Promise of Winter

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Late Bloomer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Precocious Maple

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Autumn's Golden Grace













No Victims

I figured out

Why

Dungeon dark exists in spite of lighted sky.

It goes like this:

One makes the other,

Like kinship, like child with mother.

 

The soul sees not with eyes of fear

So all experience serves.

All experience serves.

There are no victims here.

 

 

Silver and Gold

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Luxury of Time

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Caught

Soft sighing soughs

Of pine boughs

In south wind shifting first

Through aspens’ wet-foot thirst

Then breathing gusty voice on to them,

Those frothy moss-green fronds twelve feet long and

Eighty high in dove grey sky.

 

I walk the road below and remember,

Thoreau wrote, “Time is but the stream

I go a-fishing in.”

 

I just caught something. Netted it. Brought it in.

 

This is Where I Live

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

 

Troll Stroll

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



Today

There are circles

Indwelling, inclusive, allowing

 

So behold all the blessings

 

As you move past believing, below the mind’s knowings

 

Breathing in

 

The now

 

 

Now silent,

 

Now moving,

 

Now island,

Now plain,

Stretching out in all stretchings

As love’s presents rain.

 

Looking westward, yes, listening

With heart’s beat for company

 

Know your own truth song again and again

 

 

Forest's Edge

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



 

Autumn Still Life

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 



To The Finish Line

Frozen tree lacings

Facing north, aching finger tips,

Cold lips, forehead, thighs

Frozen ground, around the pond, still limpid, liquid, light-filled

Flight of crow and call recall…

This is all an illusion.

 

This is all an illusion.

I can stumble, yearn, relearn the feelings

Each time

Of come and go,

Of resistance and flow,

Of clouded meaning, meandering down hill black water’s draw

I can fall in love over and over again.

This is all an illusion.

 

This is all an illusion.

I can writhe in belly pain, exult in petty gain,

Free myself over and over in the season’s waning

Light. Is there another word for flight?

We made it so hard, so freakin’, flippin’ hard,

We made it so real that to us it would feel like there was nowhere else

But here.

This is all an illusion.

 

This is all an illusion.

But what we are when we are here, this is real.

What we are when we feel, this is real.

What we are here in all that we feel is real.

And the whole point of the game, the whole vast wheeling of stars and Mars and Christians and Czars,

Is to have it be so hard that we can’t get out. We can’t.

And then we do.

(like Samuel Beckett’s immortal, “I cannot go on. I’ll go on.”)

I fall in love with this kind of courage because it is what this game is all about.

I fall in love with the game and with every single player of the game and with the game’s design and designers; that’s you and me, bro’.

I fall in love with every nuance and with the grand over-arching theme.

And this is all an illusion.

 

This is all an illusion.

You and I both know that humanity loves an underdog and humanity loves the cliff-hanger story,

The sudden breakthrough at the end,

The - this is so screwed up that we can’t possibly make it - scenario that

Becomes an all-triumphant finish line.

We love this, and we know

Somehow, even as we are embedded in the game, that

This is ultimately our story, our breakthrough, our

Finish line.

 

(I wrote this poem after watching Story Water's video 'Game Theory' at www.limitlessness.com)