The Path of No Path

10 Years on,...

2011-09-11T04:38:00.000-07:00

This first poem is from my vision, and the one after it is from my emotions and feelings from the next few days. This was for me, as it was for so many a very intense week in my life. May my experience bring you peace, insight, and love.

I love you all,

Poems follow

======

William, it's time to Wake Up

William, they call my name

Arriving one by one the beautiful

Sound of tinkling bells fills my room

An exquisite delicate ringing

That only Angels make

It is the Ninth month, the eleventh morning

Nine – One – One, Wake up! Wake up!

Each with a bell speaking as one

Uncountable hundreds or more

A symphony of Divine Gentleness

My heart pounds, searing burning pain

Rips through my chest as a 10,000-megawatt

Lightening bolt of fear brings grim images

Gasping, no air reaches my lungs as death

Revisits those who would deliver death

Over, and over, and over again

An appetite unquenchable

Senseless Meaningless Horrific

Go ahead, kill me!

I’ll kill you right back!

The glorious bells return

Softly, tenderly I am brought back

Blue green bright numbers on the bedside

Clock; 11 minutes after 6 am

3000 miles away it is 9:11 am

Nine – One – One; Nine – One – One

William! Wake up! Wake up!

Hundreds of Angels newly made bring Divine

Wisdom from the path they walked this day

Remember us by learning the lesson we bring

It is time to put away childish things

The time for killing is over

Let go of hate and fear

Love calls you through an open door

At 12 minutes after 9 today’s lesson begins

Poem 2

======

Where the Love Light Shines & the Freedom Bell Rings

Early morning misty memory

How small I felt standing before your

Beauty and greatness in awe I trembled

The immense power of your embrace

Wrapped and caressed by the loving folds of

Your swift and passionate ever-beating heart

Holding my hand we walked together

Each step my amazement grew like so many

Who lovingly call you simply, The City

The images now fresh and sharp as though

Freshly developed on the silver white paper

Of the wonderful photographs you gave me

Uncontrolled weeping takes me by surprise

In a flash it is gone only to return moments later

Hours pass as my soul pours itself out in

Response to the horror of last Tuesday’s madness

Gut wrenched soul, quenched by tears, God! Let the healing begin

Unable to stand in a heap I fall to my knees

Shaking and sobbing I wail and gasp for air

Finally I am released, standing, no, leaning on

Something eyes swelled shut I find myself

In the kitchen; raisins, flakes, milk, bowl and spoon

From an unknown deeper wellspring I am overcome

Tears and cereal mix, my chest heaves as I leave for work

Could it be the words, “Please enjoy your stay”

When your passport was stamped that so angers

You as your drive past the shopping mall?

Maybe it was the joyful noise of innocent children

As they played in the park at the end of

Your street that has filled you with such rage?

No! The darkness you carry came with you

Your well-learned lessons of hatred and murder

Silently covered by your smile as you ask when

There will be more of the Granny Smith apples on sale

In this land of plenty where all are welcomed as family

Your teacher’s words ring in your head “Kill these godless dogs”

Brother, your teacher has deceived you

Blinded and filled with hatred his darkness prevents

You from seeing the glorious light surrounding you

This seething torrent of rage you have been fed

Now burning hot in your breast driving you towards

This bitter path that ends in your own violent destruction

Your master is safe, hearing of your loss he does not weep

Waiting and watching for the river of innocent blood

Hoping to open the floodgates of fear; his disappointment grows

Overlooking your anger and hatred on the wings of

Precious Angels you are carried into the next world

Perhaps, now you will appreciate the gifts you have taken

Hiding behind robes given by false clerics

Deceiver of my brothers and sisters

The Great Light reveals the lies you teach

Like some long frozen prehistoric fossil

Freshly raised from the sub-Antarctic darkness

Your hatred and violence has no place in our world

Like the fool who argues with himself your own madness

Daily recreates for you a nonexistent enemy

Crazed by hatred, rage has murdered your own family

Your own hand exposes your dark purpose

You sell the persona of the lion of the desert, but

The light of truth reveals, the common sewer rat

How frustrated you must now be

In your fantasy you believed by your fear

Freedom could be brought to its knees

Behold! There in the harbor a light brightly burns

Steadfast and powerful she stands

The light of love raised high, liberty has not fallen!

Tears of pride flow in her eyes as she watches

The Bravest, the Finest, the Strongest and the Work-a-day

Every day heroes pressed hard again into service

Risking their own lives to ensure the safety of others

In beauty, the students of compassion and love display their mastery

These the grandchildren of the once huddled masses

Just a moment ago I saw two holding hands

Brother and sister, tall and bright shining twins

In the blink of an eye they have disappeared

Shattering the heavens a great bell has been rung

God has reached out her hand, the very ground

Heaves and shakes as if giving birth

What is this? Growing slowly at first bit by bit

A mountain now reaches to the sky

In memory of those two beautiful twins

Wait! Look at what the light has revealed

Bright shining gems each one brilliant and special the

Unseen wellspring of heavens’ most precious treasure

For over two centuries the Master Smithy

Pumps the great bellows that drives

An eternal fire of blazing white-hot love

Rarely seen until This Smithy came to town

In his hand is held a precious many-colored alloy

Glowing brightly while a Mighty Hammer

Repeatedly pounds and forges it into a shape

Made for a purpose only His keen eyes can see

Each generation is pounded anew in a searing white hot

Moment of truth that hammer forges the generations together

Those who choose to test the metal of His Forge have invited

The freedom bell to ring, oh what a lovely sound it is!

Upstream

2011-07-02T20:21:00.000-07:00

Fearless butterfly
Gentleness consumes dragon
Salmon swims upstream

Dab in the Middle

2011-05-16T00:37:00.000-07:00

Dab in the Middle

Not a clue, I do not know.

Do I pen a letter

to Miss Manners, or

inquire of dear Aunt Flow?

With which spoon do I eat sorbet.

and why is that of great import?

From outside in I pick my fork.

So many rules I must obey.

One state, two state, red state, blue state

one vote, two vote, red vote, blue vote

Demo girls and Repo boys, why does

their nonsense rule our fate.

Knowing what’s right and proper

get’s harder every day.

The microwave just beeped,

as the newsman tell’s a whopper.

My neighbor pilots a Prius,

my cousin’s in her Hummer and

a bicycle is just peachy for me. From

big oil, please just someone free us?

I don’t mean to create a flap,

but speak my mind I will.

But the hour is so very late. Time for

this curmudgeon's cookie, milk and nap.

Greed Kills

2011-05-14T22:57:00.000-07:00

(greed kills)

When Reagan decided to feed

the poor, what he meant was,

let’s feed the poor to the rich.

(greed kills)

His Piss-on-the-Poor theory,

otherwise known as Tinkle-Down

economics,

is just a fancy name for greed.

(greed kills)

When those who have way

to much, cry out

keening, wailing, desperate

for more; people

die.

(greed kills)

Poetry practice

2011-04-16T14:26:00.000-07:00

Still mind helps us to discover ourselves
        What if we find only beauty inside?

Allowing compassion to lead the way
        Yields answers to questions not thought of yet

Tossing a stone into the deep blue lake
        Radical notions with each breath we take

Change does not approach, nor does it vanish
        In this moment, with each breath, I am change

More Iambic practice

2011-04-16T09:01:00.000-07:00

Hiding the beauty, hatred divides us
        Creating beauty, leads us out of fear

To be gentle is to be powerful
        Aggression is not the pathway to peace

They tell us the dogs of war must be fed
        This breed and their masters feed on our fear

Morning thoughts

2011-04-16T08:37:00.000-07:00

We have chosen that hatred is okay,
because we are not happy with ourselves

Freedom

2011-03-15T11:21:00.001-07:00

William York

Letters From the Earth

Final Essay: Freedom

15 MArch, 2011

A Walk Between Worlds

A great blue heron stands silently near the edge of a small lake. Partially concealed by a stand of pampas grass, she waits. It is not quite dawn, and the forest makes no sound. The sounds of last nights crickets and frogs have disappeared into the mist that hugs the shore of the lake. Gone too, is the screeching of owls, the night hunters, who glide silently overhead, patiently searching for that one mouse or vole that has been unwary, and is caught off guard.

Throughout the forest there is tension. Tension that comes from the coming change. Everything feels it. The time of the great sleep, the period profound and restorative rest, that great slumber called Winter, is nearly at an end. The silence, the crisp cold, the small patches of remaining snow, are but delicate appetizers, to the prelude, of the bountiful menu that is Spring. Change is indeed coming.

It is nearly the full moon. The early morning sky is changing from the void of near blackness, to a full and earthy blue. The stars are clearly visible in both the heavens and the lake. Draco, Betelgeuse, and Cassiopeia’s Chair hold their familiar places, in the pantheon of celestial friends. To the east, the mountains are turning to shades of purple and blue. Above, the faintest hint of baby blue sky, conceals the first of the Sun’s intensity. The whole valley is holding its breath, waiting. Waiting for something.

Ian feels it too. He is awake. His large, friendly blue eyes still closed, but it is there. An inner gnawing. Something, he is not sure what, is amiss. Lying in his bed of fresh clover, insulated from the cold by several handwoven wool blankets carefully layered between animal skins of bear, wolf and hart. He takes a long, slow, silent deep breath. And then another, and another. For several minutes he continues his breathing, allowing his mind and heart to awaken to this fresh new day. Despite his intuition telling him that there may be some kind of mischief afoot, he remains calm and open, to the many possibilities that today present.

Opening his eyes for the first time he sees the great blue heron. While most would see just a majestic bird with powerful wings, Ian sees more. The heron is a messenger. Bringing him a message of patience. Ian is being asked to prepare for an arduous inner journey to the underworld and perhaps, beyond. Suddenly, the heron takes flight. Its massive wings pound hard against the cold morning air. On each downstroke the morning mist is scattered and the sound of her wingbeats echo across the lake, stirring the forest into wakefulness.

Sitting up, Ian carefully rolls up his bedding and ties it with a long knotted cord. Standing up, he walks a few steps to the western edge of the lake. To the north is the river that follows a twisted path for many miles until it reaches the sea. To the south west the river descends. Gently at first, but soon becomes a series of small waterfalls, as it cuts it way through rock and glacier on its journey to the valley floor. Turning south, Ian walks quietly. His boots of fur and hart skin make almost no noise, even as Ian picks up his pace to a brisk walk. “Excellent morning for a hike,” Ian mutters to himself.

Ian is a tall man, in his mid-thirties. His copper-colored, shoulder length hair is braided, and interwoven with beads and feathers. He wears a simple brown cotton tunic, and a forest green kilt, worn in the traditional, over-the-shoulder style. Held in place with a simple broach, made from the hip bone of the same bear that his cloak is made from. A woven belt on his waist holds four items. A dagger for defense, a medium sized pouch containing a dozen or so different herbs, a crescent shaped copper knife with a bone handle, and finally a medium sized gourd, holding water. Across his back is his bed roll, a quiver of gray goose fletched arrows and a sturdy bow, made of oak and strung with sinew. Ian continues his journey down the trail from the high mountain lake.

Walking in near silence, he continues at a forthright pace. More messengers come to him. Blackbird, or in the old tongue, Druid-Dhubh, reminds him to heed his inner call, and seek the gateway to the other realms. A wild boar races quickly across his path, and Ian is reminded of his leadership, to remain focused and directed in his quest, but most all, this day, he must inherit the warrior spirit of his ancestors. A trio of bumble bees lead Ian further down the trail. They speak to him of community, and the importance of celebrating each day. Slowly, during his hike the entire forest speaks to Ian and it is revealed to him what he must do.

Nearing a thicket of blackberries Ian sits down. It is mid afternoon and he has been walking for many hours. Taking this opportunity to rest, to eat and to refill his gourd with water at the river, that is never more than a few feet from the trail, Ian ponders the rest of his journey. It will be nightfall by the time he reaches the last of the waterfalls. Refreshed, the berries and water clearing the cobwebs from his head, Ian continues his journey. He walks for many hours, lost in his thoughts and munching on the remaining blackberries, and the few hazelnuts from the pouch on his waist.

As the sun sets across the western valley, the forest trail grows dark. Shadows lengthen. Trees, not yet blessed with Spring’s burst of green, transform into withered skeleton bones, giving this normally bright forest a frightening and foreboding look. It will be several hours before the full moon will light the final steps on his path. It matters not. Ian is a man of the forest. He knows this trail by feel, by smell and by sound. Winding his way down the trail, Ian begins to tire. The long days hike, the continued downward slope is making his knees wobbly, and his feet become more and more unsure of themselves. Ian lumbers onward as the trail begins to widen and flatten. Nearly exhausted, he reaches the edge of a clearing and through the darkness he sees the faint flicker of firelight. Leaning against the coarse bark of a birch tree, Ian catches his breath, refreshes himself with the last of his water and then encouraged by the fire, he presses on.

