How To Book

Here is how i
get it right
i devise a plan
then go to sleep
next morning awake
at five i begin the
revision that has
come to me in
a dream life
flowing from the
deep listening
of quiet and rest.

Just Wondering

i do not curse the world too often
striving to really see it, not the sodden
pictures brought to us by bought and sold
media delivering what they think we want to buy
but from somewhere beyond eyesight, suddenly
the boardwalk i have walked for a year almost daily
praying for sight to see the light of each one i pass especially
the lost vets, the homeless helpless souls who frequent the benches
but lately the place is clear almost clean and i wonder how that happened.

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Poetry Retreat

i’m with the sista’s
almond butter on my
tongue like glue for
the broken places
crunch of celery to
tear up the small angry
spots, take me to creation
a wild stallion ride of words
coats our bodies soothed by
the natural hot fire water springs
of Joyful Journey, at the base of
the Sangre de Cristo mountains blood
of what saves us, pouring forth from
the center of Gaia, I take deep breaths
here like dragging on a cigarette without
the cancer, clear stars almost touchable
from the the round Yurt where we sleep
when i emerge to pee, the sound of God breaks over me
moonbeams have saturated the empty
landscape and I am alone cocooned but
awake and in love with this Universe.

Another Morning Beach Walk Story

Early morning tourist
Season San Diego I
Sneak out carrying my
Backpack
Park in the dirty part
Of Pacific Beach that
Wakes up every morning
In summer reeking of beer
I am alert listening deeply

A new homeless woman
Sits on the cement spreading
Out all her treasure, her breasts
Splayed like a part of her midriff
Her graying hair tied in a knot
On top of her head like Pebbles in
The Flintstones, only more crazy

I walk among the growing crowds
Heading toward a part of the beach
I seldom walk anymore observing
On my way back, I pass
A young and innocent looking black kid
He looks very worried for a tourist
Next a little ways back, a large white guy, short hair
Ball cap a little askew but kind of military but not
He is alone and talking maybe into a phone
And then I see he has none
Something comes alert in me and I see
He is stalking the black kid and is the right age to be
A vet from one of our recent crazy making wars.
I listen to the love and truth written inside me
And turn and follow them. I pray as a way of seeing
I see the big white guy, divine in his being
the young scared kid, God’s own look-a-like
I follow calling down the pervasive lie
So often believed so void of Truth, that one of us is
Wrong is not One. I look away to the water for a second
When I turn back, my white guy is walking up a side street.
I panic because I don’t see the black kid. I search and hasten
My steps so I can follow and then I see him, taking off his shoes
Sitting on the wall surrounded by people and the
Guy following him has turned at that very point and gone away.
I am smiling now, aware of the power built into each of us to become who we really are.

To Pay the Price or Not, That Is the Question

On contemplating the Middle East and War

Morals are often mores
We build walls of supposedly sacred sanctions
Around our cultural prejudices

Sides are taken because thoughts
Encased in ancient feuds refuse the light
Of enlightenment and carry heavily armored
Tanks that fire guns and cannot see out beyond
A small periscope whose lenses are covered with
The filth of fear. I pray to be released from mine
To fall down before the sweet freedom of love and truth
To pull my zipper down even if it means my pants will fall
And everyone sees my nakedness, a very small price to pay for peace.

END IT NOW!

I’m sick to death of playing
Poetry and memoir while
Children of the world are
Killed and wounded and raped

I’m sick to death of taking sides
In war there are no good sides only
Satanic interests and feeble minds
Oh Israel, Hamas and America your
Sides are aching, the children at
Your doors inside your hospitals
Killed by our weapons of mass
Destruction produced daily
In our factories they sit as demons
In our arsenals prepared to kill
We export them to fill our filthy
Coffers making coffins for our children
It’s time to cry our tears, United Nations
Of this Earth we are One People One species
Our children bleed and run together… end