POETRY
The standing and running homeless man,
tattered clothes falling off his body
naked below the waist
in the frigid afternoon
I walked a mile before running out of options
The standing and running homeless man,
leaping from sidewalk to sidewalk
with nothing to claim
but himself
directing the sacred to me
I found left over scraps of food on the train
The standing and running homeless man
leaving his clothes and empty cart,
in front of the business
with the wind at his moving pace,
retracing his self-connection to a moment out of time
I talked to Edward and James in their shelterless sanctities
I listen to mindfulness on the computer
after conflict
and never return
to who I’m supposed to be,
absorbing the sun
with the other side
of the standing and running homeless man.
pg. 1
I am
with the squirrel
who leaps,
rapidly winding it’s tail
up and down
catching the peace
of the forest
in its hands,
with the acorn.
As wars and struggle persist,
the silence in this tree
the countless pine needles on the earth
the constant will to thrive
find me
finding simplicity.
pg. 2
The wooden bench
I sat on
under the shining sun
before your death
we sat on
in the briskness of time.
Me
back
to that wooden bench
older,
standing by myself
watching the waves
hurl into one another
like each crescendo
immediately eliminates illusion
bluer than blue
sounding like
the purity of eternalness
foaming with white, gray and green,
throwing
sand, pebbles, shells and rocks
around
like impermanence’s hand
like a standing ovation
to the arena of realization
underneath the sand
That togetherness
that twenty years
that suffering
that meteor shower we saw
that quote
“The journey of a thousand miles
begins with the first step”
pg. 3
We are
death
birth
in between-
vague, foggy cellars of mud
but tearing to shreds the hope
that hope will last
while it
and its tandem, rabbit-hole cause
sculpts finite expectations
that are not in the now.
I
am
not a catalog
in this catalogued
right-wrong mind-verse.
I’m
like the leaves of a tree in the sun
near the ocean
as transferrable as
water
like broken guitar strings
once a playing phenomenon
sitting on the train,
leaving Mexico City
heading back to California
and he tells me of a home
he made of snow and ice
standing stranded
in a no-where land,
with minus degree air
battering him,
while tempering his survival with
self proclaimed, inner-unbroken strength
and imagination,
like
a circular feast served freely.
pg. 4
In the tunnel tonight,
trees
lights
in the year of wisdom within suffering,
I drive past time
and find
this barren park
filled with
silence
like the source of all things
reclaimed
in the womb
now lying dormant again.
In the tunnel tonight,
explosions
implosions
in the year of dead bodies
inside of time
and finding this over-crowded park
changed like never before,
awakened and shut down
like the source of all things
reclaimed
in equanimity
now active
in each wrinkle of peace
unifying tears with
the inside of our temporary shells...
a
profundity
flowing
and
stretching
from the hand
to each vibration of
freed voices does calamity speak
about everything and everyone.
pg. 5
While the hours are heavy,
the violence seems to never stop
the seeds of optimism don’t get sown
into our inner-grounds of honor
the planet heats up and disasters
swim all around
like fear being inhaled
without being able to exhale
creating
surreal, sped-up deaths
packaged on roads
that no longer
go anywhere
while what underlies is
You
Me
and Us,
at the core
like
untying the noose
of racism
to dissipation,
as the path to take.
pg. 6
if i told you
that the world
is filled with mystery,
I’d tell you
about the black crow
out
in the blue, morning sky
flying swiftly
with raw and sheer power
generating
immersive impact
that I go with,
from flight to sight
from imagining to imagined
from part to whole
like a pool of
rippling pauses
dipping into
the observance
of awareness,
about myself.
pg. 7
The starving children
squatting nearby our table
while we ate
while we gave helplessly
while we left
they came and licked every crumb
off the plates
barely able to smile to
one more day
living the life of poverty
as my parents’, parents, parents
once crawled from
or yours
or theirs
or somebodies
or my husband’s
on top of the hill
where he offered me an orange
as love gives to love
and I accepted
with an unchartered embrace
like the history
of our dried ashes
scatter
to the future
to the technology of compassion
to the rarity of each passing moon lit witness
in Air
in Transparency
in Vulnerability.
pg. 8
In the daylight
amidst the traffic,
a white butterfly roams from side to side
and then is gone
amidst the drive home, rushing without a cause
a deer with magical looking antlers
leaps over the sidewalk and runs out of sight
at timeless speed
amidst the freeway
where a river used to flow
now replaced by the consequences of
domination
a red shouldered hawk flies on the other side
into the wild brush
and then steadily glides away to a wiser path.
