One Drum, Many Dances …

DECLARE.

Declare the sacred space of your Inner Landscape.

UNRAVEL.

Unravel the hidden turning points of Desire.

LUXURIATE.

Luxuriate in the Territory of Peace.

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Lost Colors, Dying Leaves

Color Your LeavingsThe color of changing leaves
is a sign of the symphony we hear.
We arrange the colors of life carefully,
folded underwear in new-fallen snow,
patterns, networks, dominoes,
sand-castles

The color of changing leaves
is the voice that we hear;
that enters our nostril and leaves by our ear:
informs us of sanity between birth and death,
a place were we rest, celebrate, sip
surrender

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afternoon sun

Light Your Own Lamps Instead!

The Turning of Daylight Hours
Brings about the Best of You in the house
Laundry is Done, Dinner is On
Afternoon Steeps the longer shadows of the Sun.

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The White Dove

The White Dove

white dove

When the only words you know are “I can’t”,
and you’re afraid to take a chance,
It is then,
that the white dove,
waits,
on a branch

When a lonely child sings,
and the sound of freedom rings,

white dove number two

It is then,that the white dove,

spreads its wings

When a mother smiles,

as her newborn baby opens its eyes,

It is then,

that the white dove,

takes to the skies

dove - sky

When a tired old man sighs,
and a soldier breaks down and cries,

It is then, that you know,
the white dove’s, on the rise

When a broken heart opens its door,
and lets the voice of love roar,

It is then, that the white dove,

soars

When hatred dies,
and we stop with all the lies,

It is then,

that white doves,

fill the skies !

White Dove Inspects the Universe

I actually wrote this as a song, but it does nicely as a simple poem also.

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split seams

it seems

that through all the day-drops
and dreams

nothing is quite the way it seems

but through the brocolli and rolled oats it steams

nutrition of life, vitamins of beans

the footprints of kings

the carriages of queens

roll on by

on this road-way of dreams

nothing at all

is quite like it seems

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The Science of Silence

It’s a Noisy World.

As one ages, one gets grumpier. Ear-plugs become a mandatory accessory. Shopping malls are to be avoided, and quiet walks in the forest become more and more digestible. In the Circus of Humanity, there are few acts that fill the house, that water the heart, that nourish the tender and frail Inner Plant of You.

I watch a coffee-shop client thru the steamy rainy November window. Cigarette smoke issues thoughtfully out of her mouth, between savored gulps of that bitter-sweet Americano. In the background, city buses and cars plough through the watery streets. I remember my years as a smoker, how cigarettes were my meditation, medication, relaxation. The Smoke of the Sacred Breath: what a pleasure to let go to the reassuring promise of nicotine and tar.

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