Category Archives: Poetry

The Predictor

On the day of first yellow mango

came the prophet in form of grand smiler

He stood glowing as I lay sleep wandering

He bore gifts of bright abundance

songs of camas and white fawn lily fields

Colours luminescent like rainbows

With a voice like a choir of ethereal children

he weaved my comfort blanket of story

painted walls of wonder unfolding the day

Sky Faces

You can’t depend on their presence

You cannot summon them with command

Sky faces drift on a time outside of time

They carry messages from places of knowing

Just out of grasp

Speaking a language you’ve yet to learn

Obscured from sight by light step dancers

Sky faces are playful tricksters

They swoop in close

Breath sweet spearmint and clover

On silent wings they glide low and high

Leave you wanting

Promising—-

In time, maybe when you’re older

On some still early morning mist rising

As a new sun spreads life to shivered earth

Sky faces will linger, sip of your offering

Whisper words in the language of your heart

A Hand for You

I could have left a note

but it’s windy over there near the bay

You’ll be back before the melting

they remind us every day anyway

I listen to Neve and The Deer Children

sing songs in a language I do not understand

Which path did you choose at the crossroad

I wonder over morning coffee

Where is her other hand you’ll probably ask

when you arrive and find my sign

Why are there no footprints

either coming or going

Navigation

clarity

contemplate your resurrection path

winds are strong today

avert the fragile makers

empty vessels travel weightless

anchors having all rusted away

your hair obscures your view

yet you see what needs be seen

a blurring

a sign

a single thread

soft speaking from the edge of

a craggy cliff

a hem of your old sweatshirt

Presence Past Pulse

Some days I think

I’ve learned

I don’t call it mastery

I don’t call it

Quiet, though

takes effort

Practice perseverance

Resistance restraint

Breathing at precisely the moment

my mouth opens to utter some advice

Coughing works, too

though noiseless is my preferred mode

Hold steady to the Present

I want to say to sorrowful suffering worriers

It’s no platitude

I am a true believer

Ask me

Yet here I am on this rainy Sunday

digging through a box of cassette tapes

Stories without labels

Chapters with broken plot lines

Their players lost or names misremembered

Escaped from out of necessity

Dead

And this one of a whole radio show

I sit cross legged in my present moment

listen close to my heartbeat

deciding how its rhythm jives with evidence

another me existed

in another time with another voice

Crackling through radio waves

telling stories it seems I knew well

A voice of youth and confidence

Reverence for music

I am not yet sure I want to meet her

sip any of that Was medicine

or revisit messages sent through the tunes

she played for ears she imagined might

be listening for choice cuts from the radio

Stalled here in the present past unable to say

either hello old friend or please just go away

A Fair Day

I was tapping out a rhythm with my cutlery and my glass

He was sitting on the shady side of the road

I slipped him into a plot where it seemed he belonged

He sat there looking at three hungry dogs searching

I wondered if he was working up to something good or bad

His boots did not look like they’d been walking in the field

I decided he must be waiting on a woman named Gabrielle

He had the gaze of a patient but expectant man

I craned my neck without revealing my serious curiosity

He took off his hat and with one palm smoothed down his dark hair

I started humming to a tune I was strumming in my head

His fingers started twitching like he might be running out of time

I looked up at the waiter who was looking down at me without a smile

and in that flicker of an instant that cowboy vaporized

I tried to finish the story while my fork turned a tasteless meal

He left me there on that sunlit veranda like it was a fair deal