In the daylight, when out of the blue,
I acknowledge I don’t know anything
yet
and
at the same time
I think about the song
I want to pass on
rather than delete
and live in fear.
pg.9
Standing up for the abused women
Sheltering their unsheltered battering
raising humanism back in the air
to a country, a system, a farce
of forced, rape in action,
murder
making unnatural torture a
foregone consciousness…
a turnstile that goes round and round to madness.
Where is she now?
Where are we now?
Where is the core of a people,
peacefully sharing
like the rain
like the sun,
creating growth
being recognized?
pg. 10
She had some unresolved
lying
some real
self-hate
like having a friend you want to impress
drop you off at someone else’s posh house
rather than yours
too embarrassed of your background
waving good bye, like you mean it
when you’re really walking
to an aspect of yourself
who you’ve not met until now.
She had some time to kill
resolved to let her ego go
lying in change.
pg.11
On a day I cried about my sister’s death
I couldn’t stop my tears
I
couldn’t create
like running to life
but not being able to move
I dreaded my thoughts
braiding my sadness
with appearing and disappearing
discussions of loneliness
instead of
embracing the fresh forest’s air
that I had been lying in, under the redwoods
before.
What is life anyway
is it suffering
is it meditating
under the stars
Is it being trapped
by the past
Is it intangible energy that makes up every thing?
pg.12
I heard the owl hooting in two’s
with intermittent gaps
putting me back in time
to when my five year old nephew’s
first poem
about the candle
lighting his mind’s imagination
while the electricity was out
wowed me,
like the power of the ocean waves crashing
and then calmingly turning off
the world of loss
with soft lulls
of settled, swooshing water at my feet
standing on the shore
putting me back further in time
I remained awake
while sleeping
In the unchartered womb
of not wanting to be born
until I remained
In this chaos
feeling everything
like the sanctity of breath
like sustenance is collapse
and collapse is the first ray
of peace
fertilizing the carefreeness
of wanting nothing,
putting me at the epitome of my wake.
pg. 13
What if the drought
is really the beauty
of the clearest night
like the north star outside my apartment
that I see
when washing and drying my clothes
in the laundry room…
what if every thing is perception
and yet perception isn’t everything
like a walk I once took
that was perfect
because I accepted myself
as imperfect
what if there’s no if
and only
the certainty of constantly letting go
of life and death
releasing inherent love
found in
being touched
by walking slowly to nowhere.
pg.14
“The sun setting into a point of absoluteness
fears not of being misunderstood
fears not of being missed
fears not of being overlooked
because its origin is unspoken…”
I saw this
when I heard
silence
while stranded on a highway I’d never been
like the past
bleeding into wisdom.
pg. 15
She
walks
into
the feeling of water
slowly and gently washing up
and leaving
one that never ends nor begins
She
sees through the stars
the brightest one
of the night
sinking into
ego
less
ness
like illumination
is a meditation
that
extends beyond the imagination
of alley ways and grave sites
She
finished
existing in real time,
transforming malice
through vision
Into compassion
unconditionally
Like Daughters of Copper Woman.
pg. 16
The cold night,
feeling like clapping from emaciated survivors
maybe even yelling
“Why didn’t I have a chance to eat and shelter in years in peace” .
The cold night
shone on me,
as deep as the seasonal changes,
sounds of nature…
the dynamic swoosh when the geese land
the yapping until the coyotes are at the center of their land
the owl in the brush, making vibrational rhythms
the dragon flies on the horseback trail, coexisting in their light.
The cold night
fading
coming
the longer I sit with it
the longer I reconcile my emotional bruises
that once were abrupt and all over the place
were a slap in the face to everyone else starving
like shadows bumping into each other
until confusion
Is what I finally understood is understood by
everyone
In the cold night
before everything changes again
like Buddha under the tree today,
ultimately.
pg. 17
And I knew then,
after living in the midst
of the canyon’s grace
and power,
dying again and again
and again,
like a prayer, mantra
or affirmation,
it wasn’t so hard to lie down
and die one more time
like an opinion to hate
gets mixed with love
on a bathroom wall
becoming art…
removing separation
like all the hues of red gold and pink
run with the chemistry of the sun
rising and setting
in impermanence
like the last time
you’ll ever speak
only to truly exist
as infinity.
pg. 18
The gray fog
seals the sun’s light
for a little while
to allow
peacefulness
between the living
and the dead
like the virtue of
reflection
like driftwood
that’s been collected
for a greater purpose
like the woman
who gave a carved wooden angel
to a stranger
who lost everything
in a fire
and said,
“Collective consciousness
is a necessity
for harmony
and loss
is ia
stepping stone,
unlocking compassion.”
like drawing circles
in the sand,
learning to dance to
the unexpected rhythms.
