The streets swirl.
The gray cats scurry
over broken flagstones.
Thinking about
what might have been.
And I, with no design,
no dream – just open to life.
Relinquish myself
from chasing after the world.
Afterall, what we
think we become.

Among the deep streets.
When despair for the
world grows within me.
I look to the corners
with the least sound.
There, I see a few with the
way inside them, shining pure.
Picking up a few threads of hope.
Their days never withhold the light.
Like a root, let me say.
They are sure of the way.
And when they sing.
I sing with them.
The moments turn.
The trees move.
And the ordinary,
becomes extraordinary.
Do you see this?
​

The comfort of peace
born through sacrifice.
A few birds making long slow
arcs in the summer sky.
The crinkled sequence
of fading happiness.
My beauty falling away
into a naked frame.
And a flat world receding
from all my senses.
How they take me back to a
different time, a different place.
From something to nothing.
But then…. the difficult climb back.
A spinal cord of hope.
Singing and writing.
Grown in daily moments.
To fill the empty spaces.

It came upon us
like a slow summer.
Aged and full of lights
from years past.
Without depth or distinction.
We heard nothing but
smothered squawks.
From the last of the
social media poets.
Yet, still smoldering
with passion.
I sang an old song
of non-attachment.
And walked on,
far out of sight.

How to speak the truth
and not yield to anger?
Now that is a challenge.
So, I hold my pen in my hand.
Writing a few words, that
prevent the anger and
pain from leaving me.
Talking to a few who
seem to know the way.
Never allowing
the wrath to grow.
Then letting go
of the mind’s wrongs.
The next day I am
always glad to see.
​

Old words….. new words.
For some they all
pile up together.
Huddled and cramped.
For me, they are
a life – giving breeze.
Blown across a thousand
far-fetched places.

I thought,
could it be summer now?
But I am not
searching for hope.
Or those wistful
days from long ago.
Just for what
is around me.
And a pen
for spilling words.
Aimed at
finding the way,
from all directions.
​

In the spring haze.
A thousand birds.
But always the
wild geese are calling me.
“Do not brood on things”
Now I know the goal.
To make fine music
as long as I can.

Bathed with the
courage to be disliked.
For which sometimes
you gather no flowers.
A few fragrant of words
cut through the void.
Each one not to offend.
But like a cool wind
on a summers day.
A joyful exaltation
of letting go of such
painful days.

Over the unreturning happiness.
And beyond the streets
cold with indifference.
There is a place where nothing
can be added or subtracted.
A place within me.
That is shining and shining.
Until all there is left to do
is count the stars.