You bent the golden bow
into an empty circle,
pulled the arrow
of darkness back
to your eye.
Now hold the target
over your own breast
and pierce
the heart of the void.
Your shaft has no quarry.
It flies in all directions at once.
Aim well, warrior,
and bring down the Lord
of blue skies.
Draw your path into a sphere
and become the womb
of your intent, where all
is born without a purpose.
You Are the bow,
taught hollow curve
of possibility.
Rest here, between breaths,
where the victory
is already won
and the arrow releases itself.

Version of a poem in my book, 'The Fire of Darkness'


I let go of blame.
After the roar of being Right
echoed from ruined factories,
from the stairways
of shivering skyscrapers,
frightening the ferns
in their windows,
scaring small furry mammals
back into asphalt crevices,
driving the mushrooms down
into ancient grottoes
between knuckles of ivy root;
after the crack and peel
of my judgment
left the shook planet
even angrier,
I let go of blame.
Gave up accusing
the left or the right,
the Muslim or the Jew,
the housed, the unhoused,
and the Lovers, those
playful ones who ought
to be more furious!
Then I began the work
of weeping,
the work of grief,
encircling the world
in a single tear,
letting it roll ever
so silently down
my cheek.
How it falls
and falls!
How it bedews a violet
in a patch of weeds.
I tell you, this teardrop
will nourish the earth
for a thousand years.

Photo: Aixstock


Flesh a vehicle,

breath a vehicle,

mind a vehicle.

Who is the traveler?

Where is she going?

Departure and arrival

are rehearsals

for some sweet stillness

beyond space.

Where you want to be,

my love, you are.

How could you conceive it

unless you're already there?

The traveler

is the destination.

Discard these wheels,

these wings, this motion

called wanting. 

Now, with nowhere to go,

Whirl your body on one toe.

Dancing wherever you are

is the goal of this journey.

Peace Prayer

Breathing in the darkness of grief; breathing out the light of compassion.

Breathing in, I grieve for our fallen soldiers; breathing out, I remember that the present moment is a well of healing.

Breathing in the cries of village children, terrified and maimed by our soldiers; breathing out flowers on their mothers' graves.

Breathing in the burning greed of the arms merchant, I know that it is my own greed; breathing out forgiveness, I let go of blame.

Breathing in the conflict, until the knot in my chest is loosened; breathing out a sparkling stream from the mountain, domed with a golden cloud.

Breathing in the secret loneliness of the world leader, the fearful insecurity of the military officer; breathing out the clarity and boldness of the peace-maker.

Breathing in, I clutch the stone of fear; breathing out, it pulses with love, it becomes a heart in my palm.

Breathing in the pure light of the sun, I awaken warmth in my belly; breathing out, I know that I am human.

Breathing in the sadness of warriors, I remember that they are my family; breathing out courage, I will fight to protect the innocent, not to avenge them.

Breathing in the night of war, I hug my own darkness; breathing out, I listen, and I know that if one bird sings at dawn, it is proof of God's love.

Breathing in, I welcome this morning as the first day of creation; breathing out, I do not make peace.

I am peace.


A flower does not need to win.
A raindrop never wonders,
"Am I improving?"
Evening breezes have
no destination.
For the moon, growing full
is not progress,
waning is not loss.
Creatures burst into what they are,
sometimes softly,
sometimes with the fury
of a thousand suns.
Those who insist that everyone
is already enlightened
just the way they are
miss the point.
Each particle of earth and star
immaculately vanishes
the instant it appears.
The royal moth
have much time
yet is not in a hurry.
When you are ready
for that kind of peace
all you need to do is
refrain from perfection.

Yet Still


O Lord 
          you are
      my Self,                 
               the Christ.
     introduced me        
          to you.
Thank you.  
     I love you. 
          Forgive me
     for ever believing     
          that we were
               not One.
O Lord,
     we are One
          but not the same,      
               for you are
          more than I,
     as the sea is more
               than a wave,
          honey is more
     that a dust mote
               of pollen,
                    the sun is more
     than a fragile beam
          that pries open
               the morning glory.
 I love 

      my neighbor
                as You,
     O Lord,

           because You
      are myself.
           We are never
                   more than One.
Yet still,         
     we have
          two wings.
               and exaltation. 


Photo from my back yard

Poodle Belly

Learned this lying
on the belly of a big wise
sleepy poodle.
Strip off label armor,
underwear of
ceaseless description.
Get naked no mind,
voluptuous transparency.
Drop “Consciousness,”
“Source,” “Advaita,” “One,”
like pebbles in a well.
Then listen to the Wordless moan
of underground streams.
Be without the jive talking
astrologer guru Marxist feminist
life-coach ascended master
channeler of Pleiadean
7th chakra Hochma ayahuasca
jaguar shaman high priestess bebop.
Information overration.
Truth is not informed
but in formless.
Drown in choppy waters
of Om Tat Sat beneath 
the amniotic word-waves,
man-splaining fem-splaining
X-splaining Trump-splaining
non-dual tantra-splaining
pronoun-splaining twitter talk.
of Basho frog
in slimy microbiome
IS Om.
Love space un-knowing
where “I” dissolve in "Am,"
the bee hum pollen Ameen
gives birth to tears,
laughter springs up slick
and greeny from wonder-loam,
and my old beaten heart
just keeps polishing
diamond silence
with this breath.

