Poetry
woke up again — which in itself is a miracle — but along with the early dawn came one of those lessons you don’t forget unless you’ve completely
lost the plot.
when you are trapped in an ice block of
frozen disappointment, remember the old tonic
for a troubled mind:
“whatever is arising is a waveform
passing through the body
rather than a structure
defining your person”
I’ve managed, for the most part,
to keep my location undisclosed.
But yesterday, it felt wise to pin
my coordinates because I found
myself in a sea of men who have
nothing else to talk bout other than
sales, sex, and stocks.
While boiling oats, I let the steam
enter my hands, and the first light of
a cold, crisp December morning softly
moves through the trees.
I take a sip of my coffee and remember
the men I read about who conversed
over farming, fighting, and fishing
and become further curious because I
cannot squarely find myself in either archetype of the
current or the previous.
The oats are done, as are the stories
of who I think I should be.
Poetry
when the heart grows tired
of the mind’s logic,
which seems to be
more and more artificial,
do not expect a carpet ride into clouds of pleasure,
but a vast land
where a single tree remains
curious as to what happened to the forest.
Poetry
very few of us have the bravery to be nothing,
and so the cycle continues.
we intuit that there is no arrival
but we chomp and chomp
toppling forward toward who knows what,
hoping, even praying to find happiness
and along the way, simultaneously
pleasured and sorrowed by such small, little things.
what if we stopped all that chasing and craving?
this is the question that millions are willing to look away from
to prolong a movie that masquerades as reality.
Poetry
all night, the cool heavy breeze
tumbles through the window from an
ancient past naked from the cloak of time.
it’s no wonder why the language of sleep is fluid off my tongue.
when I rise, the streams of fear
have been damned, and I stand before
another threshold that must be crossed
if I care to let go of what has already
been lost.
Poetry
hello traveler.
you have arrived exhausted
running on the road of becoming.
stop.
rest.
stay here as long
as you need
to know this:
a mind of peace
is the strongest
state of being.
then,
return to the world.