
captured
by starfire
upon the
waves

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

when the sky is fire

when the sky is fire
be not afraid
of the wind
which heralds
the coming storm

the dark clouds
touched by flame
of the rising sun
will water an
earth that is
bone dry

and you too who
walk beneath
the burning sky
with dry dreams
shall find them
wet with rain

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

the shadow knows

sometimes i feel like
i am a shadow of
who i once was
captured by memories
of the lives i have lived
remnants of songs sung
play on in my head
and i want to push them
out again into the
light of day

it is difficult
to remain in the shadows
to wrestle with what
is ego and what is call
what to dream of
what to let go
to wait for the summons
and still stay awake
and open to the voice
that speaks in
bright riddles
of silence

Posted in Leaves on the Poet Tree

I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one.

I have come to the conclusion that there isn’t one.

My wanderings,
whether night dreams
of familiar faces
or morning walks
in a new neighborhood,
always seem to lead
me in a circle.

I enter
the cul-de-sac
and return the
way I have come,
still talking to the sky,
whispering the same prayers
past the aspen groves,
my longings like the
silver leaves
glistening in the wind.

Yet somehow
on the journey,
a small something
has been made
complete
in me.

July 8, 2019