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Tuesday, January 28, 2014

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
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
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
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.

Monday, January 27, 2014


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


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

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


We need to
make ourselves
We need to know

that we were here.
That our existence
had meaning

If we go too long without
or without recognition
for those

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

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

when your soul
departs this
blessed hemisphere
and blasts off
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
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
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?