Ode to a hard boiled egg


Tonight smells like failure
This egg of myself has not
Succeeded in any
Solid way
And still I open myself like
A burnt boiled egg
My shell half peeled away
Soft white flesh
Stained brown with
Neglect I hear the call
Of something better but
All I can see is this mess
In the pan… I turn off
The flame and limp
Back away from the stove
Afraid to admit I’m cracked.

I Give You My Father

For my Dad who turned 89 today
Psalm 92: 14 They shall
bring forth fruit in old age; they shall be fat and flourishing.

The Hollywood lie of that
i’m old and done,debunked today
for sure I am fat and
flourishing, collective thought has

caused so much deterioration
in this world made of energy
two eyes made of light looking at
a road toward death when in the
reality familiar to my innards
siblings are stars singing and
death is another illusion of
a grand accumulation of limited intelligence
twisted by war and killing i’m moving
through to You my Dad alive and well
my gratitude unbounded that he survived
World War II and a big bad wound
they said would make him old
by thirty  how naive our splendid
men of medicine and war so blinded
by the unhealed wounds of killing
i give you my father old and fruitful

Bella Ponderosa

 once i found                             

A Wise Companion

this 40 acres filled with
trees a mini mountain
the price so small i wanted
nothing more than to save
the trees that lived there
sitting alone with them
i heard a Ponderosa
named Bella speak to me
she was the diva
always saying we and pointing
to the One our All speaking to
me in terms of love she carried
god on her breath and came to
me ever after in all the Ponderosas
i stop to hear along my path
giving me wisdom
i hear her wind-whispering
every time i listen

Of Love and Death and Loss

my sweetest friend has lost 3
men like dominoes not caring
they follow each other in quick
succession away from her
first to go a homeless brother who’s
been lost a lifetime this time
lost his hold
though deeply loved
a gay cousin she adores she’s so
surprised he could be gone
an ex who haunts her dreams
for her two children gone to
the finality of death and yet
though she is stung from heart
to head and lungs
i hear you here there is no end
you say you’re
calling out to Lazarus or
rising from the dead yourself
perhaps like Rumi glad to go
or maybe just laughing from
a spot we fail to see you in
our loved ones sewn into
our eternal being blankets
all the while dancing
to the rhythm of another beat.