AMNESIA

We come into this world already 

having forgotten who we really are

and where and what we come from.

We arrive as amnesiacs 

who maintain our stuporred state 

by attaching ourselves to something called

Identity, that only deepens the depth 

of our forgetting.

The only way back to the oneness we came from 

is by forgetting again: 

by forgetting the self we’ve become, 

through all our thinking, 

by letting go of knowing anything,

and by turning ourselves over 

to an emptiness

that is everything.

BLADE AGAINST BLADE

I couldn't’ see them

drawing their dark circles 

over my house.

But I could hear them.

They were going at it today

squawking up a storm.

Not seeing them

sharpening their knives

with all their cawing

made my imagination 

turn them into 

two people 

that only knew

how to shame and blame.

Two people 

who couldn’t find

their way to kindness 

through the scattered shrapnel 

from their broken hearts.

The commotion

was so loud,

like blade

 

against 

rusted blade,

I filled me up with

a sadness so heavy

 I felt like 

a barren tree

 

spontaneously spawning 

leaden leaves

as black 

as crows.

CLIFF NOTES AND BREAD CRUMBS

Only now can I see

I had them

all along.

The cliff notes.

They’d been given 

to me at the start.

Plot points, leitmotifs 

even bits of dialogue

were all there.

Like bread crumbs scattered 

through a Grimm’s fairy tale.

I had them, 

the cues and clues

of what was coming,

what was waiting for me

deep in the dark wood.

A good story is only 

a good story if you

don’t spoil the suspense.

So I didn’t bother with the notes.

Instead, I borrowed a lie 

from a blind witch I met somewhere 

and said to myself:

I don’t read.

Saying this was like hearing 

the sound of a branch 

tied to a dead tree 

that beat against the trunk 

in the wind

pretending to be an ax.

THE CONFIRMATION

The shadow of

something feathered

flashed

among the weeds 

and gravel 

in my backyard.

It was there 

for an instant only.

Confirmation came later

like a ricochet.

The cawing 

said, I am Crow.

THE CURTAIN OF CAMOUFLAGE

The thing in front of the thing

really isn’t the thing.

It’s just camouflage.

Just more smoke  

and mirrors.

A sleight of hand

that yields no magic.

An avoidant strategy.

A way of not looking at 

what’s glaringly there:

a loneliness,

a need, 

that’s hard to face,

and impossible to resolve,

if the solution is sought elsewhere 

and outside a self

that does not see the soul 

as its true looking glass.

THE QUESTIONS

Grey branches

are a lattice against

an overcast sky.

Green leaves

spin like pin-wheels

with every gust of wind.

Crow unseen 

caws her dark question

into every corner of the day

not expecting answers

but more of her kind to come unseen

with even darker questions.

 

BIRDHOUSES 

birdhouses 

along a trail

made by 

those who 

frequent these 

hills, my thoughts

are the birds 

that disappear

into the little boxes

to roost inside

and stay there

remembrances

I can’t forget

when I climb

the winding path 

I now walk 

alone