"The Author-Preneur with Something To Say That You'll Love To Read."

Lingering

You could tell
it was the fading
of the milkweed
blossoms

- those
fair and tender
blooms of the roadsides
and the fields.

Their scent
a lingering of
phlox and lilac;

hints of verbena
in the cool.

Their aroma mingles
strongly

and hangs
heavy

in both
the morning
and the evening
air.

How is it we cannot
describe a thing without
the using of another thing;

in a short or long chain of
descriptive words and
similes.

How might we say a life
without other lives to
spread the meaning out
before us in landscapes of
like and as.

Shades of purpling
pink and dusty roads
are vibrant in the softly
closing time of the
hues of their
hiatus.

And, as they stand
there

on their stalks

in the mingled earth
of all that has
come before

they are nothing
without the nutrients
of the past
soaking into them -

history matters.
Our lives and
theirs are nothing
more than

a giving over of
an aroma that is

part ours and part from
our people - from all
that have come before

It passes on

- through us -

like their scent

in this
cool breeze.

It lands upon
the lives of
all around

giving pause

a chance to smile
and to feel the special
inkling

that can only come
in a realization.

I love that smell.
I love that sight.
What can we not
gain from

their simple being.

We are this,

pieces of all that
have come before

given over to us
for this moment

and then,

then we are

theirs.  Carried
away

gently on the
tendrils
and tiny feet
of those

who have
sought to

gain from us -

one cool
draught;

an aroma
of majestic
sweetness

but only so
an hour.






A Fading Full Moon

It is a morning
for Chicory flowers,
Queen Anne's Lace,
and a silent, waning
full-moon.

They were all
just right there,
at my side
and straight ahead.

Honest ignorance
about something said
but not known.

That is all my
words can be when
I bring up the
beauty I see.

For I have not
written
these things into being;

I have only written
their written-ness
into verse.  Very
different.

The handiwork
that is written into all
creation comes from
a far more gifted hand;

a more robust tongue
crafts and gilds those
words.  Mine is the

pleasure to simply
point to them and say,

"ah, such glory."




I Look to the Hills

There is never any
doubt where my eyes
will look in this
idyllic landscape
of our home.

To the hills,
always to the hills
do I lift up my eyes;

I look to the hills.

Most times it is
an autonomic response
to my panning
across the horizon,

watchful and attentive
as a wonder-seeker,

an awe-junkie.
Trees call me to their
leaves or hollow absence
of the same;

pointing up

across the treetops
our hungry vision
is lured up, always up
toward the places in which
the landscape is pushed
heavenward by unseen
and colossal tectonic machinations.

Mountains, hills,
bluffs and ridges
pull our sight up them in
a backward alluviation of
fallen debris.

I look to the hills
and am lost in a
whirring noise
that is the backdrop
of all space and time.

Radical amazement has
come into me from what
these eyes have seen.

I behold glory in a
pile of earth, I feel
mystery in the tremendum
of these mountains,
I smell humility in the
dirt of these hills.

I look to the hills

and let the stillness in.


Some Days

Awaken.

Awaken if you

can from your own

self made drama of

things you have seen to

be the most important

things in

the world.

And,



look around you at

all of those who are

dying too young;

leaving before

they have tasted

the white peach in summer,

the avocado just ripened

this moment, the

day lily bulb sauted

in butter and sea salt.



There is one here

that just became a father,

and one there that

has just born a child.



This small baby has

just learned to breathe

without a machine,

and that child there

has finally laid down to

sleep - starving - in

a field of dead crops.



Is the rancor that you

have allowed to swallow you

so undoable that you

cannot smell the milkweed

blossoms as they invade

the machinations of your

soul that is trapped on

the treadmill you have

built yourself.

Awaken, myself.

Awaken.



Some days the

flash of truth can

light up my mind

and I can see



for a moment



everything as it is,

lightening revealing

the true lay of

the land.



Awaken myself.

Awaken.



Where It Lay

Poetry.
It lay
just beyond the
murky, silent (whole)
confluence of being.
It appears and resides
as an image, and then
a word.

Poetry is born,
thus –
out of pure, raw being,
and not experience.
For, experience must always
arise after image;
after word.

It is the lapping noise
of the ocean on the sand,
on the rocks along the
coast of coldness and
of warmth.
It is the trailing
vapor of a cloud
as it leaves itself
to shift itself
in mist or rain, in
forms and torrents.

Always out from
and just before it
happens itself
into an experience.

There is the vital power
of the word upon
the soul and sound
upon the heart.

Born at once
with utterance and
sight.  But
always roiling
at a slow boil from
the murky, silent (whole)
confluence of being.

Always to

become.


Silence Like Dew

There is a stillness
that is beyond wonder
and awe.

It is beyond
the beyond of all
things.

It is in that place
the heart longs
to repose -

even if for but
a moment.  The
place where silence
runs stronger than
a meandering river.

The whisper of
a blade of grass in
the morning breeze
can take you there;

the grandeur of
Half-Dome at sunset
can reveal the way.

Whether by the smallest
of the small, or by the
greatest of the great;

go into that space and
find yourself a home.

It is there that
all things converge;

it is there that the
confluence of everything
rises into itself anew -
reborn.

Find that space
no matter the cost.
There, the silence is
so loud it loses
all focus and becomes
a glistening dew
on Indra's grand net
of awareness.  All
things become
new again.

And again.



Water-Wealth

What will happen
when all of our water
is owned by Nestle?

How will we gauge
rich and poor?

What will happen
when all of the rainwater
is bought and sold
just after it is filtered
to remove the wonder
of what burning coal
gives back to our clouds?

What will become
of men and women that
own wells and aquifers?

Hold that glass - NOW.
Look deeply into its
crystalline cool and
slake your thirst - NOW.
Wealth will be changing
commodities sooner
than you believe possible.

One more time
we will watch a
basic human need slip
from being a basic
human right, to property
for barons to wield and
wend amid the portfolios
of their rising hoards.

There was a day
when a stream, and a spring,
a well and an ocean
were things we shared
among ourselves.

Gone are those days.
Now, only now,
comes their passing –
hastening slowly.
How will you
observe this change?

How?


picture and poem reprinted from:
The Lion & The Lamb, Spring 2017