The simple fire stands at the center of a grove of hazel trees, and is being tended by two of Ian’s oldest friends. Saleem, is tall, with broad shoulders, and his sister, Eileen, is also quite tall. They both smile and laugh a bit as they greet Ian, who is breathing hard, covered in sweat, but is nonetheless capable of letting out a resounding “Hoy Hoots” at the sight of his friends. Eileen, hugging Ian’s neck, “wasn’t sure you’d make it,” as she tugs at his beard and kisses his cheeks. Saleem is equally excited to see him, “everything has been prepared,” and Saleem hands Ian his robe. Taking the robe Ian takes a short walk to the bank of the river, removes all his other clothing and dives in. The water bites at his skin. Fresh with melted snow, Ian wonders how this could be the same river, that so warmly greeted him barely some six months ago. Saleem holds the dark blue robe for his friend as he shivers and shakes off both water and the cold. Ian and Saleem rejoin Eileen around the fire. Ian hands Eileen the herbs he gathered the night before, and she in turn rubs them between her hands and drops them into the pot of boiling water, that is sitting in the center of the fire. Ian then hands an odd looking fungus to Saleem, who smiles, and quickly sets about preparing the fungus and the rest of the ingredients for their simple meal. Saleem is Eileen’s younger brother, and he wears a plain purple robe that has been dyed with blackberries. Both Eileen and Ian wear robes of carefully woven linen, that have been repeatedly dyed in woad. Each of their robes are decorated with simple yet fine silver thread in keeping with their status as co-leaders of their clan. Saleem announces that he is ready, and that he will now light the fire in the cave behind them. While Saleem makes the cave ready for them, Eileen and Ian gather up the herbal tea she has made and the root vegetables and fungus that Saleem has prepared.

It is not a large cave, but it is well hidden from the outside. No flames or drumming sounds will be heard outside of it. The walls are brightly painted with pictograms, of hunting, dancing and the many vision quests of their ancestors. The three sit around the small fire Saleem has built, as Eileen pours the tea into a large treenware mug. Ian places the bowl of food between himself and Eileen. She lifts the mug as Saleem begins to pound out an ancient clan rhythm on his large round drum. Eileen looks intensely at Ian, drinking the tea,” May violence fade from our memories,” as Ian takes the mug from her. Ian holds the mug high over his head and stares quietly at the fire and his powerful voice fills the cave, “May there be peace.” Ian fishes the tea and places the mug into the fire. The mug is quickly engulfed in flames of green and red, and soon blends into main portion of the fire. Picking up several pieces of root vegetable and fungus, Eileen and Ian quickly chew and swallow them. “May abundance flourish and spread, may hunger and want become distant memories.” Repeating these words of those who have come before them, and remembering the many times they themselves, since they early youth, have repeated these same words, Eileen and Ian allow the moment to consume them as they stare into the fire. Saleem’s drumming intensifies, becoming both louder and faster. Then with out a word he stops. “It is time.”

Ian and Eileen lie down on the prepared animal skins, with the tops of their heads just touching one another. Saleem gently blends their hair with feathers, fresh herbs and scented oil, in a loose but intricate braid. Eileen and Ian are about to travel, travel between the worlds. The touching of heads and the ceremonial braid ensure that this gifted couple, having spent many lifetimes in each others company will travel together on this night of the full moon. No one but Ian and Eileen knows where they go. Saleem will watch over their bodies, and tend the fire during the trance that will soon overtake his older sister, and best friend.

Ian and Eileen are two of many that since birth have the gift of traveling between worlds. Unlike the many, they have not forgotten their connection to the land, to the ancestors and they vital role they play in continuing the traditions of their clan. This allows them to keep the precious gift of sight, of vision, and the ability to walk between the worlds. Around their necks they each hold two halves of a simple gray stone. As they lightly rub the stones, Ian and Eileen begin to drift, dream, and as their breathing slows, they enter a peaceful trance-like sleep. This is what they do at every full moon. They travel from one world to the next. With them they take the lessons and wisdom they have learned, share it with the world on the other side, and in return they bring wisdom back with them. Together, Ian and Eileen continue an unbroken tradition that spans a thousand generations, perhaps more.

It is raining and Ian’s hair is matted and wet. To look at him, one would see no separation between his long gray hair and his even longer gray beard. Both have become hopelessly knotted and tangled during the night. He is cold. Ian is awakened by the moaning wail, that erupts from the horn of a great blue Honda. He reaches next to him, as always Eileen is there. She touches his cheek and they sit up, and huddle close underneath their 21^st century animal hides. Bear, wolf and Hart skins replaced now with skins of Maytag, Frigidaire and Panasonic. Ian offers Eileen an orange that he has pulled from the pocket of his tattered gray trench coat. Taking the orange, Eileen leans her had on Ian’s shoulder, “may there always be enough,” as Ian connects the two halves of stone around their necks. Together they form a spiral, and the Gaelic word for peace. Next to them is a shopping cart. It is filled with everything Eileen and Ian own in this world. On the side is the symbol for the Tao, Yin and Yang. The Way. Beneath the symbol reads, “Safeway.” When the rain stops, this happy couple, nearly in their seventies, will walk the streets and share the wisdom they have brought with them.

Who decides where our freedom lives? Is it dependent on our ability to wield the power that our relative status in this world allows us? Or are we capable of more depth, more compassion and fully capable of being in control of our own creative expression in this world? Where do our dreams begin and end, and what makes us so sure that we are right about the answer? Perhaps this is it. That great and ancient Koan, known as freedom.

Wind in the trees

2011-02-12T21:36:00.001-08:00

Time to sit. Out the window Portland grows from partly sunny to mostly cloudy. Music that I like, but don't recognize plays through the coffee house speakers. Surrounded by other writers. Life is good. The hot chocolate, however, is a bit weak.

Pine trees are pushed sideways and the flag pole quivers and bounces back and forth. The sky is shifting to ever darker shades of gray. Today's sunny morning has turned into a more cold gray afternoon.

Two women drink their coffee from large brown French-style cups that rattle nervously in their saucers, as the last few days events, and gossip are bantered about. The women are friends, but they sit far apart. Even a friendly touch between the two seems unpracticed and awkward. Animated and smiling, rich with gestures, she regales her friend; who looks downwards and scratches her head nervously. An odd conversational style, have these two. One leans in, to make point and the other leans away. Can a conversation be animated, yet stilted. Heads tilted aggressively backward, backs arched they take big slugs of their coffee.

The door, opened unskillfully as the wind and three men sweep into the coffee shop. The boyfriends arrive. Noisily. Newspapers flutter and crackle in the hasty process of stuffing them under-arm to accommodate hugs and air kisses.The quiet conversation of two, becomes a loud, brutish, stumbling, five-way group discussion. The two women, now with nervous girlish smiles are quiet. The men dominate the conversation. Having stolen the quiet from the rest of us, the newcomers are reluctantly pushed to the counter and finally order something. The silence, temporarily restored, during the reading of the handwritten chalkboard menu. Blocking my view, the two quiet, now five loud sit down. The women go back to their conversation. The men pull out their smart phones and gadgets. The brown double wide door is flung open again, and the five abruptly leave. Outside they are joined by two more friends and a large, fluffy brown dog. Drinking coffee, with wind disoriented hair, the seven-and-a-dog disappear up the street.

Collateral damage in the wake of a landslide

2011-02-11T20:54:00.000-08:00

Collateral damage in the wake
of a landslide

Back wheels stick,
bind,
while
front wheels
stutter & twitch.

Gnarled, arthritic hands
tell a story punctuated by
cracked nails and
fresh bruises;
she
pushes her world
in her own
Safeway.

Sweat from her matted hair
slices its way
down coarse & painful
wrinkles.

On my mega yacht,
sipping the perfect Martini,
stirred, never shaken.

Bright sunlight refracts
a single drop of water,
slowly repelling down the
crystal stem.

Trickle down

Reaganomics

Last Summer

2011-01-27T18:50:00.000-08:00

Last Summer

Sitting together

on the banks of the Truckee

My best friend Shelly,

ageless wisdom beaming

from her fifteen year-old eyes,

“You really can, you know,

tell by the sound of it,

that is,

whether a stream is

happy or sad.”

Sitting in silence together,

on that warm summer day,

waiting,

watching

the sunset

over Donner Lake.

Thirty-seven years ago.

Shelly’s words, spoken in one of those timeless, powerfully subtle, almost deniably so, life altering moments, awakened me. I answered the ringing phone, and listened. A compelling conversation between me and the natural world. The writer, photographer; as witness, was born that day.

The deeper the passion

the more resounding the

crack

when hidden chasms

finally open.

That ominous,

hideous, marvelous rumbling crescendo

as the high mountain dam

bursts.

Words and ideas

as free as the once trapped waters,

gushing, swirling,

violently crash onto the paper.

Our parents, district attorney, stockbroker, gynecologist, aerospace engineer(s), geologist, veterinarian and corporate executives all generously shared their frugality with us. Weekends hiking in the Sierras, fueled our dreams. While aluminum cans and old newspapers got recycled into precious gold. We funded our own adventures.

High

Above the tree line

Raw stone, earth, rock and pebble

reclaims its dominion over

green, sprouting and living things

yearning to send their roots

deep.

Darkness

Contrasting tones of

earth and sky

separateness now

illusion.

In the thin air, giddy at reaching our base camp, we imagine ourselves as Queens and Kings of the hill. Delirious in our belief that we have conquered the high ground, we dance at our own, fleeting coronation. The mountain knows better. It laughs at us. Mere court jesters, pitching our tents, in the blackness. Stars smile at our naiveté, before the moon-rise.

Huddled tightly around three white gas stoves. Their deafening static-like hiss, serve us one final time, by intensifying the quiet, that folded in around us, once the stoves were finally silent. It seemed like hours passed before anyone spoke. For nine summers, and nearly every weekend in between, my friends and I hiked the Sierras, the Grand Tetons, and the Rocky Mountains. In both summer and winter months, canoed and rafted the American, Truckee and Snake rivers. When not planning or preparing for our next adventure, we rode our bicycles, like mad fiends, everywhere. Here at some 8000 feet, above the tree line, at the base of Mt. Victoria, we had reached the beginning of the end.

North of the Wikwaxys

East of Yoho

a dozen old friends

dream our last

summit together.

Tomorrow

4000 foot vertical climb

Baseball sized shale,

soccer balls of granite

in a deep salad bowl gorge

of loose gravel.

Laughing, holding hands and running down that last mile

passing Cedar and Hemlock. Hundreds of startled elk,

bolt away from us.

Wild, rapturous

beginning.

You Know Me, Right?

2011-01-25T19:24:00.001-08:00

You Know Me, Right?

Two pithy statements come to mind at this point in time. The first one goes something like this “if you’re not outraged, you’re not paying attention,” and the second, “if you didn’t learn anything today, you’re not paying attention.” So in my head, when these two modern-day Koans mash together, I am left with the result that says, “if I’m paying attention, and I am, I have learned something, and what I learned is that I’m outraged about a great many things.” Looking under the surface a little more deeply, at the subtext of my life and my own inner world, I find I am less than satisfied. My ideals haunt me. Listening to the news broadcasts, and talking with my friends, some of whom I’ve known for the better part of several decades, and I can’t help but think that those of us who helped create and participate in that original Earth Day celebration, and other important milestones of my generation, have missed the mark. The powerful idealism that shaped my generation, has been lost over the years and I regret that. We baby boomers, even before most of us could vote, we were already a Brand-name. Collectively and all to conveniently we were lumped together, as if manufactured, into a force to reckoned with. What have we become?

I look at the people that are in office, my elected officials. You, who are supposed to represent all of us, and responsibly control, monitor and fairly distribute the resources that are meant to look out for our collective well-being. You claim to represent the best of service in this country, but I find myself disgusted by your actions. And yet, if I am genuine, if I am sincere, then when I look in the mirror, I must also be disgusted with myself. The Boomers. Society has bound us together, but are we really cut from the same cloth? Our generation, that was so concerned with the environment, so concerned about creating peace on our planet, and so greatly interested in the welfare of our fellow human being, has become horribly corrupt. The generation that held so much hope, has really failed to deliver on all the promises that it made to itself, to each other, and to our world. I awaken each morning to the realization that the most powerful and influential members of my generation have abandoned our ideals. The lust for power, the desire for more, more money and honey, has turned the promise of the summer of love, into a cold and harsh reality, that has become the winter of greed.

I find myself, not unlike the fictional movie character, Howard Beale, in the 1976 movie, The Network, who entices his audience to get up out of their seats, walk over to the window, open the window, lean their head out the window, and yell at the top of their lungs “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore.” This kind of inner rage that I experience when I look at the world around me, has a paralyzing effect on my ability to understand, and to reason a way through the morass of issues, problems and difficulties that this world has to deal with on a regular basis. More importantly, it makes it extremely difficult for me at 53, to find a way to contribute in some sort of lasting and meaningful way. Is this too, part of your malicious misdirection?

I look at our democracy and I find myself outraged. I look at the state of the environment, the world that we have created, abused in the most essential ways, and have the audacity to leave the cleanup to our children’s, children’s children. This, too leaves me outraged. Finally, I look at how wealth is distributed in this country and issues related to the poorest of us. Those who do not have healthcare, do not have a safe place to live, do not have appropriate clothing, and the large number, way too large in fact, of people that go without food every single day in this country. And, again I am outraged. So, I asked myself, am I up to this challenge, am I ready to face my own inner demons in such a way that I can adequately face the outer demons that affect my country and the world that I live in? Do I have the courage to speak?

