Poetry Index



                         ABOUT THE MAKING OF A FOOL

                         A CASTER OF BONES

                         A FREE COMING AND GOING

                         A LIVING VISION IN THE WINTER

                         A LONGING FROM SOME PART OF THE HEART

                                   BEYOND THE CIRCLE OF SELF CONCERN

                         A NEW POEM TO GOD


                         ANOTHER LOOK AT A LIFE'S CALL

                         ANOTHER POEM ON BECOMING THE POEM

                         A TRUE TREE SONG UNTO GOD



                         BELL TONES AND SUBTLE PAUSES



                         CHILDREN ARE THE YOUNG LILIES

                         COMPLETE THE CIRCLE

                         COMPLETE THE CIRCLE, LORD OF CIRCLES

                         CONCERNING POETRY




                         DAVID DANCED BEFORE THE LORD



                         ECSTASY AND ILLUMINATION



                         FORGIVE AND YOU SHALL BE FORGIVEN



                         GOD AND US




                         I HAVE A LITTLE ALIBI

                                    (For Crazy Emily In Heaven)

                         IN A MAN'S LOVE A HOLY WOMAN IS SEEN

                                  AS IN A WOMAN'S LOVE IS GLIMPSED THE MAN

                         IN THE TEMPLE OF THE BRIDE

                         I PITY WOMEN

                         IT IS GOD'S OWN BEAUTY WHICH SHALL

                                     SAVE THE WORLD

                         I WANT SPRINGTIME TO LEAP OUT

                                                 OF ALL YOUNG PEOPLE'S EYES




                         LIES AND ABERRATIONS



                         MYTHS ARE DOORS








                                  BY REPRESSIVE, CELIBATE PRIEST


                         OUR AMERICAN YOUTH



                         PONIES CAN PLAY

                         PURPOSE AND MEANING, ETC.



                         READING GOD'S BOOK






                         STEAM DRIVEN



                         THE DEEPEST, OLDEST DEPTH

                         THE DURABLE ITEMS OF EPIPHANIES

                         THE END OF HELL

                         THE HOLY CIRCLE

                         THE HOLY TREE


                         THE NAKED MOVEMENT OF LIFE

                         THERE IS A SILVER ECSTASY

                         THERE IS A WHITE BLAZE OF LIFE

                         TO WORSHIP IN THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS

                         TO WRITE FROM THE DEEPEST CORE OF BEING



                         UNLOCK OUR HEARTS




                         WALKING WITH THE NAKED ONES

                         WE HAVE BEEN CAST INTO THE MILL OF GOD

                         WE MUST LISTEN TO THE EMERGENT

                         WE MUST MAKE THE WORDS OF GOD SING AGAIN!

                         WHAT A HOLY WONDER!

                         WHEN I TAKE MY IDENTITY

                         WHEN OUR WHOLE SOUL LOVES...

                         WHO HEARS THE VOICE OF GOD?

                         WITHIN GREEN BOARDERED PASTURES

                         WORDS UPON AWAKENING



                         Last Poem: A TRUE TREE SONG UNTO GOD





                         ECSTASY AND ILLUMINATION


                         To rediscover the wonder of water

                         laughing in a high mountain stream

                         is a great ecstasy!

                         To find that same wonder

                         in dishwater

                         is a great illumination.






                         CHILDREN ARE THE YOUNG LILIES



                         are the young lilies

                         of God's lime green fields:

                         supple, bending

                         into living wind.

                         Each tender spirit

                         needs warm, loving hands

                         placed upon it,

                         each young, dreaming soul

                         needs prayers

                         poured out over it

                         all night long.

                         The world, as it is,

                         teaches the mind various tricks

                         and many diversions.

                         Wonder is ever in danger

                         of seeping away.

                         Only an astonishing touch of goodness

                         can bring the soul back

                         to let the children play...

                         And every green, growing blade of grass

                         which awakens a mind

                         to the miracle... shall fight

                         to keep each young soul alive.






                         COMPLETE THE CIRCLE


                         Rip the veils of my heart,

                         God of glory,

                         that the hidden Shekinah

                         might shine forth!

                         Rip the hold of the unnatural life

                         which shuts you out.

                         Tear open the deep orfice in my core;

                         pour glory through

                         that your word might be satisfied.

