THE GONG

One day

the body

the spirit

the heart

in unison 

will crack open.

You will hear the breach.

You will feel the breach

like an ancient gong 

ringing in your bones.

You will become the golden circle

singing from its rung center.

You will become the listening

that accompanies this sonorous sound

as it slowly widens and ripples 

its invisible rings into the silence

that surrounds you and is within you

the way Winter slips into

the darkness of its Solstice

like a night shirt.

Pay attention.

Never look away.

Guard me like an angel.

Protect the arc of my being

with an armor of light.

Know what I need

and what I do not.

This is what the gong will say

and what you will hear

if you are truly listening.

If you meet and greet its message

with the love and devotion it is asking for

you may just heal the holy perimeter

and keep most, if not all,

breaches at bay.

FALLING TO FIRM GROUND

The longing to abide in the oneness 

is the abiding in it.

                                   -James Finely

the acorn does not know 

it carries a giant inside 

nor does the oak remember 

falling as seed to find firm ground

once upon a time

what is sure though

is something must crack open

for branches to become branches 

and for roots to send

their tendrils down

like ink into flesh

branch and root 

are mirrors of each other

they are a circle drawn

in air and earth and in

an ever unfolding terrain

upon which pilgrims may tread—

their paths crossing and uncrossing

like sinews torn and then
retethered over time

or stories unraveling into fictions
after too many tellings

or ancestors long forgotten
then fervently revered

under the cycles and phases
of the sun and moon

BAD REVERSE (...if you can call it that)

You are parked in the space
you are always parked in

and you are not, per usual,
paying attention.

The vehicle—let's just
call it that—is idling, and

your mind is racing, chasing
one thing or another. 

Without thinking you forget
to put your foot on the

clutch—let's just call it that.
Next, you do the one thing 

one should never do under
these circumstances: you

thoughtlessly, hard and fast,
make that quick right-

and-downward movement
with the grip of your hand.

You throw—and I do mean
throw—the stick-shift—let's

just call it that—into reverse.
Almost instantaneously

and simultaneously
two things happen.

The first: your whole body,
from fist to feet, from head,

to heart, to gut—nerves and cells
all—lurch awake. Your bones

and flesh quake to the core.
The second: the sound.

You know the one I mean.
The one that's reminiscent of

the wood chipper in the movie,
Fargo, that one. But this one,

this sound, is distinctly
more metallic. Metal

on metal, I mean.
That kind of gnashing

and gnawing. Anyway...
the simultaneity of these two

things, the sound and the feeling
of grinding, has you, again, without

thinking, shut the engine off,
and in the doing of it

you realize the motor was on
when it  shouldn't have been.

It is in this moment your body
slumps. Then, dazed and nearly

traumatized by the sudden
assault, and in the strange

stillness, you say out loud: What
have I done? There are ways

to go about backing out of
things. And ways not too.

Knowing which is which
is worth remembering,

no matter your age or whether
you are newly licensed or not.

No matter what vehicle you are
driving. Making the wrong

choice may mean you need
more than a new transmission—if

we can call it that—to get the
vehicle up and running again.

THE SHED

I found it.
Like a choice.
And I am grateful
I did.

But it took going into
a dark shed
to learn
the shovel
had always been
with me.
In my grip.

And then it took
shedding the shed
and digging down
instead of out
for me to move 
toward the well within.

WHICH?

Dew on a leaf.

A leaf dappled 

in dew. Canvas

or paint?

Which would you

rather be?

LOOSE LEAVES

Prisoners wriggle free

from the pages

of a foreboding folio.

Hope is unscrupulously

erased from a dispiriting

season. Exposures

are laid bare 

in the broad and darkening

daylight. Laundry's

hung out to dry

in a chilling air. Still

possibility is a nest

that's only woven 

from what is gathered

from leaves

and shadows

and what lies between

surrendering and uncertainty

and the mesh that mixes 

our desires with our amnesia.

THE ONE SONG*

hyacinths push 

through the loamy earth

coyote's howl pierces

the darkness around the moon

let’s do our part

let’s take our turn 

at being 

the Guzla

the singer 

and the instrument 

who through 

a single string only 

braid pain 

and beauty 

into one 

solemn note

one ancient song

one epic story

that holds all of us

now and always

*Inspired by Mark Nepo's book, Seven Thousand Ways to Listen

A VEIL OF TEARS?

A commotion of leaves

after the season’s first

honest rain. Or…

are these Soul’s tears

held out as supplications

to what lies beyond

the veil, from hands

bleeding for a world

less red, from veins

holding out a hope

hued with more kindness,

more heart, and more love?

SECRET SHEATH

I’d like to believe

that the body

is talking to us

all the time.

So when a part

of it goes numb

what do we make

of that? Is it giving us

the silent treatment

or screaming itself

hoarse? I am going to

keep listening. Maybe

I’ll find it’s like

the child who sheaths

 its secret out of fear

in the fascia of a whisper.

A LANDING

A hawk landed 

in my backyard

today. It will stay 

a while. In its

now-still wings

is the memory

of the circles

it traced invisibly

in flight, like 

a wind in fire. 

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.