the single drop

small pieces of duct tape
hold together the world of man
as our lights dangle from the christmas tree
the dried out christmas tree

in the eyes of humans
the spark remains
laboring behind masks of sadness
the concrete of laborers
cement, broken bridges of ages
the community of unconsciousness
the disjointed dance of unknown drummers

from somewhere deep, longing glows
the lost ember of certainty, grace,
sweetness;
our home we left eons ago,
we seed scattered winds
we wanderers of empty heart

the optical fibres of light
hold together the certainty of love
as one ignites beside the other
and celebration begins by fragrance on the wind

all it takes is one small cake
to feed the heart, hungry to know
the silence inside, the place where we hide
is both begining and ending
of the road home.

small hearts, small lights
in the dried-out tree of man
the dried-out sea of man
the dried-out me of man.

inside the desert,
the single drop

The Not-So-Grim Reaper

When my daughter was very young and scraped her knee while playing, as kids do, or had a fever, I would ‘kiss it better’, sing her a song, and reassure her that everything would be OK.

She accepted this without question.  I was her mom, and in her eyes, I could heal.

A few years ago when my doctor said “I have some very bad news for you”, I was terrified, frozen with shock. Cancer.

“But, I eat so well, I stay active, meditate! I’m a peaceful person!” Suddenly my life was filled with teams of doctors and I had to think about treatment options. The decisions seemed impossible to make.

sunrise calling

small circles
golden eagles
smell of cold
winter’s play

sunrise falling
feathers calling
smoke-rings drifing
summits lifting

all our dreams
are here today

Happy for No Reason

When I was 21, I came within five seconds of drowning in the ocean. As I was going down for the third time, I looked to the shore and realized that this — my last moment — was the most lucid moment of my life. Everything else was a cartoon. Unreal. Fake. In the state I was in, only one thing was certain. I wanted to live.

And in that moment, which felt like my last, something extraordinary took over — way beyond my exhaustion — and got me to the shore. It swam me, until I — completely out of breath — could finally stand. And when I did, I fell to my knees and kissed the ground. I cried. I laughed. I sang whatever children’s songs I could remember. In that moment of pure exaltation, I had no philosophy, no religion, no politics, no family, no friends, no future, no past.

Only the simple joy of being alive.

Going Back to the Island

There it was — 1971 & I. Tuned in, dropped out and turned on, and on the ferry to meet up with friends and live for 3 months on The Island. Talk about traveling light: not even a backpack: the possessions wrapped in a blanket that doubled as a poncho if it ever rained or got cold, a treasured copy of the “I Ching”, and “Be Here Now” by Baba Ram Dass, a spare ankle-length hand-painted dress, and (although I can’t recall it now) there must have been some personal hygiene necessities of civilization — a toothbrush perhaps? And a bag of mangoes I had collected from the ground on my walk to the ferry terminal. Was this paradise or what?

We were the generation who wanted more: we had grown up with post-traumatic-stressed parents — many years later they told of their war stories — of friends being shot right before their eyes. We wanted the lot: a scholarship to university meant a free tertiary education; those oh so soft drugs (compared to the horrors of today) of the 60’s had opened our minds up to other possible realms of inner experience — but only as whisper, a wafting scent of possibility, fueling the search. So there I was — on semi permanent holiday: just a need to show up once a week for a job, a private bay to live in — a choice of a hut right on the beach or one with the geckos under the poinsettia tree. And the eccentric but loveable landlord, who treasured his hermit life, but welcomed the other drop-outs into his bay — for rent of $1 per week.

Fast forward to 37 years later — back to The Island.

Sea still as blue. Rocks still magnificent-cascading down the sea, interspersed with bays and beaches, water that feels like warm like a bath, pines sprouting from barren cliff sides; amazing little bays with private beaches and views for ever. Still the streams of young people from all over the world — now probably with trust accounts and deferred university courses and parents they can keep in touch with by email and phone (with requests for more money). Not like the totally alienated and bemused parents of the boomer generation of the 60’s.

Still the dreaminess of this island, a feeling of sanctuary. I took myself back again to 1971; why had I left? Wasn’t this what I’d always wanted? I remembered sending a letter to a friend, as I left The Island to go back to the city: ”There is so much beauty here, but I need to find that beauty inside of me.“ Paradise on the outside, but a longing for the paradise within me. It was a palpable, driving, intense passion. And did I find that Paradise Within? Happily and gracefully, yes. A big joyous ”Yes“, a triumphant shout ”Yes!“

Just a few months after I left The Island, I went to see a young boy speak — he was 14 years old; I was 21. He didn’t seem like a child to me; I was just so conscious of how I felt: I felt at peace. I felt a gentle energy that was fresh (like mornings) and hopeful. I knew that feeling, it was welcoming & comforting. I wanted more of it.

And so, to The Island, 37 years later. I saw & loved the sea & the sunrise still, but I appreciated even more that exquisite beauty within myself & recognized the gift of life. And felt the depth within my breath.

The Forest of You

the trees of me
in the forest of you
echoing laughter
songs are brand new

the shelter of you
in the heart of me
is a harbor deep blue
in a dark stormy sea

the laughter of you
in the soul of me
opens my windows
sets the bird free

the trees of you
in the forest of me
are the gifts
that keep blooming
from the seeds
that were free

the flowers of you
in the clay pot of me
are the souls of butterflies
dancing,
for all to see

The Singing Birds of Infinity

The Amazing Visit
Is now who I am
under the Dust of the Stars
Singing in Raincoats of feathers
Echoing in Canyons of Ecstasy
Shouting with the soft cloth of Remembrance
Dividing Time with the Clean knife of Clarity
Scattering butter and sugar to the mouths of
Singing birds

Those lost and lovely
Singing birds of Infinity …