THE TAVERN

It lies at a crossroad

between dusk and dawn,

drunkenness and drought,

gluttony and famine,

between what’s known

and what’s not,

between disillusionment

and amazement,

desire and death,

dreaming and the 

moment bleeding 

beneath our bare 

and bunioned feet. 

It’s as spacious 

as an open field

and has on tap

only the purest tonics

to clear our manic minds 

and to mend the

rankles and the ruptures 

that keep scalding our

breaking broken hearts.

All are welcome

at this ramshackle road stop 

but most only look in 

as they pass by, never taking

their saved-seat

at the long-wide table

in the back corner

framed by the glaze 

of the moonlit window

where the sessions 

never end and the trio 

keeps playing reel after reel, 

the endless variations on 

the mystery of love and loss

that lilt like lightning bugs

inside the incandescence 

of an ancient Irish air.

IN RELIEF

Sometimes 

when I let 

curiosity lead 

the way 

and I lift 

the stones 

of fear from

my path 

I find that

underneath 

the weight 

of what was there 

is a space-holding, 

a holy ground:

the surrounding 

and subtle presence 

of Love's 

loamy embrace.

STILL LIFE 

Nature just
throws down
 its forms 
wllly-nilly:
 branches,
pinecones, 
needles 
and leaves.

Nothing, though,

in this wild terrain

is lost or discarded.

It is simply

re-arranged.

Though random

the array,

the textures, shapes

and colors of these 

earth-scraps lie

next to each other

with the grace and beauty

of any still life.

What if we are

like these stray bits of

branch, seed and leaf?

What if we are not

 a season's

scattered debris

but are merely 

nestled within a nest

we have yet to sense or see?

What if everything

about our lives is

as it should be...

and is exactly where

the deft hand of 

an invisible Artist

meant to put it?

PREPARING PATHWAYS 

Raking paths 

across the ranch

for men to walk on,

clearing the Tres 

Piedras property

of its pinecones 

and pyramids 

of horse shit -

wheelbarrows and 

wheelbarrows of it -

is the way a rag-tag 

crew prepares for

a Men’s retreat.

You could easily 

say This is mindless 

work and you’d be 

wrong. Sweeping 

a forest clean

of its every last 

pine needle

is the chop wood, 

carry water

that will welcome 

the horde of men 

arriving into the wild, 

so they can, 

under a star-filled sky,

clear out their own 

shit, so that new 

possibilities 

and pathways

can emerge in them.

They will do this work

simply by sending 

their raking breaths

into the pinecones 

of the divinity 

of their boundless brains.

THE KILN

Whatever it is

that is gripping you

and won’t let go,

it won’t

until it begins 

to melt.

You’ve got to 

give it

the chance 

to release

its hold 

on you.

You must 

leave it

in the kiln

long enough

for it to melt.

And remember:

the fire must 

be Love.

THE VIGIL

After Fear 

takes its seat

with the others 

around the circle 

to hold vigil

you follow Crow 

down the dark hole.

You don’t know 

where you are 

going, how long 

it will take 

to get there

or what you will find  

once you arrive.

What you can be

sure of is: everything

is about to change.

You, most of all.

THE NECKLACE

Love honors 
what it grieves.

It turns its tears 
to beads

that its village 
can string together,

that the throng can wear,
that it can sing and dance in.

What a blessing it is 
to be adorned 

in body and soul
by what has been lost.

Let’s do our crying in the desert
while dancing together in the rain.