Closing my eyes, it doesn’t take long for me to see the vision of the world I once thought would soon be readily available to everyone. As a child of the 60s, I envisioned a world of peace and harmony, a world where technology was both a thing of beauty and a reliable servant (flying cars included). I certainly expected, that the world of the 21^st century would be a one of global harmony, abundance, and a world where we had come to understand that we are partners with each other in this world. I believe, that we as human beings must form a sacred partnership with our planet, the plants, the animals, the mountains, the rivers and the oceans, or we will perish.

I would like to address my so-called, public servants. So many of us depend upon your actions. Yet, at a local, statewide, and federal level, I find the lot of you to be a huge disappointment. Given the opportunity to express to each of you, face-to-face, what I generally feel about your performance in your selected positions, I would have to say that I would spare no amount of vinegar and vitriol in your collective and individual directions, in discussing your abysmal performance. While you claim to be representatives of the people, your actions would tell us, that you are far more invested in being the servants of big corporations, and their paid lobbyists. Each of you, Democrat or Republican, liberal or conservative, red or blue, seem far more concerned about the rightness of your own ideas, the wrongness of your oppositions ideas, and for how much media coverage, and the number of all to glorified soundbites, you and your compatriot toadies can amass in a single day. All this, in order to promote your hateful and narcissistic version of democracy.

I would like to call your attention to one recent example, that I think aptly illustrates your selfish behavior, your lust for power, and your love affair with the media. Your recent grandstanding and bizarre spectacle, of having each member of Congress read five or six words of the Constitution of the United States. Not only does this behavior prove how little you understand about the nature, the heart, and the seriousness, of those who wrote our founding documents, but it shows how little you respect the work, the effort of daily toil, the sacrifice, and the hard-earned dollars and cents of each American that paid for this most heinous spectacle of yours. (nearly $400,000.000) I ask you, what leader of a large organization, would take an entire day, to cease all production, suspend all sales efforts, postpone all meetings, and put all phones on voicemail, so that each and every single employee, From CEO on down, could interrupt any and all productive labors, for the sole purpose, of having a public group reading of the employee manual?

I suspect, that were you to present this cockamamie scheme of yours, to any of your buddies in big business, I’m sure they would tell you what a huge waste of time and money this kind of parlor room stunt would be. Go-ahead call them and ask, I’ll wait. I’m sure you have them on speed dial. Oh, one more thing, let us not forget the members of the military who put their live’s on the line, that day, and every day. Who even, perhaps died, during your little tea party. Since you took the time out of not just your busy day, but mine and all Americans as well, and chose to get no work done at all during the hours of the reading of the Constitution, I propose that you should also not be paid for that time. After-all, most of us don’t get paid, when we don’t go to work. I would like to suggest, that you take the hundreds of thousands of dollars of taxpayer money, that was wasted on your combined salary and your overly privileged benefit package, and write a personal check out of your own bank account to the nearest homeless shelter or food bank that is in the closest proximity to your own private residence, in your home district. Further, I insist that you not mail this check, but rather under the power of your own two feet, using only public transportation, that you hand deliver this check. By yourself. No aides, no limos, and absolutely, no media.

Why is this such a big deal? Because while you were busy wrapping yourselves in the Constitution, you completely ignored the hard work and sacrifice, of the people who wrote it. Not to mention, the people you swore a solemn oath

to represent. The men who wrote our Constitution, were stalwart men of of character, at time when those things meant something. One of those men, Benjamin Franklin, suggested that members of congress should actually receive no pay for their service. Merely reading the Constitution does not make you a better person or more qualified to lead this country. It does indicate that you prefer media attention over doing a solid days work. Your collective behavior is at best, reprehensible. More befitting a gang of common scoundrels, than that of esteemed leaders of a great and powerful nation. You know me, right? I am Veteran. I live below the poverty line, I pay taxes, and I vote!

Crack!

2011-01-25T12:56:00.001-08:00

The deeper the passion,
the more resounding, the

crack,

when the hidden chasam finally opens.

That ominous, hideous, marvelous rumbling crescendo as the high mountain dam,

bursts.

Words, as free as the
once trapped waters, gushing, swirling,
violently crash onto the paper.

Flowering

2010-12-22T01:18:00.001-08:00

Flowering

Now; silent, stillness.
Riding the Wind-Horse of change,
wisdom's beauty blooms.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPad

Through the thinning veil

2010-10-29T23:02:00.003-07:00

Keep
Hold
Stand

In the heart of the Keep
Hold close those that you love
Stand firm with those
Unable to stand alone.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep the connection from the past
Holding hands we bring
Each other into this moment;
As you stand with us
We stand with you.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep the fire bright
Hold the bell sound
in your heart
Stand tall for all
is within you.

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep to the calm
Be the center of the henge
Hold fast to
the wisdom of the stones
Stand. For you are sacred

Keep
Hold
Stand

Keep to the journey
You hold the infinite
in you hand.
Stand fast, behold
the coming change.

Keep
Hold
Stand

The Myst

2010-10-26T23:04:00.003-07:00

The myst.

Perhaps the myst that surrounds us is our friend.

A brilliant creation of our own making.

Traveling with us, in each and every moment.

Stalwart yet tender. Sensitive and tenacious.

Brightly colored. Chosen with love and care.

Wrapping paper. Not obscuring, nor obfuscating.

Heightening each moment of discovery.

Accentuating this joyful precipice.

As we unravel the mystery.

The love, that we already are.

Haiku for Fall

2010-10-26T23:04:00.001-07:00

Leaves guided to earth
Fall breeze brings colorful paint
Who will count them all

Seconds

2010-10-26T23:03:00.001-07:00

Each day I get closer to knowing nothing at all. There is wonder there. Beautiful. Gentle. Like really good home made meat loaf and macaroni and cheese. No knowledge required. Just eat. Enjoy. Go back for seconds.

Rabbits

2010-10-26T23:02:00.001-07:00

Boxcars bang louder
Cold air making metal sing
Bells of industry

The rabbits ignore it all
Smart rabbits

Joyfully

2010-10-26T23:01:00.001-07:00

Starlight crisscrossing
Delicate paths guide my mind
Slugs march joyfully

There is a season

2010-10-26T23:00:00.001-07:00

To every thing there is a season,
to every thing there is a purpose, …

Just in the last minute
at least
an acre of rainforest has been
destroyed.

Are we certain,
so damn
cock sure of ourselves
that in that acre of intense diverse life
lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes
or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;
it is forever lost to us.

Just in the last minute
at least
one young person’s life has been
destroyed.

Are we certain
so damn
cock sure of ourselves
that in this youth, of intense diverse life
lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes
or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;
that child is forever lost to us.

How many deaths will it take
till we know,
That too many people have died.

It matters to me.

Sacred

2010-10-26T22:59:00.001-07:00

Ideas evolve. Life evolves.

No ideas are sacred, however, all life is sacred.

Soft Breath

2010-10-25T19:08:00.001-07:00

Soft
Moonlight

Silver
Curves

Touching you
Caressing

Lips
Exploring

Sweet
Textures

Our
Fullness

Waves
Crashing

Silence
Breathing

Again?

Raven's Highway

2010-10-24T23:28:00.001-07:00

Raven's Highway

Slender raven walks
Bright ebony wings gleaming
Fall feels more like spring

- Posted from Bilbo the iPhone

Concert

2010-10-24T03:32:00.001-07:00

Pausing, the rain waits
Movements from a symphony
New opus each night

- Posted from Bilbo the iPhone

It matters to me

2010-10-05T00:01:00.003-07:00

To every thing there is a season,

to every thing there is a purpose, …

Just in the last minute

at least

an acre of rainforest has been

destroyed.

Are we certain,

so damn

cock sure of ourselves

that in that acre of intense diverse life

lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes

or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;

it is forever lost to us.

Just in the last minute

at least

one young person’s life has been

destroyed.

Are we certain

so damn

cock sure of ourselves

that in this youth, of intense diverse life

lived not the cure for AIDS, or Diabetes

or Breast Cancer?

Perhaps it matters not;

that child is forever lost to us.

How many deaths will it take

till we know,

That too many people have died.

It matters to me.

The myst

2010-10-02T07:36:00.001-07:00

The myst.

Perhaps the myst that surrounds us is our friend.

A brilliant creation of our own making.

Traveling with us, in each and every moment.

Stalwart yet tender. Sensitive and tenacious.

Brightly colored. Chosen with love and care.

Wrapping paper. Not obscuring, nor obfuscating.

Heightening each moment of discovery.

Accentuating this joyful precipice.

As we unravel the mystery.

The love, that we already are.

~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon

Location:NE 152nd Ave,Portland,United States

Perfect Storm

2010-09-25T01:57:00.000-07:00

Perfect Storm

Wet
From your soft whispers

My ears drink in
the delicious nectar of your words

Sweet lips
stir deep passions

Scirocco winds envelope us
the storm grows hot

Following the perfume
I seek the source of your wet

Velvet folds swell and open
my tongue translating

Sensuous runes
on your outer gates

My lips utter silent words
the ocean rises and swells

Plundering deeply
into your Storm Temple

Scorching waves crash
Thunder and lightening erupt

Joining, we are
the perfect storm

Fall approaches (a haiku)

2010-09-16T23:28:00.000-07:00

Fall Approaches

Geese soaring Northward
Reflections on the river
Sights from bus window

My Place

2010-06-13T22:23:00.001-07:00

Naked

I like rain. There is sublime joy from walking in it. Unique is the passion play between warm, fragrant earth as it opens to receive the powerful spring rainstorm. To me it sounds like homemade Fajitas with peppers, onions and fresh spices sizzling in a cast iron frying pan. There is however, a particular kind rain at the Oregon coast, specifically in Newport Oregon, when wind and rain combine, such that, within a half a mile of the coast that it will rain in a curious sideways fashion. As if the world had been tilted ninety degrees. This horizontal rain has its own beauty, but after three straight days of it, I too was ready for some change. It was, after all, the second week of June. Nearly summer. I was jittery. Jumpy. Though not a coffee drinker, which I know in Oregon, is just plain wrong, but nevertheless, it was like I was on my fifth double mochaccino. Whatever that is. I needed to get out of the house and fast!

Backing out of the driveway I see the sun is just starting to break through the clouds and in the distance I see a double rainbow. Commonplace here at the coast, but no less unique and beautiful. Left at the end of the block takes me to Walmart and right takes me across the Yaquina Bay bridge. Walmart is the safe bet. Indoors. I can get in a decent walk and grab some milk or orange juice, or something, anything, so they don’t look at me with that, “what you didn’t buy anything” grimace. I choose right, towards the bridge. At seven am, only the very top of the bridge is visible through the fog. Were it not that I knew this route by heart, the nearly hidden left turn, that even on the brightest of days is more mirage than entrance would be impossible to find. Friends have told me, “this must be some kind’a magical place all right. I had to turn around three times.” Anyone who has driven on Highway 101, knows that by mid May, that the parade of RV’s, makes turning around on Highway 101, an all day affair.

Turning down the gravel road, I laugh at the very small sign that reads, “Nature Area.” I giggle again. I am so close to the Pacific Ocean I could spit in it, but the city of Newport wants me to know I am near a nature area. If they only knew. For this so called nature area is indeed magical. It is one of those few places that if you’er not meant to find it, you just won’t. I know Newport natives that have never heard of it, or have looked for it and never found it. I get reports back like, “nothin’ down that road” or “found the gravel pit” and “ya sure that’s the right road?” Oh it’s the right road, and for me at least, it is exactly what I am looking for. I park my car near the small, pressure treated bench, where I put on my serious old school style heavy hiking boots. Two layers of socks, my arcane bit of lacing and tying, and I am ready. I grab my two most stout walking sticks and my knapsack from the trunk and head down the trail.

The pea gravel sounds like frozen snow as my boots crunch loudly. Knock, knock! Anybody home, they announce. The improved part of the trail goes on for about a half mile ending at a utilitarian, redwood colored bridge made of pressure treated lumber, held together with stainless steel screws and nails. To the left of me, is a solid row of tree sized rhododendrons. Tightly packed together, with their leaves, blooms and branches all interwoven, like one of those English formal gardens that you see on PBS. It’s a nice walk, but, my path today does not lie down manicure lane. The wisdom I seek is to found at the end of much different trail.

About three hundred yards down the gravel trail I turn right in between two medium size aspen trees. The trail winds around a bit and the Aspens and “Rhodies” are replaced with larger and larger pine and cedar trees. Some would call this old growth, but the proper term is mid-growth. Most of the trees here are replants from the early nineteen hundreds. There are a few old ones here, but most if not essentially all of the great ones were felled in the logging boom of the late eighteen hundreds. It is dense in here. Each step I take it grows darker as the canopy blocks out the sunlight and the trail is slick with fresh mud. My heavy soled boots swish and slide, and then slurp as the thick mud only reluctantly lets go. There is wildness here. An unkempt yet uniquely organized amalgamation of green and growing things. Grove-like patches of Chanterelles, Hen-of-the-Woods other fungi become plentiful. Some are quite tasty, but most will kill you before you can say pass the salt please. I arrive at the place I call Sentinel’s Gate. Following my usual ritual, I place both my palms on the heart of the sentinel. His exposed heart beats still, but his mortal wound from the logger’s saw is still raw and rough. My fingers search out the undulating pattern of the many rings and they feel the fear of the painful, jagged horizontal saw cuts that murdered him, from who knows how long ago. 369 rings, last time I counted in 1998. The colony at Plymouth Rock was less than ten years old then. Even trees that most would call old and dead will speak to you, if you are patient, open hearted and willing to listen. A word of caution though, you may not always like what you hear.

