Epistemology (edit)

In spirit, I sit in clarity and toss a pebble into the lake of infinite possibility,
glyptic ripples impart understanding

On a bench in front of the coffee shop I toss a word into the conversation of companions,
the architecture of limbs and eyes imparts understanding.

In silence I watch a thought envolve into a new world, visualizing another page in my book of infinite personifications.

Playfully I choose clothing, companions, and destinations,
nudging ossified spirits toward mirth,
fed by the beauty in the eyes of children.

At home I read, write, cook, clean, and garden,
sometimes fear arrives in a new disguise to present me with another riddle.




The years passed by quickly, far too quickly,

for pain to make its own impressions clear,

almost too fast to feel the weight, and strain,

and pay the growing cost of age, and time.


Now life has weight like sodden winter wool,

when perseverance and all efforts fail,

a day in time when suddenly again,

the way it is, is not, nor long has been.


Now I am tired bone deep, soul deep and hear

surrender’s call to leave this task and rest

far from the strategies of empty days

where power’s pride of steals light from every gaze.


Defeat, a fear I never thought to feel

whispers of things that time may come to steal,

pecks at my heart to take my peace away

life loses light stolen from every day.


My dignity and independence due

for my life’s work was all I asked of you.

Perhaps a time of rest when near the end

to sleep and rise whenever I should choose.


Sweet lies are these, acceptance, peace and rest,

while principals are parted soon from those,

who leave them whenever they find it best

to modify their feelings for their goals.


Fear, absent from me for so many years,

in seeking trust of humankind appeared.

though after darkened skies and constant rain,

I ventured, though still fearful, out again.


How could I have ever found it true,

to spend my days in such open distain?

So now I work at finding work to do,

and treasure life and hope in every day.


Though feelings scar as well as any blade

still I will never flee from them in fright,

but go on seeking rainbows in the day

and howling out my sorrow in the night.


My sometimes cursed, yet always blessed life

weaves on, a path this orphan must pursue,

stumbling amiss yet never lost, I leap,

across the dark, protected, wrapped in light.


Though all my thoughts may lead me to despair,

all damage done, the darkest moment come,

no witness will report ere qmore than that these

were swept aside by passing butterflies.


The trailing end of twenty years constrained,

brought me the sun to lead me out again,

tested yet still with every passing year

alive, and whole, blessed by those brilliant rays.


Sweet Light, the blessing of my winding way

that brings me ever safe and home again,

you touch a butterfly upon its way

and make me diamonds of the grasses dew.


How then should I ever find a way,

to trade the darkness for immunity,

when courage and surrender are the same

and beauty is the price of being free.





The other day I went to the store.

The old kind where people stop and talk,

where the vegetables frequently come,

from less than 5 miles away, and we still number

fewer than one thousand, after 21 years.


Having been to an interview I still wore

my dress clothes, a suit coat and tie.

Disguised as an indigenous species

from a world other than my own.


Reaching the door I held it for a man,

he thanked me, I noticed his surprise,

intense gratitude, and emotional eyes.

Seeing his clothes I Realized that he was homeless,

I understood that he had expected no courtesy

and that I had no conditions for offering it.


We both smiled and he thanked me,

with warmth, genuine gratitude,

as only the best of men in any clothes

always remember to do.

Growing Up In America

Growing Up in America


I remember resting nested in the safety

of invisible struggles, our parents burdens,

troubled only by endless movement, new

rules and dad’s anger.  But we survived.


Later, they told us to hide under our desks

after showing slides of Hiroshima that

made desks seem like a futile refuge.

I never realized till now that we stopped after

Kennedy’s assassination.  But we had passion.


Now we are divided in a new civil war

of Red and blue, politicians vie for votes,

promising prosperity, having forgotten

dignity and ethics.  What do we have?


The first black President silently administrates

fulfilling an ancient dream, under daily assault,

he works, the media overlooking the greatest healing

of modern times.  We have no heart.


Actors ascend political ladders,

Corporatocracy rules, technology distracts,

Americans torture and initiate war,

all in the silence preceding?  We are empty.


News vanishes, talking heads entertain,

Powerful people deny ecological reality

most choose inclusion and liquidity over

Integrity and poverty, we are fearful.


Lincoln is dead, the Kennedy’s are dead

Martin Luther king is dead, John Lennon is dead

Let they who have no secrets dare to speak

from lives stored in the ever growing cloud,

scrutinized for data and leverage, we are silenced.

The Mystery of Light -part 1

The light makes the edges of the curtains look sun touched,
despite flood warnings,
constant rain, and grey skies.

Grief tests my heart
for courage , commitment, conviction,
for the capacity to believe
that all change is not loss.

Transformation, I wonder,
can I believe that courage, conviction and commitment will lead me to
a future in which love remains.

I n which I have something to give
something with meaning that touches
life and leaves it better for that touch, Fills it with the same light as a smile.

Perhaps like the parody, of rainbows in a lawn sprinkler, is it only an illusion, this dream that light lives, that fate cares, that loving intent creates beauty.

despite the inertia my world is bruised
by a lifetime of war, by the surrender of so many, by the loss of their light, youth, lives, and hope.

By light accursed by our will, conjured,
to slay Hiroshima and Nagasaki,
as if it were true that victory
Is whatever slays those who threaten
my prosperity.

I am tired again, It happens more often, more easily, and yet for today,
the light on my curtains is enough
to help me remember the beauty of light for generations to come.

Empty in Real Time

Empty – In Real Time


I kept faith, denied vengeance,

poured out my thoughts and feelings,

read the stories of others journeys,

laughed, cried and shared for a year.


Now it is silent and I am empty.

Not like an abandoned home,

but like a pan from which all has been eaten,

Leaving only the work of cleaning,

And the memory of satisfaction.