MORNING PASTRIES

We all know this

from time travel movies 

like Back to the Future...
that if we go back in time

our very presence
will change the future. 

In my dream last night 

there was something

I wanted to go back
and tweak. I realized 

that all I really needed 

to do to make 

the change happen 

was to choose a different 

morning pastry, one with 

a cinnamon swirl instead 

of one with almonds 

on top. I wish life were 

this simple. Maybe it is. 

Maybe using words 

like "they did this 

for me" instead of 

"they did this to me" 

is the difference 

between a cinnamon swirl

and shaved almonds.

 

POPHAM BEACH, MAINE 

In tidal waters 

no deeper

than an inch,

the tiniest

of stars

glide across

a cosmos

of sand. Bubbles are

the many mirrored lens

that shape-shift

the sun into these

swimming, winking

wonders. The miraculous

is all around us

all the time. A simple

walk on the beach

will show us this

if we remember  

to meander

with eyes wide open.

BOYS, KALEIDOSCOPES AND BIKES 

Einstein, the boy, on his bike 

one day marveled at the rays 

 

of the sun. If he could ride 

on one of those beams 

 

of light, he imagined, it would

change his relationship 

 

to space and time. While on 

my back on the grass 

 

in a Nashville park 

the other day, the view 

 

above me had me feel

like a boy again, the one

 

that loved looking 

through kaleidoscopes. 

 

With an open focus I saw 

patterns, textures, and colors

 

above, moving through 

and across one other. 

 

I saw shapes and densities 

evolve into and out of 

 

each other. All of a sudden 

the idea of entering 

 

the quantum, which I had 

been thinking a lot about lately, 

 

felt like a possibility 

and a relativity I could 

 

actually create, in my own mind, 

like a boy on a bike might,

 

on a whim, decide 

to travel at the speed of light.

THE MYSTIC & THE ROSE

     after Dr. Joe Dispenza

I know a man,
or should I say
a mystic, who,

in the space
between sleep
and wakefulness

one night,
a number of years ago,
ran an experiment.

He imagined, in his
mind's eye, a red rose,
just to see if he could.

And he saw it.
It appeared straight
out of nothing.

He explored that rose,
every petal, every leaf,
every thorn, every inch

of its imagined
three-dimensionality
in his mind, until

he memorized it,
until he became it.
The next morning

he was awakened 
before dawn by a wild 
windstorm that threatened

to bring branches
crashing down
on to his ranch-sized

property. He decided
he had to cut those
branches down himself

to keep them from falling
on a ranch hand
or a family member.

So, he ascended into those
very branches by climbing
up a ladder, a very tall ladder,

with a chainsaw.
He began buzzing his way
through those massive

limbs, cutting them
until they fell
one by one

to the ground below.
All of a sudden
down his very long

dirt driveway
a puke-green
Ford van—you know 

the kind I mean—
from the '70s—
whined and sputtered

toward where he was,
until it stopped
—you guessed it—

beneath the tree
he was high up in
and directly under

the very branch
he was right
in the middle

of cutting. 
An older woman
got out of that foul

-colored car
and disappeared
behind the back-end

of it. The man,
or should I say the mystic,
got down from his tree

to see what she was doing
and where she had gone to.
He walked to the rear of

that rancid-colored van
to find her. Her back
was to him as he approached,

but then in one
swift motion she bumped
closed the double doors

with her hip and then
spun around to face him.
In her arms was a glass 

case and inside that case
—you guessed it—
was a single cut rose,

the brightest red
you'd ever seen.
Before he could speak

she opened her crooked
mouth revealing
a broken tooth

and from that mouth
of hers she said: "Don't
ask me any questions!"

and then handed him
the case. The man,
or should I say the mystic,

under the very branches
he had just cut,
stood holding

the very rose
he had imagined
the night before.

In utter amazement
he watched the puke
-green van sputter

and whine back down
that very long driveway
toward the red

of the rising sun
kicking up a cloud
of dust and dirt

as it disappeared into 
the distance, like a lucid dream
into the great unknown.

FROM FAITH TO FOLLY

Live oak lined

the marshland

on the road leading 

to the Atlantic,

to Folly Beach.

In the twisted branches

were the largest alabaster

flowers I’d ever seen. 

They looked like magnificent

magnolia blossoms 

at first glance. 

But they weren’t. 

They were egrets.

This congregation

had made these trees

their temporary perch.

If I were an agnostic 

ornithologist, I’d change 

their flock name 

to something more 

frivolous and less 

faith-based

so I could say:

I saw trees full of folly 

on my way to 

the edge of America.

STEPPING INTO SPIRIT

A labyrinth in the woods.

A path for prayer, for blessings.

Though human-made, spirit is

its true pilgrim.

FASCINATION IN THE FLESH

Mama is standing
in the aisle

of a Boeing 737 
bouncing her baby 

on her hip. The little tike,
 a squirmer, not satisfied

with the jauntiness
his mother is offering,

reaches up and grabs it, 
her ear. And she lets him.

All the boy’s attention
goes to the flaccid flap,

to pawing the soft 
tissue, the ridges 

and curves
mushrooming

from the willing,
tilted head. The tiny

toy finger: a mouse’s
pink nose poking

at the walls
of its maze,

is happy to be lost 
in this labyrinth. 

I don’t know who
is more transfixed,

the little hipster
playing with the putty

of his mother's ear 
or me trying to fashion

a poem from a toddler's
buoyant, fleshy fetish.