                         And, complete the circle Lord,

                         gently lower me

                         into the humility of wonder

                         within the thankful place

                         where all is too good,

                         too magnificent for me,

                         as your light

                         softly radiates

                         throughout all created things.

                         Then I shall bear your water

                         to the thirsty child,

                         your beams of love

                         into a battered home.








                         COMPLETE THE CIRCLE, LORD OF CIRCLES


                         Complete the circle, Lord of circles,

                         free me from the gravity

                         which has long enamored me,

                         blinding me back from new-born miracles.


                         When your movement reaches to the top

                         and all holds in tension there

                         --like frozen angels in the air--

                         the motion of my growth has stopped,


                         until I make that vital choice

                         to drop my soul on the backside down

                         and make the circle spin around

                         into matter made of voice.










                         No matter what the people say

                         there is no straight and narrow way.

                         Once the gypsy fiddler's danced

                         through the spiritual labyrinth.

                         Then it's one step forward, three arrear,

                         and suddenly the way is clear.













                         We need words that crack open the heart

                         and cast the wounded boy down

                         from high places of influence and power.

                         With weeping and mask torn off,

                         he sinks into fertile mud.

                         With cries of grief he is revealed and embraced.

                         With great Love he is welcomed home.



                         A king is a man who doesn't care

                         that he is known as an outlaw

                         as long as his feet are on ancient paths

                         which wind through rivers of moonlight.

                         Dressed in rags,

                         the nobleman and the prophet

                         run on hunting paths

                         with wild dogs.

                         They are awakened by starlight

                         and sleep when the sun reaches

                         the apex of the sky.


                         Young warriors are saved from dipping

                         their swords in the wrong blood

                         only by prophets and kings.


                         Jesus was crucified by good men

                         with good intentions

                         to preserve their religion

                         in God's name.


                         All the warm and comforting

                         must be forsaken

                         to find the warm and comforting.


                         A man of passion

                         who is a man of peace

                         is like a bonfire

                         on an empty beach.


                         White bearded Grandfathers

                         sail in small boats upon fathomless seas

                         with beautiful, wise women

                         who know what a man needs to be free:

                         clear-eyed, quiet-souled women

                         who know the fiery trials

                         and signs of the ways

                         of kings.                         


                         A woman's unspoken expectations

                         can kill a man…

                         or birth him.


                         Only a free woman

                         can birth a king.

                         Only a king

                         can birth a free woman.

                         These two can make a real journey of it.







                         MYTHS ARE DOORS


                         Myths are doors

                         to experientially pass through

                         until the heart is cracked open

                         and soul floods out.

                         Those who fear such encounters

                         stand outside the myth and think they understand.

                         But what do they "stand under?"

                         Only their objectified perspective,

                         their cerebral aloofness.

                         But to understand the power of a waterfall

                         one must stand under the waterfall.








                         A SIMPLE EXPLANATION OF THE WAY

                         OF  INTELLECT AND SPIRIT


                         The pleasure of observing an ice cream cone

                         is much less than the pleasure of eating it.

                         Such is the way of the intellect and spirit.






                         ABOUT THE MAKING OF A FOOL


                         The wise at last

                         make the final break

                         with each other,

                         not for the sake of the end of sickness

                         nor to bring grief to an end,

                         but for the sake of their journey

                         beyond all things

                         that a wise man and woman might return

                         from a place of radiant light

                         as God's fools.









                     The warm, round breast

                     of young womanhood

                     is placed against the center

                     of my bared chest.

                     She is angelic, or archetypal.

                     She is deathless springtide

                     surging through white hairs

                     into my mind.





                         THE NAKED MOVEMENT OF LIFE


                         The naked movement of life

                         is an ecstatic thing:

                         A blue wind moves through

                         the heart and loins;

                         a warm golden light

                         wraps the mind

                         and puts yellow sandals

                         on bare feet.

                         Such life is shameless.

                         There are no shadows

                         in the sun.









                         WITHIN GREEN BOARDERED PASTURES

                         PONIES CAN PLAY


                         There is an ecstatic innocence

                         which can only live and play

                         within the moral boundaries

                         which protect its

                         prancing, dancing, wholeness

                         of compassionate care

                         and reverence for the mystery

                         of God and souls.









                         WHO HEARS THE VOICE OF GOD?


                         It is the child of God

                         who hears the voice of God.

                         The eternal One

                         speaks to the new creation

                         of the heart

                         to birth compassion

                         and spiritual beauty.

