Thursday, March 20, 2014

Forest Bathing

Full creek,
   cloudy with sediment
and the rush of fresh rains

a musty, mossy scent
thickens the air

the forest is fluttering,
   floating by
rivers of motion:

cascades of winter wren trills
branches heavy with buds
little dogs
muddy-footed runners

even the skinny jean advertisers
  are taking in
    the first luxurious morsels

of spring.

Tuesday, February 11, 2014

A lover is born!


29 years ago today a lovely human being was born, somehow scooted, sat, cried, crawled, walked, ran, jumped, played and eventually made it across the street into my life. How wondrous a being he is and I love him dearly.

He sits across from me now, tea slurping, burping, lips pursing now and again as he reads. This lovely human being with whom I feel so at ease, even when riding grumpy, whiny, annoyed, fearful, anxiety-ridden waves, the ones I don't acknowledge in the company of pretty much anyone else.

Well, I love him dearly, what more is there to say? THank YOU Universe for this delicious beauty I get to share in, for this man, so of a man!


Monday, February 3, 2014

Gratitude. Months Later.

One teacher recommended simply saying gratitude to oneself and seeing what arises....

Safe home
stuck (can't think of anything)
a loving companion (handsome, gentle)
The cat, full of cuteness, curled up, warm and snug, loves it when the heater's on.
The miracle of electricity (somehow rushing water and wind bring light and heat to my living room, power this thing I'm typing on).


Socks, the hands that made them, packaged and shipped them. Hands in Mexico? China? India?
Every item in my cluttered living room touched by un-named hands.
Interdependence, somehow it all works.
A day to rest when ill, paid sick leave.
Stable work.
Supportive Family.

Making birthday cards for friends.
Sleeping, sleeping, sleeping late.

Remembering gratitude.

Wednesday, July 31, 2013

Written sketch: cat, lover, guitar

There is a stuck bit.

Cat pouncing on her prey of air, shadow and string.

The lover whistles Star Wars and asks,
"Whatcha writins?"
addresses the cat, then removes his guitar from its case and sits.

Tuning and tinkering. Nimble fingers remember rhythms and patterns
like a young boy calling his dog out to play fetch.
It's a game they both know quite well
boy, ball and dog
fingers, strings and vibrations.
When he sits in the corner, strumming, what a beautiful dance of plunking,
strumming, pressing, face scrunching,
head tilted down and slightly to one side
encouraging the notes to come forward like shy little children,
ever so gently, ever so persistently.
There's a luxurious, honeyed serenity in his expression,
a silent joy.
The beauty of concentration wrapped delicately in each of his movements.

'barassed, looking over now and again at this spy.

He stops playing.

And again they waSH over me.

He switches guitars and addresses the cat a second time.
Again tUnInG
again  f l o w i n g  notes.

His left pinky curls in and out ever so slightly about the air
while the other fingers press down on the strings, so rapidly
as to land in a blur.

He moves the capo up and down the neck
slipping from one song into the next,
protests at my request for further playing
but hugs in his guitar in for one final tune.

"What's happening?
Whatcha doin' over there?"

Friday, March 29, 2013

Vanishing Act

Sandy footsteps stolen by gusts of wind,
laughing away any physical remnants of
our walk in the canyon.
Does the cold granite remember the warmth of me?
Or the flittering tendrils of butterfly feet
that alighted upon it?

Heaving breaths and footfalls later,
the thrasher zigzagged among boulders and cholla,
dancing along the threads of its harmonic web;
ducking, perching, puffing, calling out,
frozen and piercing with its amber eye,
then off again.

                                                 Tracing backward:
Before slip-sliding down gravel paths
and climbing out from the hills' shadow,
whispers of water seduced my parched ears.
Evidence of her sweetness
in the smooth grooves and dry canals,
the force of her reduced to
a few damp patches of earth and one trickling puddle.
She vanished;
a hint of willow green,
sweet nectar for the mourning cloak...

...transient desert Mother.

Sunday, January 20, 2013

Gratitude contd.

Words of the Elders

first a chink in the dam,
eroded, one drop at a time,
love's waters slowly smooth away the rough edges;
silty earthen nectar pours out,
coloring, mixing, swirling, sloshing, settling,
until the river flows a deep, muddy red.

Pema, Robert, Larry, Margaret, Sylvia, (elders)... 
thank you for your guiding words, spoken from the heart.
May they be among the drops that start the flood
of gratitude, love, wisdom and freedom.

Saturday, September 8, 2012

Day 4: The Pages

The gift of this moment.
How does it reside with you?
Can you hold in your heart the trees
that were felled to carry these words?
Can the calls of the birds
who rested, fed and nested in their branches
echo in its chambers?
Can the gentle breezes
that tickled and shook their boughs
cool and soothe its aches and palpitations?
Can the sweetness of their sap
flow from its valves,
filling every cavity of your body,
and spill back into the earth?
Come revel in her,
she beckons to you.