The Far Side Banks of Jordan:

Chambers of Stillness

And what is it

you will hear today

in the chamber of

your stillness?

What distant echo

from the silence?

The warbler will

return atop the tree

just outside meeting.

The purple of the

bruised memory of

your fathers death on

the road will arise.

The creak and the

pop of the drying

of the church bench

will fill your ears.

What is it you will

hear today in the

chamber of your

stillness? Or, will you

choose not to sit and

away yourself within?

ON WRESTLING WITH ANATTA (No permanent self)

Spider walking through

my morning, I collect the

habits and the hobbies

which help me construct

a separate self - which

apparently does not

exist. A few mugs of

Indian tea, the meds of

morning, scrapple, and

some time on the shitter.

Here I am. The self

that does not exist.

That explains a lot.

I just want to know who

smells the rain heavy in

the air and feels the moisture

on the humid wind of day?

Who tastes the dripping

tang of the apple or

slakes itself on the cold

draughts of spring water?

It is that one I have come

to love to be with, who

I have trusted to take me

into a living consumed by joy.

But yeah, he is not quite

who he used to be.

Audacious Light

I wonder at the shy light

of morning that sneaks out

slowly from the edges of

the darkness and the new day.

Like it is trying to hold back.

Light that so gently crawls

at first and then harshly

gallops itself upon the scene

in full and all out display.

Like there had been no night.

That first light and its crescendo

is what interests me at first rising.

It draws back the curtains on the

mystery of having one more day.

Like I might live forever.

That light. That new light, even

wet with rain, is a hope for yet

another day. Another day to conjure

words into poems and live audaciously.

Like that is all there is.

Catbird Journey

Deep in the recesses

of the tallish hedgerow,

the Gray Catbird peers

through the tattered

crevice, planning the day.

Coffee first? Or, pie?

The squirrel at the feeder
jitters about trying to keep
track of his hoard of seed -
which I put out for the birds -
suspiciously clutching more.
It would be annoying if
I didn't expect it so.

And, while it is comforting
when a thing goes as you
had planned in your head,
there is nothing like the return
smile of a stranger - rich and
deep and in earnest. A sturdy
railing on the way. A sunbow.

I look for them each day,
wondering what is going on
inside and how it keeps them
from or helps them to curl
their lips richly with character
and assurance. All is well they
say to the world. All is well.

Even when it is not. Thank you.
Thank you for changing everything.