Long walks on the beach
Are safe If you avoid Vertical sandstone Sandstone is unstable Can fall apart At any time And smother you So much better To walk on it After is has weakened And fallen apart Tread underfoot All the little Broken pieces ‘Til properly in place Never mind The singularity Of intent or will N’er a thought to that All things in its place The surface smooth Flat as glass Flat, perfect glass Waiting to break To explode Revealing the chasm Under self-exiled steps
“Careful when you go in them woods boy.
There’s bears.” “Will they kill me?” “They’ll eat you alive” “Should I run?” “No, that provokes ’em.” “Can they climb trees?” “Yep” “Can I shoot ’em?” “No guns.” “So, why are we doing this?” “It’ll be fun. You’ll see.”
Strength to strength
Mountain crumbles slowly Holding fast Against the torrents Of one-thousand millennium Brother had lost all confidence So many summers ago Splitting off In a rage so violent The chasm too wide to traverse All life rushes headlong Into their abyss Revealing the turbulence Of a long held grudge Chained to the wrist Of its keeper The other hand Clenched too tight With keys of redemption I have no idea where this came from….but I do know that there are some things that will twist my life unless I remove their power and just set them free.
Summer was squarely bumped
Unusual here in the southland She was marked cool and wet And in complete dark, freezing It was a good month With cloud and shadow Displays of light and color
Here in this place of respite
Inspiration moves the hands Daydreams control the mind
A few photos from November’s meditations. Includes a simple dark adagio.
Older than many I am.
So Cal man. When I was ten years old I wrote a poem about a “windy day”. My teacher was impressed. She was so beautiful. So I wrote an entire book of poems. Mostly about rain and butterflies and such. We never did marry. Thought about that today. It’s raining outside. And California kids celebrate. We walk right into it and just get wet. Thirty-something’s make snarky remarks When the old man steps into the falling clouds. Does he have no reasoning? Pretty good chance I don’t. Care much about reason. When a bit of wet. Can make me ten again. ’67 was a pretty good year