across undivided chasm
keep me close
the power of thought
can it transcend a mountain,
a gorge,
a stream
boasting of its righteousness?
no ~
the power is in the people
who take their lot
and eat it
manifest my own favor
by the power of Love
now we don’t wear masks
to pretend who we are

coronavirus masks 1

Good Measure


be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good food
of good words
of sunshine
and rain

be counsel to yourself
and take good measure
of good laughter
of good song
of activity
and repose

none of this
is charity measured
but abundance itself
and sweet gratitude
for the self
and the other

for in the end
we are all the parent
we are all the voice
much like the God
who brought us here

and in the end
we are all the love
much like the joy
and potent wisdom
that keeps the world kind



he slows down
like a well seasoned Friday
that event horizon

where time cannot touch us

we sit at the edge and wait
for time to also slow
for on this side
time cannot really stop

by the light of the moon

there’s a shack
or a house, or a hut, or a lake
it’s wherever the lovers meet
in their imagined reality

can they see them? I think not

can they hear them?
I say what for?
come with me, my friend, he says
quietly opening her door

can I think it, like a shore?

an idea written inside of a notebook
can I be it, like a book
an idea written inside of her head?

sweet ghost, you are mine I know

elusive in your transparentness


Floating Rain

sacred geometry

the universe danced
like a bout of rowdy lovemaking
yet also like a sacred, secret shared
between father and daughter

the universe danced
as if to remind her
of when she danced
besides its still waters
long before the heavens were made

look, I can float the rain
he cried
and she delighted in it
for she was both in it,
and was it

much like the creatures
that played by her side
in that night of gravity upended
to remind her of love’s

who am I to be gifted
so sweet
who am I
oh mystery complete

that I would find myself floating

inside the floating rain

Tour of Duty

the spy

she once met a man
who transformed his state

by material means
like a vehicle in wait

oh military,
industrial complex

she again met the man
now he’s transformed his look

not by inner reflection
or that of the book

that predicts his own
tragic destruction

for one can’t protect
a security idol

and one can’t reject
the knowledge one seeks

wisdom is each child
looking out of a window

not the theory 
that men can save millions

the question is not
is he good
is he bad

and the question is not
is she happy
or sad

the question has always been
whom do you trust?

and who would steal I
for material us?


Underground Railroads

blog image snow white looking

Guardians of Light
protect us from darkness,
from not seeing,
from not hearing,
from building walls to not know

Protect us from paralysis and fear,
from judgements against self,
and others
that grow like tangled weeds and knots
upon our broken heartedness

Show us instead
signs that lead way
keys that unlock,
and doors that open quietly
right through our scars and cracks

Show us pathways to freedom
turbulent though they may be
hat one day we’ll arrive, joyous,
inside grand and inner sanctum
so large, no heart can
contain it

And then we will fall
upon bended knee
to kiss the sweet soil
that births the sacred, the true, and the immortal 





Valentine’s Day, 2019

Recently I listened to an author describe how his interior guides dictated a book, that he published successfully, shortly thereafter.

Sometimes my bodily pain is so severe, I can’t even imagine having the energy to write, unless the words themselves are provided like this – and I am practically handed the pen. Automatic writing has happened to me before, and it never fails to astonish, for the language received tends to be very cryptic, beautiful, and full of meaning, even when I feel by myself I am not.

I must have whispered prayers in the night that I would receive another ready-made composition of this sort.

Shortly after 8:00 a.m., I awoke, my clairaudience turned on. Prose started to flow from somewhere inside of me, without effort, and I grabbed a pen off the nightstand to secure the words on paper, before they evaporated like a dream, from my mind.

In reviewing what I wrote, it was, of course, like discovering and reading it for the first time. I realized that “cupboard” must refer to my heart, and glass “bottle” – the body – which contains and limits the soul, until it is released through death, or perhaps enlightenment. I found God’s use of culinary allegories with me entirely fitting, and more than a little entertaining in parts. It made me want smile.

“Onions” are what my mother planted to keep animals out of her garden, but could also mean distractions that keep people from finding out the truth. I  have uploaded pictures of my actual, open-faced cupboards, which I found ready and waiting, as if just to illustrate this piece.

I am calling it Autobiography, because I received it from a Source with Whom I am quite familiar, but One that I also recognize as the Voice that resides within each of us, and some call the Christ.

And I share them, these few, intuited words below,  because I feel they were meant for me to share, like a glass from just such an open cupboard… or open heart.

Happy Valentine’s Day.


I am taking off a lifetime of pain

When I was twenty years old
the dam broke
the colors colliding,
like an off-put canvas
Household items lined up,
like cracked pots
to take with me


The visions had ceased
All around me the pain,
the stares

What does it take to
believe in a miracle?
they asked with a grin

Finding themselves shoeless,
on my path

Don’t go away
The cupboards will burn
The dishes will fly


place your onions at the door

When Spring came
the rains had stopped
and everyone cheered

Like a hen getting out of a truck
I didn’t even know how to drive

they killed me some more

White paper lined the floor
like parchment
with his portrait and portfolio

blog image wedding arms with gloves and dress

Shut the door
The cops aren’t coming anymore

In June the news came
of a city on a hill
glistening with radiance

How do they make those little cakes
that stand up
like needles on their edge?

Further more,
the door’s shut

so how can it bleed?

A raptor,
a pigeon
and a bird

He sees what he knows

like glass in a pan

blog image reflecting rose

What are you thinking my child?

I see you and I love you
I was always with you
my child
The tears flow and this time
they are tears of joy

Walk away from the pain
Walk away from those you love
But don’t walk away from me

For I am the one
who started it all
with a bottle of love
and a plan
laid out like cards
that can’t fail

The bottle has been broken
but the love is limitless
like a magic trick
designed to catch
your deceivers

Put it away in your cupboard
like spices on a rack
Use it liberally
wherever you go

In the end you will see
that was all that mattered

It contains seeds like nutmeg
that grow rampant in the rain
in the snow

Wherever you go
I am always with you
in your heart

Just look inside of it

fiery heart