nowhere now here

At the edge 
of a galaxy
our planet lives,
some say in the middle 
of nowhere  
It’s all a matter 
of space
nowhere   now here

I can’t put “love” 
in a poem—
if only it were 
that commonplace 
It flows from 
that placeless 
pellucid space 

into now here

Consent to Silence 
from Father Thomas Keating’s work with the Centering Prayer

Two instructions:
prior to sitting 
    —give an internal bow
    —consent to silence

The internal bow
knees on the ground
head on the floor

Consent? to silence?
Consent, the lexicon says,
permit, approve, agree, 
comply, yield 
or archaic, be in harmony

Permit, comply, and yield
exact surrender—yes,  
but not quite right
Approve, agree
closer 
to my inner resonance

Harmony    
the perfume of melding

Holding this, 
the instruction, again:
consent to silence
and rest in love

Due at the Bank

Fingers intertwined
sun warm on
my back

Slaking my thirst
the sweet-tart taste
of fresh-squeezed juice

Splashing cool
stream water 
on my face after
an autumn hike

The first, rich
scent of rain
on parched ground

My body
once in time

All of it
all on loan

Helm

My life unfolds,
a rollicking ride—
I love control,
imagine, dream
act like I have it

Thoughts erupt
wanted or not
arriving full-blown    
then vanish 
on their own 

Can I catch 
their landing or leaving?

When I drop behind, 
turn inward, I watch.
The mind plays—
I don't touch it

The foundress 

begins 
builds a stalk,
attaches a few cells
first laying daughter eggs,
future workers to grow 
the paper-wasp nest

Pulp chewed with saliva
yields soft, see-through  
paper    shades of pewter 
smoke, driftwood 
Layer upon layer shedding 
raindrops 

Each nest a colony,
each member’s role
known, scripted     
cooperative
fulfilled

So unlike freedom's
sometime price
chaos 

Everything

Broken and beautiful 

California poppies
erupting in sunshine,
a thief in broad daylight,
knee-shaking kiss,
rooster shagging 
hens in the field,
incessant dog barking,

every one of us 

Our world is 
kintsugi
a tea cup
lovingly repaired  
with rivers of gold
and again

Dusk 
And the miracles say, We were here the whole time. We stood right in front of you, 
and you stepped around us. —Barney Ogden, from “Confession”

Shadows dusting planks
autumn sapphire sky
frogs tune their plainsong
as the light goes

If Only
The way the flap of a wing knows the entire sky  —attributed to Mark Nepo

Wing was made for sky
undivided
fish, water
soil, plant
everywhere connected
This understanding
will save the world

Overboard

Throw overboard
the mess of your mind
Hose out the chamber
leave it empty and clean
I suck in moist air 
freshened by downpour

Tension washes out 
Hawkscreech and finchcall
bring me here
daffodil riot
past prime, still vivid 
in dusk’s slanted glow
I take you in

Warning

Notebook filled 
essential passwords 
by their computer
scraps of paper 
stuffed in, held
closed with a band
scrawled sideways 
in pencil 

I’ve watched
while they search   
I know it’s here 
somewhere    
muttering 
damn computers

Ocean

Floating, waves carry me
Inside and out
this ocean supports

This that isn’t an it
has substance
I can’t touch
depth
that can’t be measured

Sensing the tether
the thin, gold cord
a tug
Keepsake of home

Falling

Easy to hold back
be protective and safe
you’ll miss so much

Open arms wide
sail with the wind
coast on eddies

Fall into the world
Don’t you know you 
were made for this?

Thief of Hearts 

As we lie under
a moonless black,
my shepherd, 
muzzle on my chest 
We’re enfolded 
in the green					
a fresh-mown field

Gazing 
at the canopy,
my heart swollen
with wonder, shivers 
with awe  
stolen by reverence

Choice

Choose parenting or not
job you love or bear
bold pup over shy
smiling or sneering
Each choice 
a meandering S

No choice is choosing
there is no escape

I choose first light
and dove call over
late night and alcohol
The sweet quiet 
of home over
beer joints and bluster
A stream of kindness
over sniping and blame
This life, so short

Mosaic

Each of us a tiny tile, 
our place revealed
Feel it with your 
fingers    Does it
require rasp or saw
to snug a spot
or does it slip
right in? 
Be tender— 
this life, 
sharp edges,
wants no less

More Paper

Facing the file drawer
each piece a choice
deciding, more difficult
keep, recycle, shred
the finality    

My father’s death 
certificate   cirrhosis 
second cause
Family secret exposed
Forty-eight years
I shred

Flowering
Now is the blossom. Lineage is the root.  —Fred LaMotte

Five decades
steeped in lineage
changed me 
deepened my range

Linked to truthseekers,
trusting their guidance
and centuries-old teaching
their furrow kept me 
on track    
dredged a trench
of its own     a home
for the seed 
to take hold
root deep 

Lineage fell away
left its trace
it blossoms 
boundless now

Paper 

Millennials, the first
No jumbled file drawers
or overstuffed folders
only their phones

page by page 
boomers find signatures
account numbers
the stack grows

Dust, oil 
the shredder
delicious grinding
paper into paper

Eye of the Heart

Live from here
shine from here,
the safest place
ain al kalb
When stripped bare
of veiling, it will 
not mislead you