Past sentinel’s gate the trail winds down into the valley. Today the path is treacherous. Mud, fallen branches, and newly exposed roots make me glad I brought both walking sticks. It is midnight dark now. Only small shafts of sunlight hit the ground as they illuminate the maze of glittery silver trails left by hundreds of slugs. Mastodon sized, a few Banana slugs slink in front of me. I am forced to choose each step very carefully. In places the moss and lichens are thick, lush and brightly colored. deep iridescent greens, electric yellows remind me of 1960’s deep pile, shag carpeting. Reaching the valley floor, I turn south as the trail climbs equally steep up to the top of the hill. You cant’s quite see the ocean from here, but the thick salt air tells you it is very close. I take time to rearrange a few rocks and branches to make a place to sit less painful.

After removing my boots I give my toes a chance to scout out a spot to begin my meditation. Quickly stripping my remaining clothes, I sit cross legged, naked, as I fidget a bit. Giving warm bare skin, a chance of melding with, colder than I would like, very wet ground. Focusing on my breath, thirty years of daily practice, is new again in this moment. Mist rises from the valley beneath me and the pungent smell of peat mixed with the salt air, can mean only one thing. The earth is opening herself up, yet again to to receive the coming rain. For a moment or two the valley is eerily quiet. There is a depth, a palatable prayer-like quality to the silence. Suddenly, sheets of rain echo and boom as it races towards me across the valley floor. I am wet. Truth and wisdom of this day, rise from within me and through the vehicle of the rain, penetrate me. The rainstorm rages and consumes me. The line, a manufactured delusion really, between nature and my individual self blurs and vanishes. I am the rain, and the rain is me.

For someone special

2010-06-12T23:01:00.000-07:00

The song of your voice
echos in my heart,
each time I say your name.

I see two elder tress.
Over time we have grown close together,
each in our own different part of the Great forest.

The leaves and the tiniest of
our branches have discovered each other.

It will take time for our branches
to fully intertwine.

I want to savor and enjoy each moment of that with,

YOU!

Response to the book Night

2010-06-11T00:34:00.000-07:00

When I first saw it, I knew what it was, but my mind had already suspended my belief that it was possible. So it is, I believe, with many things in our lives. We see something, but we do not see it. We see the object, but we fail to, or choose to, not comprehend all of what is presented to us. When I was ten, for example, if you had asked me what an elephant was I could have told you. I loved elephants when I was younger, and to this day I feel they are amazing creatures. Back then I would have even shown you pictures I had drawn of elephants. But nothing prepares one for the first experience of seeing an elephant. The grace combined with immense size. Subtle, delicate seeming footfalls, and a massive trunk that can, with great skill and tenderness snatch a peanut from a child's hand. So it was to be on this day. I would see it, know what it is, but it would take hours, for the meaning of it, to sink into my soul.

It was Mother's day 1978. I had been at this intersection of South Home and Madison Avenue since three in the morning. The art of selling roses on Mother's day in this Chicago suburb was a very serious business. In about 45 minutes, other flower dealers would show up and demand that I leave their corner. Some florists even hired thugs, who would wave guns in my face, in order to persuade me to walk away. I would not. This is my corner, and I had the permit from the City of Chicago to prove it. Unless I left voluntarily, this corner was mine. On almost any corner in Chicago on any Mother's day, even the most inept would easily net over $1000 today. My corner, for some reason was different. On a bad Mother's day, this was easily a $5000 corner, and hence the reason for all that added interest in me, not being there.

Here, at the intersection of Home and Madison, at an unassuming traffic light, across from the Sears store, was the intersection of three great and historical neighborhoods. To my east was Cicero. A sometimes quiet, but still rambunctious area that never quite lived down its notorious Mob influenced past from the 1930s and 1940s. Still, on almost any Sunday afternoon, in this Italian, very Catholic, American enclave, the air would be filled with the smells of long simmered Ragus, Bolengenaises and freshly baked garlic bread. From open kitchen windows, decades old recipes broadcast each Grandmothers love her for family. By ten in the morning, a dozen or more immigrant Grandmothers had, in perfect broken English insisted that it was their house I was having diner in that day. It made for a really long days, but I would never have Italian food this good, this lovingly prepared ever again in my life.

North and west of me was the ever so proper neighborhood of Oak Park. This bastion of liberal Protestant bankers and lawyers was home to several homes designed by the architect, Frank Lloyd Wright. I was pretty naive back then, but I never once saw any cars, befitting the required luxury of Oak Park, in the Sears parking lot.

South and west of me lie the pre-imminent Orthodox Jewish community of Forest Park. At this simple traffic light, three of Chicago's great communities came together, at least on the map. I had walked the streets of these neighborhoods many times. In Cicero, and Forest Park I would be welcomed as if family. Although my first experience in Forest Park was on a Saturday, the Sabbath, and due to my ignorance I thought it to be as snooty as that of Oak Park. I came to love this older Jewish neighborhood. In my experience Italian Americans and Jewish Americans had much in common, in a word, community.

By seven am, in my little corner of Mother's day in Chicago, it was already hot. The air was still and thick. Laden with moisture from nearby Lake Michigan. Listening to radios, through the open car windows, the weather report was not good. It would be at least 100 degrees, higher in the suburbs. By noon the asphalt was softening, and my black and white Converse were beginning to make the sticky floor sound that you hear in movie theaters from too much spilled soda and candy. I saw the first one, as the man in the Buick Regal handed me a fifty for two dozen roses. It stared at me, yelled my name, I knew what it was, but my brain was not willing to surrender. I saw another one, and another. I had to stop. Catch my breath. My mind now reeling, wanting desperately to explode, and forever not have to retain what I now knew. Two more passed by me in the hot steamy sunshine. Then three. Finally, forcing my self to look, really look.

They were all the same. Faded, by thirty plus years as living testament to an unbearable tragedy. These faded, blue-black tattoos, spoke louder now to me than any voice. Look, they cried. Do not turn away. See. Understand. I did not want to. The one inch tall square, block letters, reminiscent of third grade letter practice, were numbers. Seemingly random, but the meaning was clear. Prominently displayed on the left arms of both men and women, uncovered by rolled up sleeves, in response to the days roaring heat. These people, some of whose faces I recognized, were survivors. Holocaust survivors. Living testament to how horribly low we as human beings can become, when we choose to turn on our brothers and sisters. The heat on this day was oppressive.

By three pm, I had made $7000, and still had a good three or four hours left to sell. But I could go no further. I walked across the street to the Sears. Leaning against the decades old red-brown bricks, and there in the shade of the painted steel over-hang, I collapsed. Overcome with emotion. I sat there not moving for over four hours, until my friends picked me up.

Elie Wiesel's book brought back this moment in my life. I am glad for it. It has renewed the fires of compassion in me, in so many wonderful ways. I found it strange reading his book. On the one hand reading a book in which you know how it ends is one thing. The tragic necessity of how and where this book heads was with me from the very first word. In reading Night, I was brought back to my walks through Forest Park in Chicago. I relived my experiences in this community of kind and loving people. I was a total stranger, but in this upper middle class, orthodox community I was welcomed. First as stranger, but with not the usual coldness a stranger expects. My interest in learning the Torah and Talmud was at first laughed at. But despite many a joke, told with a kind of love, I still do not understand, I was quickly befriended and eventually became like family.

Wiesel's book, recounts this feeling of community and of daily life, in this vibrant city of his story. Yet, we watch as life unravels for Elie and his family. This story touched me, not because of my first hand experience with survivors but because of his love. We watch as an entire town, sees, but cannot not see. Despite numerous warnings, life continues, in much the same way, even in the harsh and quickly transformed ghetto. Still they do not see, until it is too late. It was hard for me to believe what I was seeing on that Sunday afternoon. Harder still, I feel for Elie and his family to believe, that such cruelty awaited them. Sometimes we must believe, before we can see.

Essay fo my non fiction class

2010-05-19T07:40:00.000-07:00

Out of Munchies

I crept back into the apartment and pretended to fall asleep. My mind was made up. I was leaving. No one knew.

I had come home from the Navy, only to discover that I was homeless. My father, who had remarried while I was in boot camp, had sold the home I grew up in, and moved his new wife and her four kids into a new and much larger home. This new place did not include me. My involuntary, non-participation, in this new "family" unit, was made all the more clear when I discovered two important details left out of the wedding announcement. 1) All my stuff had been disposed of. All items from my childhood, from school projects to class photos, from stuffed animals to GI-Joes, and all my non military clothing had been thrown out. It was all gone. 2) My one remaining possession, my motorcycle, I was told, by the step-bitch, was still here. Just before she wailed, "get that piece of shit outta' MY garage!"

Walking out to the garage, I quickly found my Honda 350-4 next to the work bench in the corner. Covered in dust, and more disastrously, rust! The tank was empty and the tires were flat, but thankfully no dents, and nothing broken. Still, it took me several hours to fond my own way to the gas station, and knocking on strangers doors to see if I could borrow a tire pump to inflate my severely depressed tires.

Tenuously my right thumb reached for the starter button. Feeling it's way across the throttle and over the retaining ring as it had done thousands of times before. My bike, that I maintained with pride and devotion had never, not once, not even for an instant not started. Until now. Ha na na na nah. Nothing. I adjusted the choke, and tired again. Sputter, cough, na na, sputter-stutter, click, and then; the familiar whine and growl as the engine and my spirit simultaneously resurrected themselves. A bit heavy handed on the choke I thought as the garage filled with dense blue-black smoke and the smell of unburned gasoline. "Serves them right!" I muttered. I let the bike idle for a few minutes, as I tied my remaining possessions to the back of the bike. Without thinking, I turned towards the door that led to the kitchen, but caught myself. "Did they say goodbye to me when they trashed my childhood things?" Saying this out loud, I realized, they did not. The message though, I now got, came through loud and clear; "get lost" they were telling me. The little boy in me, looked sheepishly at the garage floor. Perplexed. Confused. This was not the garage I played in as a child. Home, for me, died that day. It was December tenth 1976. Cell phones were some twenty years in the future, so I did what we almost never do now. I drove to my friends house to see if he was home. Wind in my hair, I rode.

Lying there in the bed, eyes closed, as I carefully reviewed the last four months. It is April first. I didn't plan it this way. Leaving this way, on this date, in the manner I had chosen would be a cruel joke. At best. But, I had been telling myself for over a week now, it had to be this way. The only way a clean break was going to happen. My sinister plot to escape, brewing in my head for over a month, was now complete.

For weeks now, I had been buying stuff. Lots of stuff. A bright yellow, Jan Sport backpack. Even by 1970's standards it was huge. It had to be. It was a beautifully engineered, external frame pack that was to hold: my new sleeping, a light weight, equally state-of-the-art, two person tent, a single burner white gas stove, clothing and most importantly, a month's supply of freeze dried food. All of this carefully hidden on the patio. Under a tarp in the corner. It didn't matter really. The patio was the junk pile. Nobody ever went out there. I could have placed "big yellow," my pet name for my back pack, right in the middle of the patio, in full view of the door, and it would have gone unnoticed for months. I, however, was not about to take chances. Timing, wording, it all had to look normal. I was saying goodbye to my closest friends. Walking out of their lives. Forever. Perhaps. I did not know.

I parked my bike next to my friends back door. Slid open the patio door and walked in. No one was startled, I was nearly family. Shannon and Shelli, Rob and Joann, Joann's brother Rex, Dan and the two cats. Misha and Roger. "You're back!" they all say.

"I am, just.”

“I need a place to crash?"

Shannon motions his head to the back bedroom. "mind the litter box, it's been moved!"

I stashed my junk on the floor and returned to the main room. Sitting at the smallish no longer round kitchen table, where a Budweiser, in a long-neck bottle, was already open and waiting for me.

"Figured you'd need that. How'd it go at your dad's place." Asked Rex.

"How do you think it went? Piped in Joann, “Honestly Rex, your such an ass! He's crashing here, for God's sake"

"As expected," I said. "Worse, actually, they trashed all my shit. It's all gone."

Shannon, now coming back to Earth, manages to encapsulate the moment, "Fuuuuuuuuuuck,.....man, bummer" returning to his home made bong, Shannon, a moment later, was safely back circling Jupiter again.

"Least you still have the bike,” Rob said “Oh, you do still have the bike, they didn't sell,..."

"No, I interrupted. It's registered to me. They're bastards, not motorcycle rustlers" We all tried to laugh.

The sound of footsteps and the sound of the refrigerator tell me it is time for me to get up.

“Shit, there’s nothing for breakfast!” my friends mumble in non harmonious quasi-chorus fashion.

Actually it was part of my plan. In a house full of drunks and stoners, no food outlasts the night. I wait for a few minutes. More noise in the kitchen tells me my moment has come. I walk slowly into the kitchen. I am already fully dressed, with my shoes on, but nobody notices.

“Dude!” says Shannon. “No breakfast!, I got munchies man, serious MUNCHIES!”