                         The soft white breast of God

                         presses into the soft stomach

                         of the soul.

                         The voice of God is sweet and innocent

                         as milk.

                         The open-eyed child

                         is blameless

                         and drinks the wisdom down,

                         then turns, with laughter in her eyes,

                         and embraces the hand

                         of the weeping one

                         who lives in her shadow.








                       FORGIVE AND YOU SHALL BE FORGIVEN


                       Release all bitterness

                       and burdens

                       and you shall be released.

                       Roll them upon God.

                       He will carry them away.

                       Let them well up from the deep,

                       come up close where you can name them

                       and hold them.

                       Then you can let them go

                       like gray balloons into a gray sky.

                       Don't worry,

                       the sky will part:

                       An infinite blue will show through.







                              A CASTER OF BONES


                              A poet is an nomenclature

                              of ancient things

                              found in his own

                              dark, steaming guts.








                    I PITY WOMEN


                    Women, even young girls,

                    seem to have a more instinctive sense

                    for the salt and bread of it,

                    for the gossamer wing,

                    and humid moistness

                    of moss in the cracks of stones.

                    They feel it when they twirl

                    their fingers aimlessly in their hair;

                    when silver water slips

                    to curl around their nipples;

                    when their soft belly slides over cool sheets.

                    They are driven by a warm flow of dark blood

                    upon their naked thighs to ask the right questions.

                    Most young men, meanwhile,

                    have only a thin, electric line

                    between their head and their erections.

                    The rest of them is shamed

                    to the dead, (though they beef up what remains).

                    Have you ever heard of a 13-year-old boy

                    who runs around his school yard

                    with a fragrant patch of semen in his hand,

                    proudly proclaiming his emergent manhood?


                    You women who suffer long

                    in your wakefulness

                    amongst dead men,

                    pity men. And... pray for us.










                              READING GOD'S BOOK


                              Between the feathered pages

                              of a bird's soft breast

                              lies miniature spaces,

                              silent with little sisters

                              of wild wind.

                              Read those spaces.

                              The Holy one still wanders there

                              looking for His home.

                              When you read His book of blue air

                              your eyes tickle his luminous bones--

                              and He laughs.

                              Birds feel the joyous ripples

                              of your meditations

                              and are stirred into song.







                         GOD AND US


                         God is our silence

                         and we are His song.










                 Today I heard a voice

                 which was pure, feminine music,

                 and it smote all self-help jargon

                 and overly educated psycho babble.

                 This woman's voice softly stoked my soul.

                 Her every pause and intonation

                 was music. And so I say,

                 To be spiritual is to grow a singing soul

                 which shall be heard in your voice

                 and seen in your movements

                 and manner of deeds.









                    There are diamonds in the fragmented wastes

                    of the past

                    which refuse to be dismissed,

                    which cannot be ground into oblivion

                    within the mill of the busy mind.

                    They pop out of the dark shimmering

                    networks of electric pulp

                    and blare like silent saxophones,

                    their light flashes in fantasies

                    from the prime-mind of childhood:

                    imaginings which may lead to madness

                    or imperishable paradises.







                         This is the beginning

                         of a fresh journey back,

                         struggling against the same old forces

                         which have always burdened our souls:

                         remorse, fear, anger,

                         dissipation, indecisiveness.

                         The journey is into a simple light

                         radiant within the full light of this moment.

                         Yielding into grace is the way

                         --and thankfulness!

                         There is a subtle music

                         inherent in being clear:

                         God's singing voice

                         joyfully tumbles through the soul

                         making it percolate!








                         WE HAVE BEEN CAST INTO THE MILL OF GOD


                         We have been cast into the mill of God,

                         He who afflicts us

                         and heals us,

                         who visits the sins of our parents upon us

                         (writing them into our bones),

                         yet is grieved over our distresses,

                         putting away our sins,

                         and saying, "You shall not die..."

                         This is our condition,

                         the furnace which tries us;

                         and what shall we say,

                         "Curse God and die?"

                         or, shall we cry out,

                         "Let us fall now into the hand of the Lord;

                         for his mercies are astonishing"?

                                                       2 Sam 24:14







                              PURPOSE AND MEANING, ETC.


                              All serves this end,

                              to be with our Heavenly Friend.










                    That God would be made glorious

                    in human hearts and minds,

                    and that human beings would grow

                    beautiful and free in God,

                    full of goodness and wonder

                    in the wild and wise Lord of Host.









