LIFE

Bird of the Moon

There is a feast going on
that we are invited to …

A wondrous forest birthed
from a single tree

A bird singing at the Center of Things;
A bird with a million feathers
of a million colors,
and a million fragrant songs
each sung in the wordless Language of the Heart.

There is no Waiting for this River:
It has been flowing all your days.
There is no Jumping into this river,
you were born and will leave in this
Lovers Arms.

A single Tree and a Silent Sunset
remain embedded in a place where
they Grow Forever Undaunted

A single prayer emerges from
the Lips of Now …

“Fulfill me, because my life is passing by …
“Take me Home, because there is no other
Place to Go …”

I Won’t Waste

Life’s not passing any faster
My life won’t last forever
All I have is now
The breath that I’m allowed.

I get disoriented
Confuse the past and the future with the present
Love’s still the open door
True love’s worth working for

Chorus
I won’t waste a single breath
or waste a day that I have left
The air I breathe is free
as winds of fate brought you to me
Love remains the key
Each day I pray… I won’t waste.

Bridge
When I slow down I come around to see
What each breath means to me
Without you life would be… completely empty.

The True Star

The Heart of Spring is something to be known in the Winter of  life.

We gather jewels and playthings along the way; we hold rusting angels close to our hearts; we confess love for the children of our earthly womb – the ones who come and go, the silent souls who disappear into the night.

What we are left with is us.   Dim, hollow, shallow, empty.  “Concerned“.

Void.

We seek the stars within.

But not by looking into the Twilight, the Immeasurable Abyss.   There is only one place where abides the True Star.  The Harbinger of Deep Peace.  The Bird-Songs of the End of Time.

Winter’s fading light invites us to hibernate, to return, to gather strength, initiave, resource from Inside.  We walk these City Streets, the Lost Avenues of Lost Souls, the dank, dark, decayed.  Light on the planet is tentative.  Seasonally Adjusted.  Afraid of the anger of men and the Finality of God.  This Day-Light our skin longs for is a crap-shoot, and can be purchased from the vendors of Tanning Beds.

The Skin craves its Vitamins: D.  Touch.  Warmth.  The wind from the Plains.  The Hand-Holding of fellow Humans.  We wander these deserted Alleyways – like nocturnal cats – seeking the light we love, the warmth we taste, the sleepy hollows of another human form to comfort our own.  Our hungry skin.  Our aching heart.

Adults learn to behave as adults.  Never heard.  Never lonely.  Never cry.  Never in pain.  Always happy.  Always busy.  Always planning, scheming, escaping, dancing in ever-increasing circles away from the Sweet Vortex of the Moment of Now.

Masquerades.  Charades.  Naked Emperor Parades.

It’s coming.  One Day.  The Atonement.  Someone promised us this, didn’t they?  It was written somewhere, wasn’t it?  The Angels of Mercy will show up, and they will hold us in their arms, and it will be alright, won’t it …?  This redemption.  This salvation.  This Heaven that is Just Out of Reach.

How Convenient.

My arms are the Naked Arms of Now; this human.  The want is a Hunger that won’t go away with Imagined Food.  With Promised Luxury.  With the Rain Check on Love.  This Now, this Eternal Child, this Lost Voice buried deep inside … is not hiding any more.  It’s not shutting up, going away, toning down, Behaving.

It’s a wreck and a Ruin and a Wild Thing.  It’s demanding the Big Cigar, the Full Meal Deal, the Deluxe Package.

Heaven is NOW.  While we’re on Earth.  While we’ve got breath to sing, bones to rest, moments to sip.  The Treasure.  The Great Mystery.  The Unfathomable Deep.

Dive in.

Sink or Swim, it matters not.  The air is getting thin.

The Pool is filled to the Brim.

Jingle Bells
We go as Plaid Men;
Riding in Twisted Cargo
Smoking Cigars on a Green Fern Embargo.
We rise for the Sun & Decay in the Dawn
our Faces are Strawberries; our Fingers are Gone

We go as Plaid Men, we rise up as Nuns
we cave in as Children, Lovers, Cinnamon Buns
There is nothing to Stop us, We’re never in Heat;
We shave our sweet faces and swallow Burnt Meat
Our sisters before us have Salvaged the Road,
The Innocent meet Strangers, the Silver buys Gold.
The Dawn of Intention, heals the midnight Decay;
We go as Plaid Men
as Housewives we stay.

Jingle Bells
Sing our Moments’ Repent
The Serpent sinks in Leather
The Kitchen Water is Spent
The Dollar is Sideways,
A coin in the Lock
The Only Key we could Turn
was the Face of the Clock

We go as Plaid Men
Twisted in Corks
we sing our songs sideways
and eat Knives & Forks
The song that we Knew
is the one we Forgot
as the Ancient of Mariners
Drowns at the bottom of the Pot

Big Soul in Small Shoes

Difficult Dust
I am a Single Poem
Prone to Rust
I am a Rotting and Fragrant Fruit
On your Tree of Souls
A clean and fluffy Laundry Item
on the Great Clothesline of the Sky
Washed once, Washed twice
Hung out to Dry
An Ace of Hearts, a Throw of the Dice
A river of Intent – a Jacuzzi of Ice
I’m all over the Map, looking for Home
Head in the Stars, worn to the Bone
I’m not going Far
A throw of the Stone
Difficult Dust
Single Poem
Prone to Rust
On the way Home.

Driftwood & Bones

We are left
We are left here Alone
Driftwood & Bones
Driftwood & Bones.

We begin
We begin with a Song
We’ve Known All along
That Right smells better than Wrong
We know who we are
deep in the body of our
Internal Guitar
We begin with a song
The same one that’s been Playing
All Along.

We all smell the Same
Deep at the source of our Internal Flame
That baby inside cares not
about who wins the Hockey Game
It’s good to become Wood
and dry out in the Sun
in the Weather that comes & goes
and the Tides that come undone.

Dinosaur Bones become old and wise
as they witness the Tides, the Angels, the Skies
they sit and wait
for you to return
they will warn you
and warm you
disarm you and charm you
remind you of the one ancient fire
that Burns.