Here, perfectly and unwittingly played by my friend is my que. “No problem, I’ll make a munchy run!” “Hey everyone! I’m off to the store. I’ll get milk and cereal” Without waiting I head for the door. What could I say? I was leaving them. Now. I walked out the door around to the back where my pack and bike were waiting.

Alone, on my motorcycle, I felt reborn. The freeway traffic was light at 7:15 am. All the traffic on I-5 was heading into downtown Sacramento, and I was heading out towards the airport. I had escaped from that hell hole, before it devoured me like it had my closest friends. I had hoped the shock would be a wake up call for them. That Shannon and my other friends, would have that collective aha moment and awaken form the drugs and alcohol wet dream they were living. Two exits away from the airport was the Honda dealership. It had been prearranged that I would drop the bike off for them to sell on consignment, and that their sales manager would drive me the rest of the way to the airport.

A lot happened in that month I was away in Canada. My friends, did actually wake up. Within two weeks of my departure, they had all moved out and gotten on with their lives. I have talked to only one or two over the years. As adults we grew apart over time. even if that time was amped up and foreshortened by my abrupt departure. For me the trip to Canada was an eye opener. I was renewed and awakened repeatedly on many emotional and spiritual levels. My advice? Sometimes just going out for milk and munchies can change your life, in a good way forever.

Cut, deep

2010-05-17T07:59:00.000-07:00

Cut, deep.I do not want to write. Pulling on words. Dental floss with that scraping sound as you pull it out of it's container. I never seem to get the right amount. To little and and i end up throwing it out and starting over. Too much and I feel guilty for wasting such a precious commodity. My words feel that way this morning. They smell, stink actually. Rhyme of reason is abandoned as meter and measure fly out the window and into the trash heap. What is one to do with such obvious crap?Again I am sliced open. Cut. Harsh is the shining blade of a trusted one that cuts you deep. Bone deep. Deftly with an oft practiced stroke my heart is neatly, cleanly sliced in two. So perfect, and ever so swift, such that my attacker is long gone before I realize that I am nearly bled out. I am an easy mark. Accepting of others, open and welcoming. It is my nature to be this way. I will not change. Those who keep their skinning knives sharp, their vorpal, killing words honed and ever ready. Hidden. Silent. Sleeping sappers. Waiting for. The right moment. To take what was freely offered and shoplift it. Making beauty into vest. Sublime into ugliness. It is their nature to cut and slice. They will never change. As I learn to heal, they in turn hone their blades ever sharper. Someday I will meet one or perhaps two, who will return my open embrace. On that day I will forget all previous pain. Someday, they will meet another, more practiced than they and they will know the ferocity of the unexpected cut. The cut that goes bone deep. Living by the blade has caused them to perish, as their arteries run dry they die alone. Face down In the gutter. Road kill no one will mourn for or notice. I fear. For theirs is the most wretched life I can imagine.

Softness

2010-05-10T00:39:00.001-07:00

Softness

The wind does not speak
Rain floating gently to earth
Soft heart welcomes spring

- From the mobile Curmudgeon via his trusty iPhone

be | amazing

To all my wonderful fans from China

2010-05-09T16:12:00.001-07:00

I love that you comment. But I am unable to translate your comments. I also cannot understand your contact information.

I will happily post your comments, if they are in English and if you provide accurate email information.

Thank you. I look forward to seeing your comments soon.

:-)

~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon

Life tapestry

2010-05-08T05:12:00.000-07:00

The weaving of Life's Tapestry is not so much about the finished product, but rather, the careful selection of the threads of each moment woven together with skill and compassion. A beautiful weave consists of only a few simple, but no less essential elements. Warp and weft, bound together and combined, with yarn of just the right quality and color wound around the shuttle. Passion is born on such a loom, . . .

So here I am. This odd bit of well seasoned, colorful, kind and compassionate bit of warp. Are you that gentle and caring bit of weft? Would we find beauty in the yarns that wind around the shuttle that we pass back an forth? Working together perhaps we can find threads that are humorous, witty even, and threads that shine brightly in the sun, but can also withstand the inevitable rainy seasons. Will you help me construct a loom that is large enough, robust enough, to weave all of our biggest dreams together? Treadles made of strong oak and pristine ash. Strong enough to weave bold patterns, yet supple enough to capture and weave all the intricate details of two lives well lived.

I believe such a magical loom is possible. Do You?

~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon

Location:My heart

The peskier the better

2010-05-07T01:22:00.001-07:00

It is the right, and I believe the duty, of all who would call themselves good citizens, and most especially those of us who are curmudgeon-ly inclined to ask questions that are of a pesky nature. It is these heart of the matter, cut to the chase kind of questions that are often left unasked and or answered. Some of these you will have seen before.

So, I am ...

I am curious.

Which countries would Jesus invade?

Who would Jesus bomb?

Which of your children would Jesus not educate?

Whose civil rights would Jesus take away?

How many forced labor camps would Jesus own?

Who would Jesus torture?

For what kind of information would Jesus decide that torture is appropriate?

What would cause Jesus to invent water-boarding?

Which Alter boys would Jesus fondle?

For what reason would Jesus change the name of illegal kidnapping to Extraordinary Rendition?

How many LBGT persons would Jesus beat to death?

Whose insurance claim for injuries sustained from being raped would Jesus deny?

Whose health care plan would Jesus cancel?

How many mentally ill homeless people would Jesus stomp, taze, or club to death?

Who would Jesus profile?

How would Jesus decide who looks illegal?

Whose identity or proof of citizenship papers would Jesus demand to see?

How much money would Jesus make from writing and performing songs that promote rape and violence towards women?

How many pet mutilation videos would Jesus post to You Tube?

Which companies that repeatedly pollute the environment on a global scale would Jesus accept campaign funding from?

Which of His disciples would Jesus decide is the most profitable to insure?

Which of His Apostles health care plan’s would Jesus cancel, citing lifestyle or domestic partner issues?

How would Jesus decide which of his followers health care plans were the most profitable to cancel?

Which so-called Christian nation should Jesus disown?

At the end of his life, after days of public beatings, he was murdered. Mutilated and horrifically disfigured in front of his mother and siblings, by the politically correct methods of his time. All of which was requested by, approved of, and endorsed by his own ethnic group.

In the end we are left with precious little of His actual teachings, but I think it is safe to say that He thought that what He taught, what He believed in, and the people He cared for most, us ubstensably, were all worth dying for.

So I ask you, which of His direct teachings would Jesus tell us we can disregard? And for what reasons?

~ An iPad message: be | a curmudgeon

Location:Curmudgeon manor

The 3:14 to now(here)

2010-05-05T03:17:00.001-07:00

The 3:14 to now(here)

Words to the left, words to the right. Stand up, sit down; write, write, write!

Pesky term papers turning my brain to soup. Grammar and vocabulary do loop-de-loop.

Term paper complete.
All the info she asked for.
In one neat haiku.

Would that it were that simple.

(the above waku brought to you by Curmudgeon insomniacs Inc.)

- From the mobile Curmudgeon via his trusty iPhone

be | amazing

Rain

2010-05-04T15:22:00.001-07:00

Rain

Percussive rain. Loud!
Stirs me from my nap. Gently.
Soaring mind. No limits!

- From the mobile Curmudgeon via his trusty iPhone

be | amazing

Melody

2010-04-12T22:51:00.001-07:00

A haiku.

Melody

The stream sings to me
Joyful eddys spin with life
Seated on the bank

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

By request

2010-04-11T21:40:00.001-07:00

A close friend asked me to write something for them. This is the result. I rather like it.

High Tide

My feet see the line

that separates the water

from the soft sand

as I walk down the beach.

Lingering yellow sunlight

insists that I notice

the horizon, but

my thoughts are

elsewhere.

Years ago

walking this same beach

we talked and laughed

jumping over mounds of kelp.

Cool water and sticky sand

keep my feet directed

helping me in my

meandering.

Water rises around my knees

lunar cycles telling me

high tide approaches

shifting the sands beneath me.

Harvest Moon blending

with 40 watt bug bulb and

stars on the hotel balcony

illuminate.

Memories of times

I cannot remember

surface for but a moment

only hinting at their mystery.

Musky salt heavy breezes

carry the laughter and footsteps

of lovers walking beneath my room

oblivious.

Nearby a radio plays an

old Curtis Mayfield tune

leaning back in my chair

I prop my feet up on the rail.

Does the Moon feel the passion

of the ocean as it dances

its love melody each

night?

Fresh cool cotton sheets

feeling slightly moist

as they often do in

these ocean side rooms.

My fingers cause delicate

Jasmine flowers to fall from

your thick hair as we

embrace.

Rainstorm on Meditation Hill

2010-04-07T19:59:00.000-07:00

Rainstorm on Meditation Hill

Don’t get me wrong, I like rain. I like walking in it. To me it sounds like homemade Fajitas with peppers, onions and fresh spices sizzling in a cast iron frying pan. There is however, a particular kind rain at the Oregon coast, specifically in Newport Oregon, when wind and rain combine, such that, within a half a mile of the coast that it will rain in a curious sideways fashion. As if the world had been tilted ninety degrees. This horizontal rain has its own beauty, but after three straight days of it, I too was ready for some change. It was, after all, the second week of June. Nearly summer. I was jittery and jumpy. Though not a coffee drinker, which I know in Oregon, is just plain wrong, but nevertheless, it was like I was on my fifth double mochaccino. Whatever that is. I needed to get out of the house and fast!

Backing out of the driveway I notice that the sun is just starting to break through the clouds and in the distance I see a double rainbow. Commonplace here at the coast, but no less unique and beautiful. Left at the end of the block takes me to Walmart and right takes me across the Yaquina Bay bridge. Walmart is the safe bet. Indoors. I can get in a decent walk and grab some milk or orange juice, or something, anything, so they don’t look at me with that, “what you didn’t buy anything” grimace. I choose right, towards the bridge. At seven am, only the very top of the bridge is visible through the fog. Were it not that I knew this route by heart, the nearly hidden left turn, that even on the brightest of days is more mirage than entrance would be impossible to find. Friends have told me, “this must be some kind’a magical place all right. I had to turn around three times.” Anyone who has driven on Highway 101, knows that by mid May, that the parade of RV’s makes turning around on Highway 101 an all day affair.

Turning down the gravel road, I laugh at the very small sign that reads, “Nature Area.” I giggle again. I am so close to the Pacific Ocean I could spit in it, but the city of Newport wants me to know I am near a nature area. If they only knew. For this so called nature area is indeed magical. It is one of those few places that if your not meant to find it, you just won’t. I know Newport natives that have never heard of it, or have looked for it and never found it. I get reports back like, “nothin’ down that road” or “found the gravel pit” and “ya sure that’s the right road?” Oh it’s the right road, and for me at least, it is exactly what I am looking for. I park my car near the small, pressure treated bench, where I put on my serious old school style heavy hiking boots. Two layers of socks, my arcane bit of lacing and tying, and I am ready. I grab my two most stout walking sticks and my knapsack from the trunk and head down the trail.

About three hundred yards down the gravel trail I turn right in between two medium size aspen trees. The trail winds around a bit and the Aspens and “Rhodies” are replaced with larger and larger pine and cedar trees. Some would call this old growth, but the proper term is mid-growth. Most of the tress here are replants from the early nineteen hundreds. There are a few old ones here, but most if not essentially all of the great ones were felled in the logging boom of the late eighteen hundreds. It is dense in here. Each step I take it grows darker as the canopy blocks out the sunlight and the trail is slick with fresh mud. My heavy soled boots swish and slide, and then slurp as the thick mud only reluctantly lets go. There is wildness here. An unkempt yet uniquely organized amalgamation of green and growing things. Grove-like patches of Chanterelles, Hen-of-the-Woods other fungi become plentiful. Some are quite tasty, but most will kill you before you can say pass the salt please.

I arrive at the place I call Sentinel’s Gate. Following my usual ritual, I place both my palms on the heart of the sentinel. His exposed heart beats still, but his mortal wound from the logger’s saw is still raw and rough. My fingers search out the undulating pattern of the many rings and they feel the fear of the painful, jagged horizontal saw cuts that murdered him, from who knows how long ago. 369 rings, last time I counted in 1998. The colony at Plymouth Rock was less than ten years old then. Even trees that most would call old and dead will speak to you, if you are patient, open hearted and willing to listen. A word of caution though, you may not always like what you hear.

Past sentinel’s gate the trail winds down into the valley. Today the path is treacherous. Mud, fallen branches, and newly exposed roots make me glad I brought both walking sticks. It is midnight dark now. Only small shafts of sunlight hit the ground as they illuminate the maze of glittery silver trails left by hundreds of slugs. Mastodon sized, a few Banana slugs slink in front of me. I am forced to choose each step very carefully. In places the moss and lichens are thick, lush and brightly colored. deep iridescent greens, electric yellows remind me of 1960’s deep pile, shag carpeting. Reaching the valley floor, I turn south as the trail climbs equally steep up to the top of the hill.

You cant’s quite see the ocean from here, but the thick salt air tells you it is very close. I take time to rearrange a few rocks and branches to make a place to sit less painful.

