Wednesday, September 28, 2011


In the hush of sounds
The deepest Silence…
Within the Silence
The Source
Creative Word…

From which springs all utterance;
Traffic tidal over the hill
to subdued ravine crickets and frogs stunned
by these cool nights.

O yes!
scurry up the live oak
in the bright
from my
3rd Eye

Jeweled jaded gazes reflect down
incurious banditos –
along  branches to
hide shifty.

Thanks, Doc!
Indeed, sex is sacred!
I AM Yod…

Here on the Ravine Bench
after the final end of History
nothing but the fragrance
of brown rice cooking
Sacred Numbers


Wednesday, September 14, 2011

Full Moon (A poem)

It’s a fine madness…
That scribbles the scriptures of ibis-headed Tehuti
Here in this small book
Whilst leopard frogs croon and mate
By the little waterfall’s address
And a single cricket creaks;
That perfect white disk
Itself takes
A look
Over my angelic shoulder —
There’s that other, whose Secret Name
You don’t even want to know
For as seeking separates you from what you seek
All resistance: your house of cards collapses
As other crickets answer
From where…

This moonlit garden is merely changing Paradise
As the Moon itself changes,
Only it never dies
For the Garden of Life,
This eternal treasure of Prester John
Never thinks twice
Only continues to breathe…

You are the wise totality of animal lust
And we foolish humans must
Be forgiven
For our failure to remember
We ARE stardust!

Wednesday, September 7, 2011

The Voice of the Ancestors

As I crest the ridge walking in my hilly neighborhood here in Wimberley, a gust of wind picks up, rushes through the treetops and makes wonderful oceanic sounds. Instantly this takes me back to a time many years ago when a dear friend called me up and told me that her grandfather had died.
She asked if I would come over and simply be with her. It was also windy then. As we sat together in her little cabin by the Fall River in Colorado, she said, “Someone once told me that the sound of the wind is the Voice of the Ancestors.”
            This seemed more than a poetic statement to me, for somehow it felt deeply true. As I’ve discovered over the years, it’s deeper than I ever imagined. This goes beyond the apparent duality of the living and the dead… even deeper than your cellular wisdom.
            The word “breath” ultimately means “spirit,” which is the essence of life. Over time it becomes clearer that the Ancestors are not only spirits of the dead.
            You are related to everything. When you closely examine your own existence and your relation to the world you live in, you discover that you exist as part of a living Universe. No matter who you consider your Ancestors to be, or what you think and feel about them, you cannot encapsulate them any more than a grave can contain them.
            Nobody really understands the mystery of death--form dissolving back into where it came from--only it’s probably nothing like what we may imagine. It’s truly a mystery.
            The drifting essence of being comes and goes—like the wind. Rites of passage remind you that you are but an intersection. A nexus of the living and dead and things yet to be. Your own existence has ties everywhere—with family, species, ecosystem, planet, solar system, stars and Universe. For you are stardust.
            And the multiple universes fold back into themselves to speak with the voice that is you.