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Friday, June 21, 2013



We had been traveling for many days.
The far lands still seemed as far away
As ever.  Everyone looked young, ready
To devour whatever might be placed
Before us.  We had a million ideas.

From the evening hills, just before the dark
The purple winds could be seen gathering.
We had no idea what they were, only that
They seemed ominous and unwelcoming.

By the time they were upon us all was
Confusion.  I could not see past my own 
Hand.  Voices could be heard but it was
Impossible to identify anyone because 
The wind claimed even their voices.

We had no idea when the wind passed,
Only that we were no longer young, that
It was harder to see due to the dust
In the air.  We were scattered but still
Traveling.  We tried to regroup, to find

Our friends from before the winds.
The sun was much less bright, so many 
Looked familiar.  The dogs had wandered off.

Tuesday, June 18, 2013


This poem was part of my MFA thesis back in the late 1980's.  It has remained a favorite of mine and I think I should read it at readings more often.  I haven't read it in public for years.


Not speaking the language,
I spoke in another language.

What speaks?
Does it speak for the heart?
Does it speak for time?

Is this the part of morning?

Must we always question
With desire, unhinged and hanging
Like a hook into samsara?
Will we find a mouth
In touching the edges of our dreams,
Feeling them like cloth used
To wrap the body, used to stop
The weeping, used to carry us
From loving, somehow children
Again and able to understand everything?
Will we be able to stand here with one
Another, spinning through our lives,
Fire, a metaphor, our clothing, a metapohr,
The great halls of our hearts,
A metaphor, dancing this way,
A metaphor.

Save us from other meaning,
From knowing our visions
As anything other than the singing
That they are, from the clumsy
Fabric we assemble to show
That we are the loved ones of time.

Yes, the night does come and
It is beautiful and the day too, we
Wear around us, weather, the
Reflection of all our emotions,
Clouds, our thoughts describing
The mystery of being here.
And yes, the sky is such a brilliant blue.

I shall know you forever.
There is no ground to stand that
Is not ourselves.  There is no sound
That is not language.  Not speaking
The language, I speak in this peculiar way,
So you may know I am among you.

Monday, June 17, 2013


Patrick Grizzell and I sang this song together long ago.


We are drifting over plains.
We are prisoners of the wind.
There is nothing we can say.
There is no place to begin.

We are higher than the clouds.
It’s a thing we can’t explain.
When we touch inside each other
It is very like the rain.

We are standing in the music.
We are always making love.
We do not expect forever.
We are always making love.

We are drifting over plains.
We are prisoners of the wind.
There is nothing we can say.
There is no place to begin.

Sunday, June 16, 2013



We have been walking out here
For a very long time.  The dark
Colored glass of this valley
Was making us sick.  It might
Have been the smell that roiled
Through dressed like a five year
Yearning for blind angels to
Ministrate to us about the great

God, she looked
So beautiful as the ornaments
Of sleep crept into her face.

We couldn’t stay here any longer
Let alone wait for the great
Wings to show us what was
Really meant by those circles
Beaten into the stones telling
Us to love all things.  There was
Unrest in the weather.

We watched them cock their
Rifles and come down the rows.