The gray fog
seals the sun’s light
for just a little while more
like a sail
washed up on the shore
unapologetically lost.
pg. 19
The Cricket
on the sidewalk close to the park
lying on it’s back
trying to turn to live
I saw
maybe it was Christ, the Buddha or the child
playing on the jungle gym learning to laugh
instead of cry.
The Cricket
on the sidewalk close to the park
with a limp and not able to move
trying to not try
I saw
and chanted to it
gently moving it over
to find it permanently
injured
to find me permanently
caring
in
the physical, spiritual
and expanded
world
of
no context
but purity
no context
but connection
no reason
but equanimity
and chanted
“we are all important
when we are free to feel
this moment through love.”
pg.20
An Addendum to the powerlessness of the invention of money…
“the chaos at work
is a resistance to recognize the chaos
isn’t really real
only the habit to work in chaos and believe this is us”
whispered in my fatigue, stress and loss of self
as loudly and profoundly as the ocean’s moving roar
like shedding skin only to find that it was despair
that composted
into inner light
not having any moments that fears
fear
opened my apologies for hating myself
because of what I learned
and passing that on
not because of who I am.
Who I am is kindness
who my seen and unseen
sisters, brothers, fathers, mothers
around the planet
and life
are,
related to
pure
living
dying
transforming
transcending energies
stretching not knowing
to dance effortlessly
into understanding,
a forceless and wide open space.
pg. 21
While yesterday is today
and tomorrow is both
the Oyster Catcher appeared
I walk next to this friend
and across
the Pacific ocean with not one
but many of my friends,
singing with me and of we
as though death
isn’t really a closing
but a beginning
as though birth
isn’t an opening
but the last time
you’ll see yourself for a while
until you return
to a yesterday, to today
and both, tomorrow
like a living and forgotten space
that makes me admire the rising, green life
from the earth more.
pg. 22
Myself
breaking apart
by the floods of pain
Myself
less
and less
less
and less
Myself
like no self
bargaining with silence
to make sense of loneliness
In the middle of a dust storm
before trying to kill myself
Myself
understanding
what weave means…
to thread patience with letting go
Myself,
the hardest thing to be
circulating
learning
trying
discovering.
pg. 23
Going slow,
like when I folded my hands
and broke down in disbelief
after my brother and mom
said my sister was dead
while the rain poured down
while the empty and sterile
hospital room
bore isolation
stacked on top of more of the same
at 15 years old
at no years old
at nowhere,
a place that lasted for decades
until it crumbled
Going slow,
like the enveloping smell of mint
on the mountainsides
that guided my reflection
of depression
through the ultimate understanding
of conflict…
Oneness
a place that lives in this moment
Going slow,
like the tarantula in the dead of the heat
in the middle of the desert
in the vastness of scarce life
where influence originates
from the natural elements,
and awakens something within
me…
which feels as though
stillness
is a supernatural teacher
on a dirt trail
emptying the shopping carts
of terrorism
of domination
of madness.
pg. 24
The,
a way to start a sentence
about my life
when the moon isn’t visible
and the letters of inescapable sadness
are,
travels in unlikely places to reduction.
I- the,
a way to confuse me
when the rake gets put to the side
and the lonely leaves come together
like the sand in the ocean,
wandering farther and farther
away from the automatic routines
and closer to the heart
a way to give me the pureness of
a basket of nothingness
like the ten thousand deaths
I’ve gone through
culminating
into the illusion
of perfection
stumbling into the vortex
and dropping fear down
to
a friend
in the
depths of me
since the time of energy.
pg. 25
Walking
standing still
walking
landing lightly
like a dream that isn’t,
reflects something
I’ve seen countless times
but for the first time
today.
Nay
but a
Canada Goose
skimming along
the entire surface
of a small lake,
egoless and strong,
with graceful speed,
the kind that knowingly
leaves imagination
In the atmosphere
like the presence
of a rainbow,
taking it’s movement
to a level of wholeness
like
a spacious freedom
born from nature
In the Fall.
pg. 26
“Let it go”
she said to me
“Let what go”
I replied
“The habit of holding on to negativity”
She whipped at me, like a dagger sharpened by fright
“So now I’m the problem”
I thrusted out with anger and confusion
“When you let the past get under your skin, Yes”
she precisely spoke,
moving away
until I couldn’t see her anymore
until I couldn’t see myself anymore
but just empty motions
like when you’re in shock
about losing everything
and get up at 1 am
crying at
not being able to pay the rent
or remember love
tangled
In the illusion
of
clashing
obligations that aren’t your identity .