                    To write from the deepest core

                    of being

                    is the goal:

                    from the place beyond words,

                    from the sheer creative wonder,

                    the perfect freedom.

                    Only compassion opens those springs,

                    and what ever issues forth from there

                    is born of, and fragrant with











                         WE MUST MAKE THE WORDS OF GOD SING AGAIN!


                         "God is within His Holy temple,

                         let the whole earth sing!"


                         We must make the words of God sing again!

                         When the prophets spoke

                         fire leapt off their tongues

                         to lick up the earth.

                         Too often,

                         dust just drifts from our lips,

                         to subtly smother flame.

                         It is a free people

                         who shall speak a fire

                         which leaps up

                         from luminous bones.







                         A LIVING VISION IN THE WINTER


                         I saw a hundred birds

                         fall from the trees,

                         tumble from the sky

                         down upon a grassy field.

                         They ate the refuse

                         of last fall's

                         death of the trees.

                         There was joy and fear in the birds,

                         expressed in peeps and chatter

                         and nervous skittering.

                         They could only persist for a short while, 

                         then were forced by their hearts

                         to arise like a whirring

                         black wave into the air,

                         to alight high in barren trees

                         that they might in freedom

                         rub their beaks

                         upon branches

                         and sing.          





                         THERE IS A WHITE BLAZE OF LIFE


                         There is a white blaze of life

                         when spirit and body come together

                         to release

                         ecstatic blessing.







                         WHEN I TAKE MY IDENTITY


                         When I take my identity

                         from the world

                         and all I project upon it from my own heart

                         I am lost

                         in lands of hollow masks.

                         But when I know who I am

                         by the words of God

                         which come

                         in epiphanies of spirit

                         and choices of faith,

                         my heart opens

                         to the green-growing process

                         of becoming a man

                         with a substantial face

                         who can gaze right through

                         empty eyes of masks

                         into the eyes of beauty

                         hidden within eyes.





                              THE END OF HELL


                              Two angry currents

                              meet in a narrow gorge.

                              Swirling furies clash.

                              The churning waters

                              spill out into a broad,

                              peaceful plain.

                              The currents kiss

                              and grow quiet.

                              Slowly, murky sediments drop out.

                              Like a silver mirror

                              the quiet waters reflect

                              a brilliant sun

                              and a constantly shifting sky.





                         LIES AND ABERRATIONS


                         An innocent child dreams

                         that mothers and fathers

                         are luminous gods

                         created to dance

                         in warm, family circles

                         around perpetual Christmas trees.

                         Yet cold rain roars down

                         gutter spouts

                         from dark skies

                         when the Christmas tree is broken

                         --and whose fault will it be?

                         The child withdraws

                         to dance alone

                         in a closed closet,

                         and stare at distorted shadows

                         of her radiant self

                         in a mirror

                         that demons hold.








                   God wants us to exercise our nakedness...

                   of faith.









                   Every poet should have a repertoire of music

                   inside him...

                   How else shall we become his poems?

                   But, must every poet sing?

                   I have heard the vapid voices of many poets

                   and my heart could not ascend

                   beyond the laboring of my head.

                   Enough said.







                         WE MUST LISTEN TO THE EMERGENT


                         There is something warm

                         and fragrant with horse hair

                         and pipe smoke

                         which is seeking to emerge

                         through the portals of my soul.

                         There is something soft

                         and slender,

                         something golden

                         and blue,

                         that is seeking to slip

                         through silver fissures

                         of glassy spirit.






                         WHEN OUR WHOLE SOUL LOVES...


                         When our whole soul loves

                         the divine and merciful love

                         which loves our whole soul

                         then a new imaginative vision

                         emerges, and with it,

                         a new world.





                         IT IS GOD'S OWN BEAUTY

                         WHICH SHALL SAVE THE WORLD


                         It is God's own beauty

                         which shall save the world.






                    WALKING WITH THE NAKED ONES


                    There are children

                    almost gone mad in their need,

                    who starve amidst sleepers of the night,

                    starving in the richness of light,

                    being weakened down into envy

                    until a voice resounds—

                    holy in their flesh—

                    and they too long

                    for a people passionate

                    to be the sacrifice,

                    like those who loved enough

                    to die for love...

                    and made their choice as strong as steel

                    to be mad disciples

                    of the holy:

                    walking with the naked ones

                    in the beginning of beauty.