After removing my boots I give my toes a chance to scout out a spot to begin my meditation. Now naked, I sit cross legged and fidget a bit. Giving warm bare skin a chance of melding with colder than I would like, very wet ground. Focusing on my breath, thirty years of daily practice, is new again in this moment. Mist rises from the valley beneath me and the pungent smell of peat mixed with the salt air, can mean only one thing. The earth is opening herself up, yet again to to receive the coming rain. For a moment or two the valley is eerily quiet. There is a depth, a palatable prayer-like quality to the silence. Suddenly, sheets of rain echo and boom as it races towards me across the valley floor. I am wet. Truth and wisdom of this day, rise from within me and through the vehicle of the rain, penetrate me. The rainstorm rages and consumes me. The line, a manufactured delusion really, between nature and my individual self blurs and vanishes. I am the rain, and the rain is me.

Mist

2010-04-01T04:24:00.001-07:00

Heart of the forest
Surrounded by mist and Fae
Wonder of the small

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Colors

2010-03-29T02:59:00.001-07:00

Stars light the quiet
Silence colored by strong breeze
Whirling joyful Spring

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Rainstorm

2010-03-29T01:46:00.001-07:00

Grain and lumber pass.
Engines whine and boxcars bang!
Rain. Spring's companion.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Water

2010-03-22T06:51:00.001-07:00

Paying attention.
Eyes, mind, heart open. Seeing.
Water looks at moon.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

First Geese

2010-03-22T06:37:00.000-07:00

Geese fly overhead
Soaring. Squaking, they race home
First geese of spring. Smiles

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Spring

2010-03-22T01:50:00.001-07:00

Cherry blossoms fall
The river is filled with them
Swirling, spinning. Joy

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Razor's Edge

2010-03-22T00:53:00.001-07:00

Winter's wind cuts me
Spring is here, yet still I bleed
Silence binds my wounds

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Thoughts on winter, as it departs

2010-03-17T21:00:00.000-07:00

Obscurity. When you are alone. Truly alone. It is so very quiet. But the quiet is so deafeningly loud that it makes my ears ring.

Solitude had its downside. This is it. To find that one kindred spirit is perhaps a mountain too steep, a river too wide, and a path too long for me to walk . This deep longing I must learn to let go of, for it no longer serves me.

Pain is perhaps an ally but it is not my friend. Tonight I am changed. Steeled against the cold, I wrap my cloak tighter, lest what little warmth I have left escapes me.

In Celebration of the Snakes

2010-03-16T11:50:00.000-07:00

All Snakes Day

The victors get to write the history and so the murderer, becomes the saint. The slaughtered become the villains that "had" to be eliminated. Yet the truth remains, that the Snakes, my Sisters and Brethren, my beloved Wise Ones, the ones who suckled at our mother's breast, have not been forgotten.

On this day, All Snakes Day, I light a candle for those who have fallen, who were taken from us. On this day, I celebrate the wisdom of my Ancestors, those, Gelits, Kenning Merlins, Druids, Wise Women, and Witches alike, the keepers of ancient wisdom.

To all my good and wise kin of the forest let not anger fill your heart, lest we become like the so called saint whose drunken followers celebrate his ancient blood lust in new found gross frenzy.

The flame burns bright inside me in honor of Snakes of this Holy Day.

Sing

2010-03-06T04:14:00.000-08:00

Sing

Listening

To
My own humaness

The stories of humanity
Reverberate in my ears
The singular song
Of my own soul

Resounds in my heart

Sing to me the
Song of your soul
For the harmony to be found
In the delicate intertwining of our
Combined melody sings of
Passion and beauty so powerful
It transforms all it touches

It is this love song
That allows hatred
To be forgotten and
Compassion to flourish

Two short, one long

2010-03-01T05:47:00.000-08:00

Two Short, one long

As she exits the Eastern Colombia River Gorge I am awakened by the deep rumblings of an old friend.

For more than forty-five minutes I feel her presence. The matron's deep resonate vibrations massage my floor and tickle my bedroom window. Five miles away, a lilting chant cracks open the stillness of the quiet night air.

Two short, roooo woooo

One long, rooooooooooooooooooooo

Abrupt silence. Twenty or so minutes pass and the melody returns.

Outside my window now, two short, one long. Dogs bark and a car alarm goes off.

Roooo woooo, rooooooooooooooooooooo

Diesel engines smoke and snarl, electric motors whine and moan as a hundreds of boxcars, overloaded with grain crash and smash. Without mercy, beating the cold steal rails.

As she passes, I hear her brothers and sisters. Brakes howl and wheels cry out as they bite hard into the tracks. One by one they descend through that tight, decreasing radius turn that marks their exit from the gorge.

In two days time she will return.

Two short, one long.

Path

2010-02-19T09:52:00.001-08:00

Path

Breathe.
One step.

Smile.
One step.

Breathe, ...

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Haiku

2010-02-07T02:21:00.001-08:00

Through the frosted glass.
Gone are the stars of my youth.
I have become old.

- Posted using BlogPress from my iPhone

Dreaming

2010-01-27T16:32:00.000-08:00

Dreaming

Surrounded

slumbering in a sea of softness

Unabashed

beneath a bay of silken bed linens

Mesmerized

my mind and soul

Massaged even,

by the mistress of all mysteries

Dreaming

Will You Get This?

2010-01-26T22:32:00.000-08:00

Will you get this?

These words in my head, now

streaming out from my heart

into yours?

Fingers typing words that

two seconds ago

did not exist.

Hope, yes

a heart filled with wonder

seeking another.

Surrender, effortless,

openly wandering

a faint but glowing trail.

Who is there in the end?

Will it be you?

Who else will time tell?

Sadness.

2010-01-18T17:05:00.001-08:00

Bright cherry blossoms
The swift river claims their fruit
Love flows out to sea

First Haikus of 2010

2010-01-17T21:21:00.000-08:00

Puddles of raindrops
Serenade me. Joyfully!
Earth's symphony; smiles

Warm morning hues. Rain.
Bell sounds of migrating geese.
Winter's call to us.

Night. Still. No breeze. Quiet.
Winters cold, my soul refreshed.
Thundering raindrop.

Welcome to 2010

2010-01-17T21:20:00.000-08:00

The rules are different now, if we so choose. What beautiful, new and brightly colored threads have you picked out, what pattern of warp and weft will you select as you prepare your sacred loom and which treadles will push or not push as you begin to weave your life's tapestry for this new decade?

I am excited to see the magnisplendance of that which you are already creating in this moment. We are not in Kansas anymore, (well, those of you in Kansas are likely still there) and the magical land of OZ awaits each of us, right out side our front door.

Ask yourself this: what are the current choices I have made about my life, concious or otherwise, what does the inner landscape of my life look like and how or what do I wish to make different, before my feet hit the ground each day, in this new and freshly minted month, year and decade?

Sing, dance, infuse each moment with passion but most of all love and allow yourself to beoved with each breath you take, with every word you speak.

Remember, you are loved, always, far beyond your ability to measure.

In joy,

~w

As the year and decade closed

2010-01-17T21:19:00.000-08:00

As the decade comes to close, and we bid farewell to the ought years, that we take a moment to remember the good times, savor the lessons from the challenges and allow the wave of ever-present love and grace to sorround us, fill us and make room in our hearts for compassion to bloom, grow and with it, let us build a world of peace and abundance, making 2010, the beginning of the decade of peace.

Great Mac Software - Gmail Studio

2009-12-11T13:01:00.000-08:00

Wow! Just download a cool gmail desktop app. called Gmail Studio It is fantastic. It lets me keep all my gmail accounts in one place. (there are legions) Be sure to check the link. Mac users only. (cause we'er "special") This will save me tons of time ! ! !

Get Gmail Studio

Check my Facebook profile too

Here is the description from their website:

Gmail Studio is the must have Gmail integration for the OSX desktop. Gmail Studio gives you unobtrusiveness desktop access to your Gmail and Gmail for Google Apps accounts. Gmail Studio allows you to check unlimited number of Gmail accounts. You can also view messages right on your desktop, in the addition to archiving messages so you can process your emails without even logging into Gmail.

Gmail Studio color codes your accounts so you can easily identify your different accounts. Using the IMAP protocol, Gmail Studio will work even when the Gmail web interface is down. Gmail Studio allows you to put individual or all accounts to sleep so the will not be checked automatically until they are woken up. You can monitor any of your Gmail tags, or just the Inbox. Below are some of the great features of Gmail Studio:

Allen Ginsberg's Writing Slogans

2009-11-29T21:20:00.000-08:00

From Huffington Post dawt Com

ALLEN GINSBERG'S MIND WRITING SLOGANS

"First thought is best in Art, second in other matters." --William Blake

I. GROUND (Situation, or Primary Perception)

"First Thought, Best Thought" --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"Take a friendly attitude toward your thoughts." --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"The Mind must be loose." --John Adams

"One perception must immediately and directly lead to a further perception." --Charles Olson, "Projective Verse"

"My writing is a picture of the mind moving." --Philip Whalen

Surprise Mind --Allen Ginsberg

"The old pond, a frog jumps in, Kerplunk!" --Basho

"Magic is the total delight (appreciation) of chance" --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"Do I contradict myself?
Very well, then I contradict myself,
(I am large. I contain multitudes.)" --Walt Whitman

"...What quality went to form a man of achievement, especially in literature? ...Negative capability, that is, when a man is capable of being in uncertainties, mysteries, doubts, without any irritable reaching after fact & reason." --John Keats

"Form is never more than an extension of content." --Robert Creeley to Charles Olson

"Form follows function." --Frank Lloyd Wright

Ordinary Mind includes eternal perceptions. --A.G.

"Nothing is better for being Eternal
Nor so white as the white that dies of a day." --Louis Zukofsky
Notice what you notice. --A.G.

Catch yourself thinking. --A.G.

Observe what's vivid. --A.G.

Vividness is self-selecting. --A.G.

"Spots of Time" --William Wordsworth

If we don't show anyone we're free to write anything. --A.G.

"My mind is open to itself." --Gelek Rinpoche

"Each on his bed spoke to himself alone, making no sound." --Charles Reznikoff

II. PATH (Method or Recognition)

"No ideas but in things." "...No ideas but in the Facts." --William Carlos Williams

"Close to the nose." --W.C.Williams

"Sight is where the eye hits." --Louis Zukofsky

"Clamp the mind down on objects." --W.C.Williams

"Direct treatment of the thing..." (or object.)" --E.Pound, 1912

"Presentation, not reference..." --Ezra Pound

"Give me a for instance." --Vernacular

"Show not tell." --Vernacular

"The natural object is always the adequate symbol." --Ezra Pound

"Things are symbols of themselves." --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"Labor well the minute particulars, take care of the little ones
He who would do good for another must do it in minute particulars
General Good is the plea of the Scoundrel Hypocrite and Flatterer
For Art & Science cannot exist but in minutely organized particulars" --William Blake

"And being old she put a skin/On everything she said." --W.B.Yeats

"Don't think of words when you stop but to see the picture better." --Jack Kerouac

"Details are the Life of Prose." --Jack Kerouac

Intense fragments of spoken idiom, best. --A.G.

"Economy of Words" --Ezra Pound

"Tailoring" --Gregory Corso

Maximum information, minimum number of syllables. --A.G.

Syntax condensed, sound is solid. --A.G.

Savor vowels, appreciate consonants. --A.G.

"Compose in the sequence of the musical phrase, not in sequence of a metronome." --Ezra Pound

"...awareness...of the tone leading of the vowels." --Ezra Pound

"...an attempt to approximate classical quantitative meters..." --Ezra Pound

"Lower limit speech, upper limit song" --Louis Zukofsky

"Phanopoeia, Melopoeia, Logopoeia." --Ezra Pound

"Sight, Sound & Intellect." --Louis Zukofsky

"Only emotion objectified endures." -- Louis Zukofsky

III. FRUITION (Result or Appreciation)

Spiritus = Breathing = Inspiration = Unobstructed Breath

"Alone with the Alone" --Plotinus

Sunyata (Skt.) = Ku (Japanese) = Emptiness

"What's the sound of one hand clapping?" --Zen Koan

"What's the face you had before you were born?" --Zen Koan

Vipassana (Skt.) = Clear Seeing

"Stop the world" --Carlos Casteneda

"The purpose of art is to stop time." --Bob Dylan

"The unspeakable visions of the individual." --J.K.

"I'm going to try speaking some reckless words, and I want you to try to listen recklessly." --Chuang Tzu, (Tr. Burton Watson)

"Candor" --Whitman

"One touch of nature makes the whole world kin." --Shakespeare

"Contact" --A Magazine, Nathaniel West & W.C. Williams, Eds.

"God Appears & God is Light
To those poor Souls who dwell in Night
But does a Human Form Display
To those who Dwell in Realms of day." --W. Blake

Subject is known by what she sees. --A.G.

Others can measure their visions by what we see. --A.G.

Candor ends paranoia. --A.G.

"Willingness to be Fool." --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"day & night/you're all right" --Corso

Tyger: "Humility is Beatness." --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche & A.G.

Lion: "Surprise Mind" --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche & A.G.

