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.
Lost Colors, Dying Leaves
The 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
afternoon sun
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.
The White Dove
The White Dove
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,
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
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 !
I actually wrote this as a song, but it does nicely as a simple poem also.
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
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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