A Little Book of Intuited Grace


live life
like all the kingdom’s come,
our chariots of fire
dripping with gravy
for gone are the religions of old
in which we would
sacrifice our own
to the gods
who would eat them –
with a fork


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unlike our bellies,
the center of the pumpkin pies
didn’t jiggle so much
when pulled from the oven
but like our minds
the light
was cast in delicate,
albeit dim

a joke?
but a season –
to celebrate

not only the child
in the hay
but our own

in form

New Years

she’d been finding dimes
one, two, three, four,
on the sidewalk,
in a shoe,
pressed into

her own hand
I think he wanted to be sure
she had heard the news
that you don’t have to die
to be reborn

though he’d taken that route
a torch
the whole way
now with burdens relieved
he could lift that flame
much higher
so that
his daughter could soar
bearing only the weight
of her own wings

The Book Collector’s Present

I once read
I think
in a book somewhere
that the word “sin”
really means
to miss the mark
like a perception
gone askew
with much relief
I might add
I found this out
for I once thought
sin meant
I wasn’t ignorant
but “bad”
one might feel compelled
not to be stupid
I mused
if well-intended
leads to death
and destruction
one can imagine
my concern
when I missed honoring
the book collector’s
with a gift
of appropriate
it was after all
his eightieth plus two
and I hoped
my failure to mark it
wouldn’t hurry up
his time here
or my own
(even though
it wasn’t my fault
damn that deadly
what do you give
the creative genius
whose birthday
came as stealthily
and silently
as the color
permeating leaves
in an unpretentious
but blithe
this man has everything
and creates much
gives much
mostly himself
all away
to his friends
seemingly numerous
as the books
on his shelves
and unlike so many
who just let
books sit there
gathering dust
he has read most of his,
his books
and his persons
and has kept
their stories alive
he is the most
and caring
book curator
in all the world
I feel
he has a way of
adding to
whatever he reads
and whomever he meets
seeing more
extracting more
than the written
or spoken word
can exhume
or tell
he is
in fact
a creative reader
who once left a
treasure map
inside of a book
about hidden railroads
and secret tunnels
for me to come across
as if to
help me find
my way home again
whenever I needed
the refuge
is not hidden treasure
the most
appropriate gift
found right
where we left it
already inside
one another?
and so I’ve determined
the only gift
I can give
in proportionate measure
along with my own story
is a thank you
for his
and to assure
the book collector
that he
unlike some of us
never “misses his mark”
or ever fails
to leave its impression
because he forever
and leaves
on the inner pages
of our hearts


merit road
we walk along it
like fine king’s men
our head’s held high
when will we venture
to safety
seeing our kingdom
through half strewn eyes
those in attendance
like couriers
breaching the beach
with their sand
the guardsman,
I laugh
but I am lonely here
at the darkest side
of the table
make sure you
abandon me
that we would reunite
in a next life
the forgotten virtue
that fruit of the vine
in that time
the forgotten kingdom
for everyone
to wake up

Direction of the Light

the frightened philosopher
was afraid to come in here
he said
as he gently tucked
a loose tendril
of wisteria
back into itself
they were always coming loose
like wisps of hair
across my forehead
from the tangled vine
in which they grew
hanging over our heads
that marked the entrance
to the garden
his movements were
too swift to see
and I wonder vaguely
do angels do such things
with a hand
or a wing
oh yes! I said

I love it in here now
you know
once I realized
from where

the light was coming
is it always like this?
do words mean
more than themselves
and the events of the day
do they always sing
in such glorious alignment?

for even when I seem to die
I know there will be
something in me
that seems to float

Morning Clairaudience

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some voices are thin
some voices ring
in my head
like imposed cacophony
but my voices
are not like hers
so I remain
in the sheets
my head singing

my heart longing
for the ones
that remove
all assumptions
perhaps if I stay
in that place
that delicious place

between heaven and earth
I can figure it out
perhaps apologize

for not
incarnating today
but as I roll over to hit
the snooze alarm
unambiguous says
get up now

The Last Funeral Mass

Eve…what a beautiful name. And New Years Eve…the expression would inspire hope. It seems so tragic this past year has been marked by many deaths and funerals, that we couldn’t even attend in person.

But there are people saying this New Year’s Eve of 2021, despite the pandemic and all we have endured or perhaps, because of it ~ they sense a shift in the force.

This includes me.

I will go further and state I believe humanity is in spiritual labor, that despite everything, mankind is about to die to something to give birth to something, something better described as a non thing ~ or Substantive, Universal Awareness.

