~The poet uses the butterfly net of language to catch fleeting images in mid-flight~

Sunday, April 24, 2011


Woe to the abandoned child!
Pity the one left untouched,
Uncared for.
Injustice befell you,
And your eyes have been averted.
You stare outwardly
Into the desolate wastes
Of a parched
And desert-like world.
What do you know
Of that place called Oasis?

Yet you have always stood
In an artesian pool
Where waters well up
From a deep and mysterious source.
Here you have stood,
Surrounded by a delicate border
Of leaf and moss
With high, overarching palms
Bending against the hot sun
To make a canopy
For your head.
But you have not felt
The shade of this sanctuary
Nor the soothing
Of the mud
That has caressed your feet.

Again, distracted
Your eyes reach out
To find engagement
In a dry and disconsolate world.
Living in the dunes
It is incapable of nurturing
Your deepest requirements.
Hot, shimmering mirages
From the outer world
Have caught you in a spell.
You have dropped your drinking cup
At the edge
Of your inner wellspring.

Is it courageous
That you suffer thirst?
Or must someone else
Deliver a full cup
Before you may drink?
And when another does
Bring you beverage,
Why does it not
Quench your thirst?
And instead
Cause you frustration
And sorrow?
Must you also suffer
The exile of your
Mother And Father,
Who march in an unbroken lineage
That stretches across
A withered landscape
Of guilt,
And unfulfilled dreams?

You need not be chained
To this legacy.
Take a deep breath,
And remember.
To where you have always stood.
And move your toes
In the same mud
That sprouts the lotus.
Notice the pollywogs
That dart between your legs.
Listen to the frog’s
Ancient murmur
Calling you home.
Gather and eat
The ripe dates
That surround you
And bring sweetness
To your life.
Grasp and plunge
The cup of inquiry
Into the cool waters
Of your own presence.
Lift the cup to your parched lips
And take a drink.
As you gaze into the shimmering eyes
Of your own reflection,
Find the courage to dive deep
Into the wellspring of the Love
That never abandoned you.

Monday, April 18, 2011

Let Go

There… On the moss covered,
Vertical face of a giant rock,
Seeping waters emerge
From a secret spring.
Shunted through a maze
Of tendrils and stems,
The water gathers
At the moss’s lacy ends
In quivering droplets.
As if pausing to gain strength
For a long journey,
They swell and become engorged,
Perfect spheres.
In their fullness
They gather the morning light
And sparkle like liquid diamonds.
Unable to bear the weight any longer,
They let go and fall
Into an unknown pool
That awaits them below.
The sounds of these pattering rhythms
Soothe my soul.

And then a revelation,
Am I not also
Just a drip on the face of existence?

Monday, April 11, 2011

On the Edge

Like sand on the beach,
I await the tidal flow of your love.
Still, prone, stretched,
In the wind and sun,
I am quiet, pensive, and yet available.
I know that soon your frothy coldness
Will wash over me again,
To inundate me,
To suck at me,
To bubble and gurgle around me.
In your ebb and flow
My grains collide and separate.
Only the sandpipers will witness this.
But they will be too busy,
Probing my fringes for dinner,
To notice our passion.
I love the way
Your waves smash me,
And rearrange me,
And clean me,
And throw interesting treasures
Of wood, shell, and feather
Upon my nakedness
This is the jewelry
With which you have adorned me
For countless aeons.
Twice a day since always,
We have met like this
And never have our meetings
Been repetitious.
Lovers must walk this place,
And so too, philosophers, poets
And people with wounds.
Children, surfers, and dog lovers
Walk and run here, too,
All of them,
Healed in one way or another
In our meeting,
Our passion,
Our freshness.

Tuesday, April 5, 2011


When the great spider goddess, Spifica,
Leaps from the center of her web
And grabs the next victim,
Her nimble and dexterous feet
Tumble and roll the body,
As sharp, precise stabs,
From hidden fangs,
Deliver the stupefying potion
That lowers all vital signs
To a point of unconsciousness
Just above death.
Spinnerets at the abdomen
Spray out sticky, white strands
That are gathered by knowing feet
And a white shawl is woven
Around the pale body,
While it is spun on its axis.

The encased form is deposited
Like a full bottle of wine
Somewhere on Spifica’s web,
Where it will hang, waiting,
Waiting for the day that hunger
And the sucking reflex
Will kick in
And cause Her, again, to return
And reclaim Her prize,
Draining the bottle, just a little,
Savoring the fruity, mellowed tannins
Of ‘Life-Force’
With hints of black cherry and chocolate
And a ‘finish’ that leaves the palate
Engaged, if unrequited.
The bottle, a little less full,
Is hung again on the rack of the web,
Its succulence still protected
By the husk of paralysis.
The juice will be undisturbed now,
Given time to age.
More ‘bottles’ join it,
While She goes on ‘collecting’, tasting,
And discarding the empties,
Some of them hanging on filaments,
Hollow corpses spinning
On the breeze like pinwheels.

A young boy approaches the web
With curiosity and a stick in his hand.
With a whirl of the stick,
Like a magician casting a spell,
The web is destroyed
And Spifica is sent flying.
In the shambles,
The boy, innocently inquisitive,
Discovers the silk shrouded capsules
And begins to pull them out
Of their fallen matrix.
He stacks them neatly
In a row on the ground.
Gently, one by one, he opens them
As if they were presents
From under a Christmas tree.
A bee……a moth…… a cicada…… a butterfly……
Respectfully, he lays them down
On a piece of bark in the sun
And then he leaves…

Warmed by the noonday sun,
Life awakens with sleepy eyes
And is carried aloft on wings
That unfold from a dream.