                    IN THE TEMPLE OF THE BRIDE


                    We are alone, only because our wounds dream

                    we are alone, while at every instant

                    flies the singing life, and the beauty flares

                    out of God's eyes into our world:

                    like angel forms of many colors in words;

                    like flames, and winds, and stones that live.








                         When I write a poem

                         for my own restless worm

                         that musical, mystical cow

                         who walks in God's eyes

                         hides behind a pale moon

                         and fades from the skies.

                         When I write for the freedom

                         of a beautiful woman

                         hidden somewhere, sometime...

                         the bridegroom rejoices

                         for His scampish bride!

                         and sings His mystical rhyme:

                         while that whimsical cow

                         trots out of the sun,

                         happy about everyone.










                         The magical, mottled Blue Cow

                         who walks the earth and skies

                         asked me what my life was like without her?

                         I said,

                         "I am like a little bird sitting alone on a branch

                         gazing at the skies,

                         afraid of falling, and yet longing to fly."

                         Then She looked right through me

                         with her huge brown eyes

                         and asked,

                         "Oh, so that is why you hold

                         so tightly to the branch."







                         ANOTHER LOOK AT A LIFE'S CALL

                         (Writing for the lily of God)


                         To give new life

                         to the mystical, musical

                         life of God

                         in the Christian tradition

                         until God's singing

                         moves through us

                         like a silver stream

                         cascading in the dim starlight

                         of the dark.






                              THE DEEPEST, OLDEST DEPTH


                              The deepest, oldest depth

                              --the depth ancient prayer chapels

                              can only allude to in their silences--

                              is the age-enduring depth

                              of the eternal God

                              who is luminous

                              and growing younger.






                         I WANT SPRINGTIME TO LEAP

                         OUT OF ALL YOUNG PEOPLE'S EYES


                         I want springtime to leap

                         out of all young people's eyes,

                         something fresh

                         something implacably joyous.

                         Damn the dark

                         of the wound-closed soul.

                         I damn it

                         because of passion

                         for the light!

                         We have sophisticated delusion

                         to the point

                         where insanity mushrooms,

                         so expanding and multiplying its powers

                         as to birth

                         a new dark age.

                         We are incubating the vandals

                         who shall devour us

                         without a twinge of conscience.

                         The young people are mourning.

                         Some call it outrage--

                         I name it grief!

                         Grief for the loss of that

                         lime-green love

                         which should be shooting up

                         from their tender loins

                         into their throats

                         and spilling out

                         in mischievous songs

                         of wild and wise joy!





                         UNLOCK OUR HEARTS


                         It is our life's work

                         to open our hearts

                         unto the Beloved

                         that He might


                         the free winds

                         of the Holy One

                         through every soul.






                         OUR AMERICAN YOUTH


                         Our American youth

                         should be bathed

                         in the Beloved One's joy!

                         Artesian wells

                         should be flowing

                         from their bellies,

                         flames in their hearts

                         making radiant

                         their words.






                         DAVID DANCED BEFORE THE LORD


                         David danced naked before the seraphim.

                         Michael was ashamed of him...

                         Isaiah went naked for over a year.

                         Even his mother thought it was queer.

                         (I wonder what Pharisees had to say

                         when Isaiah walked around that way?)

                         Child of God, there are masks we wear--

                         a mirror must shatter, veils must tear.

                         Silver waters cascade in a bowl;

                         in we dive, all naked of soul.

                         Become transparent! prophets cry,

                         die to death before you die.

                         Old things meld with ever new...

                         Christ, the Holy, sees through you.

                         "Look!" God shouts, and leaps around,

                         "A window walks upon the ground.

                         A sky-child opens, and I feel

                         the ecstasy of being real!"







                         A FREE COMING AND GOING


                         Lilly shall come

                         when I am free of Lilly

                         as God comes

                         when I am free of God.









                         This silence I can feel

                         is the same silence Jesus felt;

                         these stars the ones that Homer watched

                         before he went blind,

                         this water I drink has passed through the gills

                         of a million fish,

                         swallowed Jonah down,

                         was pumped through the heart of Abraham Lincoln,

                         poured from a chalice into Cleopatra's lips.

                         And am I breathing molecules

                         that Tolstoy breathed?

                         New souls are best brewed up

                         by the heat of the spirit

                         in the ancient tea of the elements.