I find myself pondering the “Eve” in Genesis.

I wonder if the word translated “Eve” really meant not a gender, not a woman,  but womb-man or mankind with the free will to conceive things, or realize things, from within. It also could mean  “labor before New Birth”. She is vulnerable, but with vast potential.

Certainly today, more people than myself have woken up to the reality that outer material systems and authoritative institutions often fail to serve those very humans they were designed to serve.

And I believe when the material, pre-evolved form of a thing, or a letter of law (like a literalist approach to Scripture) is put before the invisible spiritual, or human good it is supposed to serve, it becomes an inhumane monster, an idolatrous “graven image” serving itself.

The older I get, the more I see this phenomena happening all around me. Corrupt police force (that was supposed to defend all human life, assuming it vulnerable and innocent) and the Black Lives Matter movement, is an example of it.

Real human beings – sacrificed for or abused by inhuman systems, powers or beasts of man –  are often the first to realize that true Love and Unity, what we universally recognize as the higher “God or Good” force in all of us (regardless of whether or not we even believe in God) can only be conceived from within. Perhaps the pandemic is serving to remind, in allegory, that old, outer forms must pass away and if they are rebuilt, must be built in a way that protects that which is invisible and lays within, or is at heart and is spiritually substantive.

We as humans have long tapped man’s intellect, or material perceptions, for outer discoveries and material “goods” as the answers to life’s problems. But what if mankind’s survival rests not in outer attainment, but individual, inner enlightenment, and intuitive communication with one’s higher self, or Divine within, including within those persons we are in “habit” of perceiving as the enemy?

For what really kills – if not old habits, that die hard?

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Old “shells” are comfortable. But we will surely die if we don’t shed them. They keep us from communication with, and even seeing, others of our kind. The artificial or “material” self-produced division gives the false impression we are separate, above or beneath others in importance.

One would think in a world in which conspiracy theories and assumptions abound, and sometimes are even glorified like new religious dogma – used to justify cruelty or irresponsibility against our own neighbor, human beings would also be able to conceive that we all experience a Christmas, a Passover, and a Ramadan. And perhaps those of us best equipped to inform or aid the other in understanding the “true nature of things” are not those who are most educated, or who have things, but those who most represent in their life journey the Universal Christ ~whether they be Christian, Jew, Muslim, atheist or agnostic.

My Christmas/New Years wish for all of us is that there will be a moment in which this realization of true, undying unity comes to fruition in all of our hearts.

Whether we be on one side of the globe or the other, whether we be practicing a religious tradition, or not, whether we be serving soup to keep someone warm and alive in a practical sense, whether we be seemingly alone, with only our guardian angel’s wings wrapped around us, or searching our corner of the sky for that new Christmas star (because we do not want our loved one’s to catch COVID-19), may we feel that Golden Light, that Divine Invisible Substance, which truly unites all of us, and issues in a New Day and a Love that material or mental viruses can’t ever kill or destroy. We are approaching the brink of an event horizon.

Can you see it, can you know it, without utilizing material perception?

For in the end dust is dust, but Spirit sings in the new Nature…of things.

And even though my own material expressions fall short when I try to describe what I observe and hope for from “inside”, I will dare to describe it in allegory:

