Being right or wrong
doesn't interest me.
My religion is astonishment.
I want to be more careless,
open all my petals at once
and wander like a fragrance
out beyond the borders
of my body, into the ancient
wilderness of this moment,
get lost in ecstatic un-knowing.

Down where pistil
and stamen touch
in a throb of stillness,
I make honey. Come,
drink from my heart.

Hospice (from the book 'Savor Eternity...')

Take a breath from the infinite.
Even one is immeasurable.

Now pour it back into eternity…
This is how you die.

This is how you play  
with giving and receiving.

From the center of your tears
light is born.

If they call this your deathbed,
please don't worry.

It is like the deathbed
of a golden dahlia.

You too must go down
into the bulb.

LINK to the book, 'Savory Eternity One Moment At A Time'
Illustrations by Rashani Réa

Wild Flower Yoga

'There are 196 verses in Patanjali's Yoga Sutras.
Only three of them deal with asanas.'  ~Swamiji

No one teaches yoga
to a flower.
Bending in the garden's breath
toward warmth more golden,
without precision
of posture or form -
perfection being rigidity -
the floret undulates and
almost falls into its own
embodied gush
of unseen root wine
spilt from a seed that bursts
into nourishment
through the ancient humus
of the un-dead.
the blossom a continuum,
seamless river of
aboriginal darkness churned
with comet grit,
aligned with starry
spirals of wonder in
tongue petals running
through the food of luminous air,
gentle scimitars we humans
no longer carry
in our empty sheath
of expectation...
Let us repose without effort
in green gravity,
remembering this wild
flower yoga,
root to bloom, your kiss
connected to its inhalation,
stem to seed, your mind
at rest on its breastbone,
sprout to loam, your yearning
threaded to the embryo
you honed with 10,000 deaths.
Your soul is but a portion
of the planting whose pollen
you flung on a wind of blood
in your Mother.
O too thoughtfully
up-rooted one,
bow down to the nearest
scarlet-tousled weed and cry,
'Teach me!'