Garuda: "Crazy Wisdom Outrageousness" --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

Dragon: "Unborn Inscrutability" --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"To be men not destroyers" --Ezra Pound

"Speech synchronizes mind & body." --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"The Emperor unites Heaven & Earth." --Chögyam Trungpa, Rinpoche

"Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world." --Shelley

"Make it new" --Ezra Pound

"When the mode of music changes, the walls of the city shake" --Plato

"Every third thought shall be my grave" --W. Shakespeare, "The Tempest"

"That in black ink my love may still shine bright" --W. Shakespeare, Sonnets

"Only emotion endures" --Ezra Pound

"Well while I'm here I'll
do the work--
and what's the Work?
To ease the pain of living.
Everything else, drunken
dumbshow." --A.G.
"...Kindness, sweetest
of the small notes

in the world's ache,
most modest & gentle
of the elements
entered man before history
and became his daily
connection, let no man
tell you otherwise." --Carl Rakosi

Flangerio Montenero

2009-11-18T13:38:00.001-08:00

Good day=Flangerio Montenero!

In my ongoing effort to revitalize the language of old dead white guys I have created a new and lively greeting. Its exact meaning is;

Flangerio Montenero ( flan-juh-ree-oo mon-tea-nay-rho )

An all occaision greeting with its exact meaning lost to the vast emptiness inside my mind. But, "I delight in seeing your beauty this day. Please know that you are loved," is pretty close.

To me this far more useful and joy infused than 'sup or hey.

I will be elevator testing the phrase later today.

May you all know and radiate the magnisplendnce that resides in you.

In joy,
:-)

~w

Dreams

2009-11-06T10:56:00.001-08:00

Sparkling rain

Leaves muted gray in the moonlight

Mud between my toes takes

Me

To chilhood dreams

Must we? (revised 9-25-09)

2009-09-25T12:10:00.001-07:00

Must We?

Standing on the hard ground of my own center I have discarded the desire to prove myself right. In a similar, yet vastly more strenuous task, I have wrenched away from my heart the choice called; prove others wrong. What is this need for evidence? How does proof, prove anything? Are we better for it? How is it that our sister, filled with anger fueled by years of violent hatred, can read scripture, and choose to put down the brick, that she had already intended to heave at her brother.

Without previous malice in his heart, our brother, after reading scripture, has been instructed to hurl a stone at his sister. Someone “wiser” than he, has told him it must be this way. I find it odd, scary, frightening even. I ask you, is this an example of proper evidence, for either behavior? Let’s be honest here. Do we really need some document, historic, sacred, profane or otherwise to tell us what we already know?

Simply put, why waste our time looking for justification to bash each others head’s in or try to dignify bombing our neighbors into the stone age. When we all know it is just plain wrong.

Despite all the reasonable reasons, that our Gods give us, and their sinister and sycophantic bootlicks proclaim to us, implore us, demand of us to believe, there is another choice.

Yes, the Books tell us to kill.

The gods joyfully give their approval.

Must we listen?

Must We ? (Revised)

2009-07-26T17:44:00.000-07:00

Must We?

Standing on the hard ground of my own center I have discarded the desire to prove myself right. In a similar, yet vastly more strenuous task, I have wrenched away from my heart the choice called; prove others wrong. What is this need for evidence? How does proof, prove anything? Are we better for it? Without previous malice in his heart, our brother, after reading scripture, has been instructed to hurl a stone at his sister. Someone “wiser” than he, has told him it must be this way. I find it odd, scary, frightening even, that our sister, filled with anger fueled by years of violent hatred, can read the same scripture, and choose to put down the brick, that she had already intended to heave at her brother. I ask you, is this an example of proper evidence, for either behavior? Let’s be honest here. Do we really need some document, historic, sacred, profane or otherwise to tell us what we already know? Simply put, why waste our time looking for justification to bash each others head’s in or try to dignify bombing our neighbors into the stone age. When we all know it is just plain wrong. Despite all the reasonable reasons, that our Gods give us, and their sinister and sycophantic bootlicks proclaim to us, implore us, demand of us to believe, there is another choice. Yes, the Books tell us to kill. The gods joyfully give their approval. Must we listen?

In the Middle of Central (Revised)

2009-07-26T17:43:00.001-07:00

In the Middle of Central

Gracious and grand
convenient and central.
Spacious. Splendid. Station.

Busier than, ...

(sorry)

Swarming pan-directional legions.
Thousands swell to tens of thousands.
Myriads of wasps from the ivory towers above mingle
with the phalanx of army ants from the canyons below
A tsunami of work-a-day burst
through every door. North. East. South. West.

They come! They Crowd!
They mass! 5:03 Flash Mob, five days a week.
They are HERE!

Shuffle step, one forward, two to the right
tightly bound still fiercely independent
forage they must the
tunnels of ordinary sameness;

Lackawanna, Chappaqua, Mahopac, Webatuck, Naugatuck, Wappingers Falls, Ossining, Matamoras! Departing in two minutes!

Close, so very close. Too close. Aqua-
Velva mixes with Chanel
shaken and stirred,
trenchant, pedestrian, urban sweat!

Throngingly, the mobile mosh pit must run
Boob to back & nut
to butt,
daily they make their quest for home.

The Way of Verse 21 (Revised)

2009-07-26T17:42:00.001-07:00

The way of verse 21

Those who proclaim to know the way
have obliterated it, and become lost.

The delicate weave of a spider’s web carried on
the breeze rewards the patient ones with beauty.

Unraveling that which is already complete, the luminous
hues of delicate tapestry transfigures into useless chaotic threads.

The unskilled attempt to build more of what is already
too much. Skill innovates from the not yet imagined.

Surrounded by the present. The empty, the not present,
the infinite void caresses the midwife of creation.

It is common to name a child at birth. Can we be certain that
the Name is water for a seed and not the first death knell sounding?

Every day we murder each other in dispute over
ideas. Time now, for some ideas to die.

A Scorcher (revised)

2009-07-26T17:41:00.000-07:00

A Scorcher
I
sweat

Ahelgany and Monongahela
scorch down my face.

My lungs toil
as woefully inadequate
bellows
enslaved in the blacksmith's forge.

Air is exchanged
Breathing but a memory,
as the Sun continues its
aggressive interrogation.

My body
blunted

in somber devotion
chisels fiery granite
blocks of heat
with each lethargic step I take.

Pressed to my brow
water and rocks fill
the goblet.

Precious droplets of well chilled
soothing elixir

Water.

More precious than Sovereigns.
More intoxicating than Absynthe.

Truckee and Shasta
resuscitate my soul.

Random? (revised)

2009-07-26T17:39:00.000-07:00

Random?

none
empty

one
two

Three, six
sixty-four

Stardust from the elders
wraps a delicate living
thread of yarrow.

unnoticed. Powerful. weaving
together the disregarded past
into now.

At harvest they were lemon
green yellow. Coarse to the touch
flexible.

Through my fingers they run, stiff
rose petal soft after two decades of
hard labor.

Fortuity engages serendipity. The
fifty yarrow stalks and my mind
in elegant precision

dance
right hand to left hand and back again.

Synchronizing the treasure of the ancestors
into the now. Assimilated.
Seeding metamorphosis.

Turbulent water above
Calm still mountain below
Thirty-nine

Swift rapids
rushing obstacles

The mountain must
focus
remain still
in active silent watching
ever changing flow.

one

empty
none

Note: The time honored casting of the Yi Jing while typically done with a simple and expedient coin toss, has for thousands of years been done through the manipulation of fifty thin stalks made of yarrow. In the poem the hexagram is number thirty-nine, Water over Mountain. Which can represent challenges and obstacles.

In the Middle of Central

2009-07-20T21:24:00.000-07:00

In the Middle of Central

Gracious and grand
convenient and central
Spacious. Splendid. Station.

Busier than, ...

(sorry, unavoidable)

Swarming pan-directional legions.
Thousands swell to tens of thousands.
Myriads of wasps from the ivory towers above mingle
with the phalanx of army ants from the canyons below
A tsunami of work-a-day burst
through every door. North. East. South. West.

They come! They Crowd! They mass!
5:03 Flash Mob, five days a week.
They are HERE!

Shuffle step, one forward, two to the right
tightly bound still fiercely independent.
forage they must the
tunnels of ordinary sameness;

Lackawanna, Chappaqua, Mahopac, Webatuck, Naugatuck, Wappingers Falls, Ossining, Matamoras! Departing in two minutes!

Close, so very close. Too close. Aqua-
Velva mixes with Channel in delicate
melange’. Shaken and stirred, with vibrant
sadly memorable, pedestrian, urban sweat!

Throngingly, the mobile mosh pit must run
Boob to back & nut
to butt,
daily they make their quest for home.

The way of verse 21

2009-07-15T21:23:00.000-07:00

The way of verse 21

Those who proclaim to know the way
have obliterated it, and become lost.

The delicate weave of a spiders web carried on
the breeze rewards the patient ones with beauty.

Unraveling that which is already complete, the intricate
tapestry transfigures into useless chaotic threads.

The unskilled attempt to build more of what is already
too much. Skill innovates from the not yet imagined.

Surrounded by the present. The empty, the not present,
the infinite void caresses the midwife of creation.

It is common to name a child at birth. Can we be certain that
the Name is water for a seed and not the first coffin nail?

Every day we murder each other in dispute over
ideas. It is time for some ideas to die instead.

Copyright a new word.

2009-07-15T13:30:00.000-07:00

Magnisplendit ©: To be magnificent and resplendent at the same time.

Moses motored his magnisplendit monorail about the moat.

Moly and the Mochacinnos

Moses motored his
magnispleindit © monorail
of molybdenum about
the moat in a thoroughly modern fashion.

Imbibing his mocha.

His mostly monogamous minions
moistened their mohawks whilst
gaining momentum and
moaning of monotonous mobility
meandering past the mortuary.

Quite moronic were their
monocles and their modular
monochrome mohair motorcycles.

Magnisplendit © is a a copyrighted work of art. Copyright © 2009 William A. York. All rights reserved.

Math Poem

2009-07-12T19:06:00.001-07:00

Calculus at 7 am

Smoosh and smash
Push, even
Frenetic button
bash

Busy, ...

d/dx = 29 cos(5 ∏ + 3)

Cold creaminess mixed with crisp crunchiness
morning cereal. Too early for tasting

The last woman’s
scent
screams out at me
from the pages of QA 152.3.K44 2008
Musk of dank mildew
Rough, unkempt, cheap
paper scratches at my finger tips

Tappity-tappity
only, lonely sound in
the empty library

Fresh sheet
Clean green engineer paper
3. d/dx = 29 cos(5 ∏ + 3)

Poem: A Scorcher

2009-07-07T22:01:00.000-07:00

A Scorcher

I

sweat

Ahelgany and Monongahela
scorch down my face.

My lungs toil
as woefully inadequate
bellows
enslaved in the blacksmith's forge.

Air is exchanged
Breathing but a memory,
as the Sun continues its
aggressive interrogation.

My body a blunt
lethargic chisel
carves out with somber devotion
hot iridescent granite
blocks of heat
with each step I take.

Pressed to my brow
water and rocks fill
the goblet.

Precious droplets of well chilled
soothing elixir
resuscitate my soul.

Water.

More precious than Sovereigns.
More intoxicating than Absynthe.

Sigh.

Disclaimer

2009-05-19T16:18:00.000-07:00

The last 12 months have been the hardest of my life. The lightening quick ending of a 26 year marriage, partnership and friendship. The loss of my best friend of 30 years and the loss of other close friends. I am a poet and writer. Writing helps me move through both the joys and the fears and the pain with swifter and more useful degrees of grace and wisdom.

Right now life is challenging, so the poetry reflects that.

FYI

Be in joy, in all ways!

~william

Drifting

2009-05-19T16:14:00.000-07:00

I feel like my life is shutting down.

Drifting

alone.

Shut out and shut off.

Tired
of watching the passing
of close friends; am I next?

Tired
of being befriended only to be taken from.
of watching friends being cruel to other friends.

I choose a simple life and am hated for it.

I ache. Body and soul.

Loss

2009-05-07T19:47:00.000-07:00

The following is a "Waku," or "Waka" in some translations. In any case, it is similar to a Haiku in that it follows the 5 - 7 - 5 syllabic form, but it adds an additional 7 syllable, new line at the end. I find the form challenging and fun to work with. Enjoy!

Loss

Walking alone now.
Silence my new companion.
Freezing. Cold Springtime.

Hard lessons. Allowing pain.

Blood

2009-04-11T02:19:00.000-07:00

I lost.

Reviewing
it all there was never
going to be a winning position. When
two friends lock horns was I meant to step back?
Money now seems wasted on learning how to make win-win-work.

I am not
good at being a bystander. Bleakly witnessing madness unfold in
front of me. Impossible
choices

demanded split-second decisions as the living blood-bond of
friendship raped of life and love. Lies.
Dead on the stoop.

My friend, no stranger to money, power and position has tossed aside his strong and compassionate heart; for what!

A kind woman, kicked to the curb. Her home of eight years, waits for another, another occupant!

I choose to side with the poor and disempowered as the rich seem to take of their own.

My still bleeding heart pumping the life force of an old friend into the gutter. The woman and I stare in amazement,

sitting there on the stoop.

Nice B & W Pic

2009-03-10T18:55:00.000-07:00

It

2009-02-11T06:18:00.000-08:00

It

In this
moment.

Attempting to be present with
aloneness.

Not really liking
it.