The Last Funeral Mass

let’s build in matter’s image
said man
and construct forms,
and laws
they will be necessary
for if not man
who else
will save the world?
but the sound of
Woman weeping
troubled them so,
for she would not hush
nor accept their offer
of plea bargain
she had not
to her own demise
nor was she blaming
for theirs
(it was rumored)
she conceived
without them
did away with genders
or reflected
them both
inside of herself
and they held meeting
to determine
if they could
still call her
a her anymore
a song had been born
from her tears
or perhaps
The Song
had been born
like a burbling brook,
crystal clear water,
a river
or the motion in it
damn it
grumbled the men
 it is just
like the wind
this background noise
it is persistent
but elusive
some freak
deja vu
the men couldn’t put
their finger on it
what they feared
about this sound
that wasn’t a sound
and this mere woman
who wasn’t mere woman
from whence The Song
without effort
or strategy
and they did fear it
like sorrow,
or discomfort,
and unexpected
a beautiful,
yet plaintive  
funeral song
that’s what it was
that she sang,
that’s what it was
they figured,
and asked
is not this
sort of thing
or contagious?
they wondered if
her song
was somehow
about them
though it bore
no actual resemblance
and she seemed sad
but happy
at the same time
while the song
seemed to grow
and expand
echo back at them
out of their own heads
they feared it
and hated it so
because they couldn’t hold it,
or touch it,
to make it definable,
and containable
or give it a label
a form,
a package
or box
to make it safe
for human consumption
it was too unpredictable,
too vulnerable,
too wild,
too free,
too rapid
for thought
or human logistics
like she had already shed
her own shell
without authorization
or permission
from higher command
who did she think
she was?
and they did think
it must be stupid,
this fruit
what woman had birthed
but actually swifter
more direct
than them
and their inhuman
as if this spirit
this spirit
of hers
this non material
this conception
always had
a mind
of its own
or worse
was a mind
of its own
different than theirs
from their plans
for her
and the child-song’s
greater good
didn’t the woman
and child
know they were
in danger?
in fact
she and her own
seemed quite at home
in their lovely place
in the woods
where her table was set
with invisible fine things
and she invited them
to dine
on invisible abundance,
the invisible laughing
a beautiful,
dinner bell chime
how crazy was that
how inappropriate
they felt it was
for a funeral
how dare she
who was she
how was she
even still alive
yet alone,
they wondered,
a white wedding veil
had not they created
what really mattered
a material
body of knowledge
and she borne
only what couldn’t
be seen
the ghost
we thought
we eliminated
centuries ago
for her own sake
when we condemned her
for understanding
the fruit
of the tree
the first time
I know
said one
how to fix this
(for they were
after all men,
did I mention)
let’s burn her house down
set fire to the trees
that hide her child
from us
that way he will have to
come out
and show his face
show us
who he really is
that which we cannot
or reflect
in our own image
a likeness
that we
can’t even see
and they came at her
with weapons
of mass destruction
but the fire
would not catch,
or light,
or burn those living trees
that she had nurtured
with her own hands
only their black suits
and their own instruments
of death
caught fire
they noticed their hands
now matched their clothing
and were dirty
and marked
with inky black soot
while she calmly reproved them
telling them hurry
and wash up for dinner
she said
you are like
soldered clocks
ticking no time,
while my labor
is complete
for this last
funeral mass
this one
last time
we are not celebrating
the death of my son,
my song
the Love of my heart
who is not made of matter
and cannot die
but celebrating his rebirth
at the death
of your own
for yours is what
is no longer useful
the empty chalice,
a rusted metal vessel
all along


they come in various flocks
to sing
triumphant journeys
over me

while I stay still
imagining them
the heralds of movement
of my soul

journeys do you speak
oh quiet one
who sings your song at night
that watchful, weary eyes
can’t see?

Who whispers stories
just out of reach
like feathers of birds
or angel’s wings

that disappear
upon human touch
when the dark of daylight
shadows me?

without reason or cause
but Remembrance

that I know
from somewhere beyond
the conscious state

Like an instinct
to fly up,
up through the skies
like a bird

Because I hear you
calling me
saying come fly
come dance
 come soar with me

For if not
for short statured
my little soul

you are bigger than
the world

Virgin Birth

oh Lady of Wisdom
of the desert
of the woods
this is your castle
and home
send torrents of angels
like rain
upon us
adept in your science
and mathematics
of grace
and sacred geometry
so that in the
morning light
we might find ourselves
like our true labor
and true
rendered garments
and combat ready
not with weapons
of mass destruction
men use
in their killing fields
but with Love
for it is only
who realizes
her own Revelation
who gives birth to
the one power
mightier than
the sword.

Munchausen by Proxy

my mother has mirrors
like those intricately carved
and gilded in gold
what a queen
might have used
or film stars
of the 1940’s
without their mirrors
and stories of old
the scrubbing never ended
the scrubbing of dishes,
and pots and plates
it could never be finished
what I mean is
one was always

jealous step sister
with too big feet
or the second one in line
for the throne
the third runner up
for some kind of
film star award
no matter what one’s
royal lineage
until one took off

one’s apron
to relax for a bit
perhaps mom took off
a pink one

the one with green stitching
and pointed and starched
black lace
that she had sewn
all by herself

from scraps
she had retrieved from

the rag bin
and found herself
content to cast image
onto something
or someone

else for awhile
and that’s how it all
got started
so long ago
the spell casting

of images
Mom’s magic mirrors
the mistaking
of her own reflection
for a daughter
in the silverware
or the dinner plates
Mom still holds things up
for inspection
wherever she finds
her magic mirrors
and sees reflections
and hears voices
that seem to make life
not shiny enough
or make the neighbors
gossip and point

and now
all I have to remember

remember her by
Mom’s true self
is my own grief
when she casts with
such impunity
and purpose
like a professional
to make me the object
of all that she despises
in her imagination
inside of herself