Listen to a reading of Poodle Belly HERE.

Wesak (Full Moon of the Buddha)


Don't worry, restless cricket.

Don't worry, dragonfly who can't quite

get still on your sunlit cattail.

Don't worry, implacable circling hawk,

skittish rabbit, obsessed politician.

Nor you, sleepless seed, smoldering

all Winter with desire.

I have surrendered on your behalf.

I have immersed you

in the beauty of this breath.

A bud cannot imagine what a petal is.

The apple was the pain inside a flower.

Neither stamen nor pistil, leaf nor pollen

have any I who says, "I am a rose."

Therefore, enjoy your voice, O you

who have been selved!

Your ego is delightful.

It speaks for those who don’t know how.

Be the song of a wanderer heard in a dream.

Let there be no outrage in the valley

between your thoughts,

only a well of compassion to heal

ten thousand light-years of darkness.

Listen to the stream of nectar

oozing up your root.

Witness the dance of the royally adorned  

scarlet poppy in the meadow of your spine.

Be a troubadour whose lips are parted,

yet whose name is never quite spoken. 

There is an eye beyond night, awareness-sky

unfathomed by mind.

This is seen through That alone.

A time will come when gazing is fire

consuming the seen in the seer,

singeing the most intimate veil

of the gossamer difference 

between inside and out.

When the moon is only the moon,

the cricket delights in rubbing his wings,

and your silence outshines singing.


When the rabbit ascends, surrendered 

to the hawk, the time of the fallen apple, 

sweet juices bubbling in the sun.

Then the worm appears.

All that remains is a hole.

Yet we need holes to fill with music.


Dear friend, in all that vanishes, still,

you can taste the one clear sap.

Call it sorrow. Call it joy.

Listen to this poem here: LINK



Who knows what fills 

a sparrow's heart

just before dawn?

Who knows why a smile alights

on your lips with wings 

of faith and uncertainty?

Who knows why this tear,

condensed from distances

between the nameless stars,

suddenly blurs the green earth

with gratitude?

Don't tell. 

Use music.

Each of us must learn

from the ringing of broken things
in our own chest

that happiness has nothing to do

with being sure.

Feathered air descends to your belly 

from the soft spot on your crown.

Your own exhalation, 

the silent tongue of fire.

No path led you here

to this impermanence of moth

and wild anemone, the mountain

aster and Indian paint bush

seeded by a mighty breeze beside 

the meandering snow-melt stream

to linger but a day.

There is no death in this meadow.

A radiance in your chest contains me.

A radiance in my chest contains you.

A circle with so many centers even

Christ gets dizzy.

His work is bewilderment.

A dance of scarlet poppies

that conquers the mind of

warrior and artist alike

with intrepid softness.

Don’t tell. Use music.

The Lord of the sparrow's breast

is listening. 

When she sings, you must sing too:

"I Love, therefore I Am."

Listen to this poem on SoundCloud HERE.
Photo of Song Sparrow by Loren Chipman.

Save The World

When I feel like saving the world, I mind my own business. Minding my own business saves the world from my judgments and opinions. When I mind my own business, I can teach by example rather than preaching, or shouting.

When I discover my own business, I am whole. I sink into the ancient well of Being. And what pours out is my Gift. This is not my doing, but the well's. And when I spend 100% of my energy radiating that unique Gift to the world, I don't have time for shouting my grievances or complaining about the faults of others.

No one in the universe but you and I has ever had your gift or my gift to share. No one else ever will. You may be a tiny blue forget-me-not in a vacant lot among the ruins, bursting into blossom one brief day. Yet this is your moment. There is no other moment. Who else will share your fragrance, your pollen, your fragile beauty? Is there anything mightier than your gentleness, quietly opening? Hidden in the sacrament of the commonplace, your petals hold the sky.

Photo: Pinterest, by Tholal from flickr


Be the golden light that needs
no wire. Unplug.
Log in to your heart.
The password is this breath.
The server, consciousness.
Intuition is the search engine.
Get linked in
to every apple blossom and star.
The webinar this morning
is a sparrow's song.



“Watch and pray.” ~Mat 26:41

All night long  

while our bodies sleep

you and I are 

one star, a Witness  

watching over them.

Their breath ascends

ever so gently

to touch our light,

then returns,

fragrant with the musk

of compassion.

Diastole of sap

unfurling petals

through a stem.

A fountain of

moonlight descending,

to moisten their bones 

with secret joy.

This is the work
of Turiya,

beyond the dream.

The one who stays

awake, the one
we really are.


Intergalactic pancakes
swirling in the syrup
of dark energy.
Cappuccino Milky Way
frothed on black coffee.
This bistro is empty
on Sunday morning,
my favorite spot
in the cosmos.
No one here on
Sunday morning
but you and I.
Space swept clear,
yet dappled with atoms
of sunbeam.
I gave up concentration
to attain one-pointedness.
I become the dark
and give birth to
original light.
Silence filled with
infinite points of view,
all valid, none
needing to be spoken.
When I gaze at you
over the rim
of my white cup,
100,000 light years
dissolve like
grains of sugar
in perfect joy.