                         We are always at the root of things!







                         WHAT A HOLY WONDER!


                         This beautiful Spirit flowing through my brain

                         has been before the Universe was.

                         And I am just a human child

                         come so lately amongst

                         time's ancient particulars:

                         What a holy wonder!

                         these roots and things.











                         I HAVE A LITTLE ALIBI

                         (For Crazy Emily In Heaven)


                         I have a little alibi,

                         the feathered chorister cries,

                         for never going to the church

                         where holy sacrament lies:

                         behind a little doorway,

                         within a case of glass,

                         upon an altar of the moon,

                         within the winds that pass.

                         I am a singer of the sun

                         drunk with smells of spring,

                         lost in wild flowered fields

                         with hymns of love to sing.

                         And so when Sunday comes again

                         I never know it’s past,

                         I like my heaven everyday

                         until it comes at last.





                         STEAM DRIVEN


                         When the silver shivers of the flesh,

                         those cold waters of the core,

                         run into God's fires--

                         watch out!

                         The steam might burn you!

                         The steam might drive things--

                         make things work!





                         A NEW POEM TO GOD


                         You are my lost youth.

                         You the round, white breast,

                         the slim thighs,

                         the free-hearted laughter

                         beneath careless skies.

                         Is it an offense

                         to image God thus?

                         Great Creator, Infinite Maker,

                         fire between the Seraphim stuff!

                         How else shall I bring you

                         all my heart and soul?

                         How else shall I be melted

                         into a passionate whole?

                         There is a young innocent girl

                         who leads the lion and the lamb;

                         there is a curly headed youth

                         who is the old, I am.

                         There is a round, white breast

                         dripping with silver dew,

                         a new blasphemy to tear the veils

                         and let the glory through.






                         THERE IS A SILVER ECSTASY


                         There is a silver ecstasy

                         in the golden core of God,

                         there is an unhealable wound

                         from which the amalgam flows.






                         CONCERNING POETRY


                         There is a hole

                         in the teat of my soul.

                         God, the milkmaid,

                         sings to me

                         as She wrings

                         the udder dry.








                         ON BIBLICAL IMAGES OF GOD

                         THAT GOT OVERLOOKED

                         BY REPRESSIVE, CELIBATE PRIEST


                         God is a great King

                         --his dark, radiant eyes;

                         his flowing beard!

                         And God is a slim young maid,

                         free spirited, spunky,

                         wise and beautiful.

                         And the Holy Spirit

                         is God as free flowing

                         creativity and passion

                         that passes between

                         God and God.

                         And this God,

                         (the love affair),

                         became a poor man,

                         an itinerate preacher

                         who spent little time in church

                         but worshiped all night

                         under the stars,

                         letting the King and His maid

                         and fiery rivers of their love

                         course through him.

                         And he walked through fields by day

                         in their multifaceted clasp.

                         And his words were clothed with images

                         of life and spoke the festival

                         of divine passion.

                         And thus he became the courage of their love

                         and clothed God with new imagery

                         to awaken minds—

                         for which he was crucified.

                         But the slim young maid laughed

                         and kissed him in the tomb

                         and he became a deathless prince

                         who seeks an earthly bride.

                         This is Yahweh, the fluid, imaginative

                         living imagery flowered from

                         infinite dimensions of imageless











                         Once upon a time

                         God became a poor man...

                         and the man became

                         a prophetic rascal

                         and miraculous lover

                         of God in God, and God in time,

                         and God emergent in man.

                         Then the sly rascal died to kill

                         the seditious dragon of 7 seas

                         and thus release His captive bride

                         from an enchanter’s spell of death in life

                         and other forms of sleep.

                         As wondrous as a fairy tale,

                         He was raised from the dead

                         as a great prince,

                         transformed to bodily express

                         in unmitigated glory

                         the great King,

                         (who had made up the whole story Himself),

                         and His spunky, young, whimsical bride,

                         and the bright flowing

                         river of their freedom.







                    The dark child in me

                    arose from its shadows

                    and smote the dark child in him.

                    Wounds create wounds, which create wounds.


                    There is an endless abyss

                    which can yawn open

                    and scare a soul spitless.

                    If that soul should then run,

                    it shall run and run and run...

                    Though it puts on a million masks

                    of bravado--it is on the run!


                    There is a golden child

                    who alone can make a hungry wolf

                    lie down with a lamb,

                    a bear and a calf feed together.