“What’s the point”
I brutally said to her
“The point is
that there is none”
“The point is
let whatever
it is,
go.
Let your echoes
be
sounds
of self reflection.”
pg. 27
Trees in the green grass
of nourishment and compassionate shade
of what’s always been there…
glistening smiles in the sun
going to forests of peace.
Trees in the green grass
imagines another story
like the Valley of Sand Dunes and me
leading to the ocean
while the wind carries on
arriving to another transcendence
that we are a part of.
A part of something greater
being respected by
everyone…
Everyone embracing no one
Embracing knowing who I am.
pg. 28
Amid the morning sun
the ocean crashes all around
I am with it.
Many others are waiting for me…
the Void
depthless
weightless
and especially
a shooting star
falling on my formless spirit.
I am not separate
from living inside a cave and living
In the unfamiliar.
The rocks, the sand, the voices of the wind
and branches bending down
bathe my birth with death and
bathe my death with birth.
pg. 29
The blank and thick fog,
I walk through its immeasurable width
like it’s my best friend
and into
tears and tears of harmony
that took years to absorb into
my own temporariness
that lies in the king waves
and parallel forces of nature.
This day
is a broken freedom
that becomes
opaque blood in my veins
for just a moment,
some change that’s not really change
but always has been
like meditating on a blade of grass
In the storming wind.
pg. 30
Humans,
me
can take many sand trails
leading to the great ocean
that are free of bias
letting anyone or thing
move, move, move, move, move
be, be, be, be and just be
with the great ocean
simultaneously
goal-less
abundance
coexistence
coexistence is abundance
little did I know
then
when the sandstorm pelted my being
It would grow into a feeling
of a cosmic and wise web.
pg. 31
You and I
where do we begin
In Los Angeles
In Las Vegas
In the womb
In the sunset’s loom
In the theater
In the movie
In the classroom
in the book
In the cemetery
In the family we shared over time
In the church
In the song
In your Prayers
In the laughter after our internal storms
In your living chapters
In my living chapters
In the absent chapters we dreamed about
In “I have a Dream”
In your Pastor
In my pastures
In our human caves of compassion
In our human mountains of love
In our last time together
before you left the material world
And now,
where do I begin,
like unanswerable realizations.
pg. 32
Cuts, bruises, falls, broken bodies
rotating cycles of grief
but what about the selfless body
but what about the singing birds I walked by in the storm before the storm
before there was a before
their trills and melodies in the willow, sedge, cat tail, oak, redwood wild
beckoning universal connectivity
breaking illusions
to be heard a million miles past a million miles
because their sound is purely filled with love to my ears
because there is no agenda
because there is no telling the wind to stop drifting along
getting out to my inside.
pg. 33
There isn’t any word that death hasn’t heard
There isn’t any hum that the bio diversity in Big Sur hasn’t sung
There isn’t any lesson the sand hasn’t been blown by
There isn’t any wave whose crescendo can’t follow or break
There isn’t any tree who stands alone
There isn’t any me who lives in a vacuum
The only direction is everywhere
The only direction is healing
The only direction is getting lost and feeling.
pg. 34
Art is being excited to be alive
In the tunnel of hatred, loss and despair
In the heated rocks next to your naked strength,
able to move by being unable to move without the wind
In the fecal matter around the one you love
not understanding any of it
not bearing but being.
Art is being timeless
in wherever you are
in the iterations of a yellow-five petaled wildflower
In the mountain connected to the ocean
connected with
and out of the natural rhythm of seasons
like an exquisite dance that lasts for a second.
pg. 35
I want to get up from this table,
walk out
and never return to this wheelchair,
to what I can’t do
forgetting everything
losing everything
The drive down the coast
the silence of love
without any effort
stopped and got out
saw the river flowing
while two saddened figures
turned into
the landscape
and went to the table they used to despair
turned it around
in a circular motion
until their homeless medicine
went back into the earth
like the willing experience of
of a story.
pg. 36
The trip to never enough time to go through pain
the ocean rested deeply with clarity and they said,
“I wish I could go swimming
I love the water”
their crying slipped into it
the sun and clouds stayed in their proximity
the dolphin she saw
was the sea lion they saw
was the past, present and future
where the trip used to be
waking up on
the old hillside
with the bus arriving at humidity’s pace,
sweat on everybody and nobody
speaking in foreign internalizations
while pain went through to who knows where,
and reappeared in a needle’s eye
exploding
with no desire to hide
their heart anymore
standing in a war zone.