Cold

2008-11-30T10:40:00.000-08:00

At the moment I feel cold.
By allowing myself
To fully experience the bitterness,
.......................................................I feel it moving through me

Like the freezing rain and fog outside my window.
To do otherwise,
This tormented and twisted bitterness
Would surely enslave
.......................................................my soul.

So very cold.

From my experience 7 years ago

2008-09-11T03:35:00.000-07:00

At about 1 am Pacific time on September 11, 2001 I was unable to sleep. As I awoke I was over come with powerful emotions and was then "opened" to a horrific vision that lasted until 5 am. At exactly 6:11 am I was awakened to the the sound of breaking glass, followed by extreme silence.

This first poem is from my vision, and the one after it is from my emotions and feelings from the next few days. This was for me, as it was for so many a very intense week in my life. May my experience bring you peace, insight, and love.

I love you all,

w-

Poems follow
======

William, it's time to Wake Up

William, they call my name
Arriving one by one how the beautiful
Sound of tinkling bells fills my room
An exquisite delicate ringing
That only Angels make

It is the Ninth month, the eleventh morning
Nine – One – One, Wake up! Wake up!
Each with a bell speaking as one
Uncountable hundreds or more
A symphony of Divine Gentleness

My heart pounds, searing burning pain
Rips through my chest as a 10,000-megawatt
Lightening bolt of fear brings grim images
Gasping, no air reaches my lungs as death
Revisits those who would deliver death

Over, and over, and over again
An appetite unquenchable
Senseless Meaningless Horrific
Go ahead, kill me!
I’ll kill you right back!

The glorious bells return
Softly, tenderly I am brought back
Blue green bright numbers on the bedside
Clock; 11 minutes after 6 am
3000 miles away it is 9:11 am

Nine – One – One; Nine – One – One
William! Wake up! Wake up!
Hundreds of Angels newly made bring Divine
Wisdom from the path they walked this day
Remember us by learning the lesson we bring

It is time to put away childish things
The time for killing is over
Let go of hate and fear
Love calls you through an open door
At 12 minutes after 9 today’s lesson begins

Poem 2
======

Where the Love Light Shines & the Freedom Bell Rings

Early morning misty memory
How small I felt standing before your
Beauty and greatness in awe I trembled
The immense power of your embrace
Wrapped and caressed by the loving folds of
Your swift and passionate ever-beating heart
Holding my hand we walked together
Each step my amazement grew like so many
Who lovingly call you simply, the City
The images now fresh and sharp as though
Freshly developed on the silver white paper
Of the wonderful photographs you gave me

Uncontrolled weeping takes me by surprise
In a flash it is gone only to return moments later
Hours pass as my soul pours itself out in
Response to the horror of last Tuesday’s madness
Gut wrenched soul, quenched by tears, God! Let the healing begin
Unable to stand in a heap I fall to my knees
Shaking and sobbing I wail and gasp for air
Finally I am released, standing, no, leaning on
Something eyes swelled shut I find myself
In the kitchen; raisins, flakes, milk, bowl and spoon
From an unknown deeper wellspring I am overcome
Tears and cereal mix, my chest heaves as I leave for work

Could it be the words, “Please enjoy your stay”
When your passport was stamped that so angers
You as your drive past the shopping mall?
Maybe it was the joyful noise of innocent children
As they played in the park at the end of
Your street that has filled you with such rage?
No! The darkness you carry came with you
Your well-learned lessons of hatred and murder
Silently covered by your smile as you ask when
There will be more of the Granny Smith apples on sale
In this land of plenty where all are welcomed as family
Your teacher’s words ring in your head “Kill these godless dogs”

Brother, your teacher has deceived you
Blinded and filled with hatred his darkness prevents
You from seeing the glorious light surrounding you
This seething torrent of rage you have been fed
Now burning hot in your breast driving you towards
This bitter path that ends in your own violent destruction
Your master is safe, hearing of your loss he does not weep
Waiting and watching for the river of innocent blood
Hoping to open the floodgates of fear; his disappointment grows
Over looking your anger and hatred on the wings of
Precious Angels you are carried into the next world
Perhaps, now you will appreciate the gifts you have taken

Hiding behind robes given by false clerics
Deceiver of my brothers and sisters
The Great Light reveals the lies you teach
Like some long frozen prehistoric fossil
Freshly raised from the sub-Antarctic darkness
Your hatred and violence has no place in our world
Like the fool who argues with himself your own madness
Daily recreates for you a nonexistent enemy
Crazed by hatred, rage has murdered your own family
Your own hand exposes your dark purpose
You sell the persona of the lion of the desert, but
The light of truth reveals the common sewer rat

How frustrated you must now be
In your fantasy you believed by your fear
Freedom could be brought to its knees
Behold! There in the harbor a light brightly burns
Steadfast and powerful she stands
The light of love raised high, liberty has not fallen!
Tears of pride flow in her eyes as she watches
The Bravest, the Finest, the Strongest and the Work-a-day
Every day heroes pressed hard again into service
Risking their own lives to ensure the safety of others
In beauty, the students of compassion and love display their mastery
These the grandchildren of the once huddled masses

Just a moment ago I saw two holding hands
Brother and sister, tall and bright shining twins
In the blink of an eye they have disappeared
Shattering the heavens a great bell has been rung
God has reached out her hand, the very ground
Heaves and shakes as if giving birth
What is this? Growing slowly at first bit by bit
A mountain now reaches to the sky
In memory of those two beautiful twins
Wait! Look at what the light has revealed
Bright shining gems each one brilliant and special the
Unseen wellspring of heavens’ most precious treasure

For over two centuries the Master Smithy
Pumps the great bellows that drives
An eternal fire of blazing white-hot love
Rarely seen until This Smithy came to town
In his hand is held a precious many-colored alloy
Glowing brightly while a Mighty Hammer
Repeatedly pounds and forges it into a shape
Made for a purpose only His keen eyes can see
Each generation is pounded anew in a searing white hot
Moment of truth that hammer forges the generations together
Those who choose to test the metal of His Forge have invited
The freedom bell to ring, oh what a lovely sound it is!

Copyright ©2001 William A. York, All Rights Reserved.

Bus is late again!

2008-08-16T14:15:00.000-07:00

So here I sit in the hot, hot sun, waiting for the bus!

Summer heat

2008-08-16T14:04:00.000-07:00

Ok so 2 days of back to back triple digit heat! Ouch!

Drawing for my Drawing class

2008-07-26T02:21:00.000-07:00

Ths drawing of this "forest timekeeper" faerie was for my final portfolio reveiw in my drawing 1 class. I got and "A" on the drawing and that also gave me an "A" for the class. w00t!

Oh love!

2008-05-29T23:02:00.001-07:00

~ An Open Door ~

So many years
Intensity gripped my heart
From birth to now

Be still

Not seen as if
Never approaching
As common as grass

Be still

Before me wide
Open as though
Was I expected?

Be still

Certainly not
What I expected
Shivering, trembling awe

Be still

Not barred by it
Backwards known to well
Freely I step through

Stillness

Breathing in but
Not enough, winded
Nothing to stand on

Be Calm

All is released
Fallen away into
Loving past. Darkness only

Be Calm

All reference to
Any former vanishes
Tentatively, floating nothingness

Calmness

Nothing, only everything
Empty, yet full
Opened fully to the embrace

Be light

Light, only light
Flowing outward loving
The light embrace

Be light

Watching light and darkness
Lovingly, gently,dancing
Together, merging in me

En-light-ness, En-dark-ness

Fully becoming
Not surrounding not
Filling. Both and neither

Be fearless

Solid fully standing
On sacred no-ground
Moment, no passing, moment

Be fearless

I am lifted no
I lift myself
Flying past seeming knowledge

Fearless

Knowing is now
Devoid of knowledge
Separation never was

Be safe

Always at hand
Living unseen in
Each forgotten breath

Be safe

Sunrise, no, not on
The distant shore. Sunrise
The heart-breath flows

Safety

Immense and powerful
Weighted and heavy
Holds me, cannot move

Be Peace

Seen clearly now
Danger never was
Defense and attack only choices

Be Peace

Huge gentleness becoming
Free and flowing harmless
Stillness, calmness only safety

Peacefulness

Through the open
Doorway traveled many
To where it begins

Be Love

Becoming free only
To voice love, in total surrender
Releases others to become love

Be Love

Seeing only love instead
Of form no longer distanced
You are me, I am you

Be Love

Peace through the doorway
Of letting go unclenches
The heart knowing only love

Love

Love is without
Need and returns as
You are filled, filling another

Oh, love!

Freedom

For Michael

2008-05-06T12:17:00.000-07:00

Holding you close, always.

My beloved Michael, cherishing the infinite space in my heart you will forever occupy. Love is not bound by time, nor distance, nor dimensions. Wherever you are, and no matter where I am, our hearts will always find each other.

Our thirty years together was merely the doorway to the infinite that awaits us both, when my tears of grief are transformed into tears of joy. May our next adventure be as glorious as this last one.

Keening,

William

Overwhelmed

2008-05-06T11:22:00.001-07:00

Last night was hard for me. So much fear, terror, even. Lasted for 6 hours, I don't remember falling asleep, but it was well after 3 am.

Sadly, now I know why. (holding back a flood of emotions and tears) My oldest and dearest male friend, Michael, whom I have known since 1978 has had a massive stroke while living and teaching in South Korea. The doctors say that if he wakes up today he will be a vegetable but that it is more likely that he will not survive that long.

Sobbing, uncontrollable convulsive waves of tears, I love you Michael,..............

Too much grief.

Naked

2008-04-16T20:36:00.000-07:00

The process of defining is also the process of creating limits. When I say "I know" I am really announcing that I do not know. When it is announced that "this is the way", the way has already become obscured.

Give me an experience of you who you are, of your genuine being-ness and I will be present with you for hours and perhaps a lifetime.

Talk to me about what you believe, and after about 10 minutes I will have better things to do.

Talk to me about your accomplishments from the past, and I will not be moved.

Share with me an idea and your willingness to make it real, in a way that we can accomplish together, and I will stand by your side, so intimately, that the sweat of our combined efforts will hit the ground as a single drop, and I will pray that our journey together never ends.

Tell me how to be, and I promise, I will be, not that.

Allow me to be naked in your presence, and I will be with you forever.

If I open myself to you fully, how will you respond?

Naked,

Rainbow

Spring

2008-03-27T16:34:00.000-07:00

Past the great river
Descending cherry blossoms
Walking more deeply

The Path of No Path

10 Years on,...

Upstream

Dab in the Middle

Greed Kills

Poetry practice

More Iambic practice

Morning thoughts

Freedom

Wind in the trees

Collateral damage in the wake of a landslide

Last Summer

You Know Me, Right?

Crack!

Flowering

Through the thinning veil

The Myst

Haiku for Fall

Seconds

Each day I get closer to knowing nothing at all. There is wonder there. Beautiful. Gentle. Like really good home made meat loaf and macaroni and cheese. No knowledge required. Just eat. Enjoy. Go back for seconds.

Rabbits

Boxcars bang louderCold air making metal singBells of industryThe rabbits ignore it allSmart rabbits

Joyfully

Starlight crisscrossingDelicate paths guide my mindSlugs march joyfully

There is a season

Sacred

Ideas evolve. Life evolves.No ideas are sacred, however, all life is sacred.

Soft Breath

Raven's Highway

Concert

It matters to me

The myst

Perfect Storm

Fall approaches (a haiku)

My Place

For someone special

Response to the book Night

Essay fo my non fiction class

Cut, deep

Softness

To all my wonderful fans from China

Life tapestry

The peskier the better

The 3:14 to now(here)

Rain

Melody

By request

Rainstorm on Meditation Hill

Mist

Colors

Rainstorm

Water

First Geese

Spring

Razor's Edge

Thoughts on winter, as it departs

In Celebration of the Snakes

Sing

Two short, one long

Path

Haiku

Dreaming

Will You Get This?

Sadness.

First Haikus of 2010

Puddles of raindropsSerenade me. Joyfully!Earth's symphony; smiles

Warm morning hues. Rain.Bell sounds of migrating geese.Winter's call to us.

Night. Still. No breeze. Quiet.Winters cold, my soul refreshed.Thundering raindrop.

Welcome to 2010

As the year and decade closed

Great Mac Software - Gmail Studio

Wow! Just download a cool gmail desktop app. called Gmail Studio It is fantastic. It lets me keep all my gmail accounts in one place. (there are legions) Be sure to check the link. Mac users only. (cause we'er "special") This will save me tons of time ! ! !

Allen Ginsberg's Writing Slogans

Flangerio Montenero

Dreams

Must we? (revised 9-25-09)

Must We ? (Revised)

In the Middle of Central (Revised)

The Way of Verse 21 (Revised)

A Scorcher (revised)

Boxcars bang louder
Cold air making metal sing
Bells of industry

The rabbits ignore it all
Smart rabbits

Starlight crisscrossing
Delicate paths guide my mind
Slugs march joyfully

Ideas evolve. Life evolves.

No ideas are sacred, however, all life is sacred.

Puddles of raindrops
Serenade me. Joyfully!
Earth's symphony; smiles

Warm morning hues. Rain.
Bell sounds of migrating geese.
Winter's call to us.

Night. Still. No breeze. Quiet.
Winters cold, my soul refreshed.
Thundering raindrop.