                    And if that child should put

                    its hand over the hole of an asp--

                    the abyss shall close forever.


                    And where is this golden child,

                    you may inquire?


                    It lives within a luminous light

                    just below the bottom

                    of the deepest well

                    of the human heart.

                    This is the bottom of the black well

                    wherein a dark child lies chained

                    and abandoned,

                    thrashing its arms and legs in wild anger.

                    I have heard that if we reach forth

                    with compassionate courage

                    to touch the face of that dark child

                    our searching fingers may touch the golden child

                    stretching forth its radiant embrace.

                    And again, if we shall embrace that dark, angry child

                    with tenderest love...

                    the bottom of our heart drops out

                    and we fall through it

                    into light.






                    THE HOLY CIRCLE


                    With a stick, draw a holy circle on a barren ridge

                    where you can gaze out on sumptuous nothingness.

                    When you get enough spaciousness around you

                    it helps you dig down to open space within.

                    Light a small fire of sweet grasses

                    and the fragrant sap of trees.

                    Its smoke purifies the mind as soon as it arises

                    from the hot coal of the heart.

                    Mix a hawk call with the loud cry of your voice,

                    then shout silence into the eye of the sun.


                    The ancient ones called upon God's name

                    when the world was thick with primal silence.

                    There were holy circles everywhere!


                    I placed three stones on the edge of a crooked circle

                    hastily drawn amidst slate stones and scattered grass.

                    The stone on the left was black as the pupil

                    of a deep-soul’s eye.

                    The one on the right was as yellow

                    as a gossamer butterfly wing I beheld in a dream.

                    The central stone was round and plump--

                    white like a woman's breast or bread dough.

                    I prayed half the morning sitting on the black stone,

                    recounting every sorrow of my life

                    and dry weeping in the dry air,

                    and prayed half the afternoon on the yellow stone,

                    remembering all my ecstasies with thankfulness.

                    It was when I sat on the white stone

                    and laid one hand reverently on the black

                    and the other on the yellow

                    that I sang a new song of praise.

                    Then two hawks soared out

                    of the white pain of the sun in my eyes

                    and the whole world became a holy circle.






                    THE HOLY TREE


                    The holy tree, the holy tree

                    its roots and branches are deep in me,

                    and all the birds which God set free

                    shall come and sing in the holy tree.









                    If an old man should gather his heart

                    to dream of better ages and ways

                    as he tends tulips and roses around his door,

                    should he be faulted for the waste

                    of his latter years, merely lavishing soul

                    upon white pages with his windows thrown open

                    to the day and starlight?

                    This is an age that would plunder the holy,

                    recouching in science's useful tongue

                    ancient mysteries the wise approached

                    only with reverential heart offered

                    to the Holy Maker and all the invisible hosts

                    who tend our soul-growing ways.

                    As merchants break through bulwarks

                    to use even the quiet and meditative deep for profit,

                    poet's must fight, as poets have ever fought,

                    with fire-words gleaned in gardens

                    and the solitude of night.

                    Come now, watch with me and we shall keep our souls

                    for that Lover who has molded the human heart

                    into a bridal chamber erected under a veil

                    of shimmering stars; a stable,

                    dense with the holy smell of milk;

                    a straw and silk bed of passionate love;

                    a place where one dream can shatter a thousand oppressors,

                    where all broken things are mended.

                    Let us remember, through the beauty words can weave,

                    that wild, primal, wisdom of the ages

                    which is now being so energetically recast

                    into systems of profit.





                    WORDS UPON AWAKENING


                    Pray like little children pray.

                    You may ask for something beautiful.

                    Amen is the answer.






                         IN A MAN'S LOVE A HOLY WOMAN IS SEEN

                         AS IN A WOMAN'S LOVE IS GLIMPSED THE MAN


                         I, in my masculine strength

                         shall be the bride, as you,

                         in all your soft feminine beauty,

                         shall bear to me

                         the Bridegroom.








                    We can love the beauty of the holy

                    and become by a mitzvah of deeds

                    the beauty of the holy we love.






                         A TRUE TREE SONG UNTO GOD


                         Is there ecstasy in a tree?

                         Could it be that when wind shakes branches

                         a billion silver flashes of ecstasy

                         course through moist heart wood?

                         And, couldn't tree-ecstasy

                         be a true tree-song

                         unto God?