rush hour, day is dawning

We awake to the alarm

But when do we get to awaken to our hearts’ desires?

The dreams that kept me awake and semi-aware all night

seep into my lucid consciousness all day

and the cat who was bouncing across the house as if there

was a fire in the wee hours while I tried to sleep

is sleeping soundly all day on the giant orange pillow

that serves as a dogs’ bed.

I take out notebook paper and start journaling the

dream

which suffused my dream self with shame

and sorrow

but which I know is not a reflection of my true character.

And my girlfriend listens to my vulnerabilities and

she tucks them in her heart and she loves them,
as if they were hers, she cares for them, and plants them
in our garden.
she validates the inner girl of me

who longs to be heard, who would not speak for so long

who was afraid

but no longer is.

for the most part

Because she has found her voice. Because someone finally listened

when she spoke up.

The inner quiet child in me has found a home in her

and so now she is allowed to grow up and grow out.

She no longer has to hide behind “quiet” and “nice”

and “submissive” (although she still likes to pretend with that sometimes,

to play with control and submission and domination and who is

In Charge of us Who is in charge of me, who gets to take hold of the situation and say,

now, you do this.)

Maybe the girl in my dream

who I was dominating was me. 

You Have a Mountain Inside You

Inspired by Jaime C.

Be there, she said.

Be kind, she said.

Do not be wary of showing your vulnerable side

--Allow.

When you do this

there will be great payoff

When you allow, you share the parts of you that

need to be shared and long to be heard.

Your life is intertwined with mine

we are one.

I don’t mean this in the coupling way of

we were two, and now we are one

I mean this in the Ram Daas, Yoga Sutras,

Great Inner Knowing way

of All Are One.

When you don’t sleep and the mind is weary,

this is the best time for creation.

When you are so tired that your soul says, wait--

what are we doing here?

Why are you here, in this little box?

Don’t you think it’s time to find a bigger box?

Don’t you think it is time that you show

them that you have a rainbow inside you?

Don’t you think--

don’t you feel--

Isn’t it ridiculous to think that each time you write a poem it must be a masterpiece,

when in fact only maybe every tenth or twentieth one will have one good line?

How many times do we need to do this now?

\

It is time again. We shall do it until it no longer needs to be done,

which is when we pass on.

The idea that we can ever stop creating ourselves, our lives, recreating ourselves,

is false.

We are learning there are false dichotomies everywhere and when we accept that

we will be better for it.

The little bird on the mountain, with her scarf, passing by every 100 years,

after so many passes that she wears the mountain away,

that is how many tries we get at this one Wild and Precious life

So if ever you think that you get one try at something, just laugh at yourself and

remember

you have a rainbow inside you

and a little bird that is flying under it

around it

through it

to make her song heard.

And her red scarf will someday be left on that mountaintop

and your soul will fly away free.

Untitled

It's cloudy today and I am sad. I have this

underlying sadness that is like homesickness.

I know what's causing it and it doesn’t matter.

The thing about getting older

is that you know when you have sad days

that a happy one will eventually follow. You are better

equipped to not attach too much

to the sad days and can recognize

that they are like waves hitting the shore line.

They come in succession, a happy one and then

a sad one, sometimes precipitated by an event,

sometimes not. But you know that the sadness will never stick

around too long.

Except when it does.

You know it will wash away eventually.

If it rains, you can be sure the sadness will get washed away

and it will be followed by a sunnybrightclear fresh day,

where the sky is blue as your mind is cleared

from the water and the waves crashing over it.

I wrote an on-paper letter to J,

which I will not send.

I have an envelope of those at work, tucked away at my desk.

I sometimes think that if something happened to me

these would get read by a co-worker before they sent my things

home to my family,

but it doesn't really matter at that point, does it?

Maybe no one would read them, but I know I would,

if I found an envelope of letters to an ex-spouse

written by a co-worker.

But I am nosy like that. I like getting into other people's heads.

Other people's letters are fascinating to me.

It dawned on me this morning that I have not written a poem

in a long time. This does not sit well with me.

And I am also thinking about how most of my “work” lately

is just me working stuff out

with very little poetic merit. Is it too metta to talk about

a poem’s worth,

within the poem itself?

Is it too metta to think about the value of a life,

within the life that one is living?

Life is Short

We all of us have
within us
the desire
to create

something.

Whether that
creation is of material form
or of relationships
which cannot be held in
the hands
but are held in the
heart

Or of the self-- a creation of the
highest order
we all want to create

something.

We need to
make ourselves
heard/seen/felt.
We need to know

that we were here.
That our existence
had meaning

If we go too long without
creating
or without recognition
for those
creations

we begin to feel dead inside

Maybe this is only applicable to
the "creative types"

But I think it is
the human condition.

To want to leave behind something
in this world
when our material form
departs.

Upon going too many months
or years or days
or seconds
without feeling that
spark of creation

we might suddenly feel that
Life is too Short.
What did we,
in fact, do with all our time here?

What then,
to do about it?
What will you do with
the creative spark that
lives within you?
What will you leave
behind

when your soul
departs this
blessed hemisphere
and blasts off
into
the next one?

What will you do with
that book
that song
that record
that painting
that symphony
that poem
that meditation
that dance

that is currently
brewingbubblingboiling up inside of
your soul
crying to get out?

What is your soul
song?
How are you allowing
or disallowing
its expression?

Is your creation
a trip
to far away places?
Is it your ability to
bridge gaps between
people?
Is it in your work?

Whatever you're doing,
are you quite sure that
it's the best use of your
time on this earth?

If it's not,
when will you wake up?