"Glorify God in your body." ~1 Cor. 6:20
Let the mind kneel quietly  
before each cell of flesh,  
gazing into its blue-green sea  
of prism'd splendor.  
Let the Spirit learn from the whirling  
of one atom in my bones  
how to dance.  
Let every molecule  
of this rainbow body  
be a sacred path where souls  
descend from heaven and ascend,  
carrying garlands of wisdom 
scented and colored 
with the pain and beauty  
that can only be harvested on earth.

Tankha painting: Buddha Padmasambhava

Sabbath Morning

Sabbath morning.
Season of not quite Autumn.
Call it Mothergold.
Let Silence blossom
through your senses.
Listen to a flower.
Let time past fall quietly
on the stream of presence
and float away.
You have mighty wings.
Be bold.
Let this breath carry you
to the wondrous kingdom
where you are.


After the previous thought dissolves,
before the next one arises,
who are you?
The one who watches thoughts
cannot be a thought.
Now you are the ocean
of pure awareness
from whom worlds, stars, galaxies
bubble up like foam.
You are the silence that was here
before God said, Let there be light.
Why no repose
in the boundless dignity
of who you always
already are?
Those who dwell in the stillness
between thoughts
make peace.

Wandering Time ( a poem from 'Savor Eternity')

Words have served their purpose.
Now it’s time for brandied
moonlight in plum petals,
birds fermenting in vaults of holly,
burgundy midnight, the darker
stronger stuff of vintage silence.
It's wandering time, walk softly
in cedar amazement.
Savor the duration of a raindrop,
the ever-expanding moment
of a tongue-crushed huckleberry.
Lost all night in green inebriation,
listen as the planets sigh in pine branches.
Taste their distillate sparkle

in your heart's hollow.
Feel the Eros of transparency. 
Learn the art of not revealing
what you yearn to share

with every thirsty stranger.
Then your luster
will be like the moon

pulling on gardens from within.
Love is a secret, the Beloved is a secret,
you must be a secret too,
a hidden flowering that others
only scent in the darkness we all share.
Let each breath be an excess,
a sin of yearning for the blush concealed
in the modesty of blackness.
Come back tipsy, lover... do no speak
of what or whom you have known.

Compline for a Summer Night

The kind of evening that melts the Breyers
over my peach pie, finally a breeze
of welcome on the porch, one star rising
in a lapis sky, bruised pink -
I settle by a stifled rose
to listen for a cricket, watch for a firefly
and remember... In this meditation
one must leave the TV on inside
just loud enough to hear the ball game,
a prayer to my grandfather who loved
the Orioles. And I think of the pale driver
of the ice cream truck, his sad chimes.
I remember the way heat lightning
rumbled all night without rain, and how
at golden noon the plastic tasted
when I inflated the bright blue seahorse
with all the breath I could take from the sky.
I remember the mysterious odor
of water in a hose, delicious, cool and
rubbery out of the earth, the musk
of the primeval spring house, plop
of amphibian silence, the hum
of an Evenrude outboard engine
vanishing into silence
over brackish water, the heron
standing all that afternoon on one leg,
a penitent finally ascending
on twilit wings, and over the alfalfa field
a blessed mist enfolding
half-asleep horses, swishing their tails
all night as morning glories sprawled
on fence posts, waiting to be born again -
these are my sacred sutras, late
August memories, guiding me deeper
into the Presence that remembers nothing.

Dark Honey

Thoughts are no barrier to deep meditation.
Resistance to thoughts is the only obstacle.
If I neither grasp nor resist them,
thoughts have no opportunity to create
the illusion of a "past" or "future."
This mind is a rippling mirage in the vast
transparency of Presence.
When I merely observe it,
without the slightest effort,
like a bubble filled with starlight
on a moth's wing,
I am that vastness, I am that Presence.
Ideas dissolve into their energy:
waves of delicious fire in my neurons,
photons free to sparkle and disappear,
sparkle and disappear instantaneously,
in the luminous sea of pure awareness.
Where is the need for
concentration or self-control?
Attention wanders beyond the galaxies:
so what? I am stillness.
I am the space that contains them all.
How can I be moved? I am already there.
I have gathered the pollen
of ten thousand flowers, countless lives.
I have stirred it with yearning
in the tiny cell of my chest that has
no walls, like night itself.
Darkness is the honey.
The moon is full.
Because a frog sings in my dahlia pot,
the silence grows deeper
and more lovely.


At the end of your chanted path,
where the desert becomes the sea,
when you arrive your
songs are already here.
They greet you with silence
and you learn your name.
The rainbow curves toward darkness.
The surface of every sphere
tilts into its vacuum, pours
a golden yolk into ravenwings.

Now make a new body
out of your brave annihilations,
weightless as a flame.
And tell me, dancing tongue of fire,
don't you prefer the night?
Blackness becomes you.


Don't see the shimmering
mirage, as if the seer
is separate from the seen.
See the difference between
yourself and what you see
as just another shimmer 
in the same mirage...
There are only waves
of consciousness.
When this is seen,
fear dissolves.
Then life in the garden
of Vrindaban begins,
where all is a shimmering
of the Self.
Emptiness is blue,
the color of vastness.
Vibrations of vast emptiness
crystallize the body
of Govinda.
Whatever you behold is
Krishna's face, beholding you.
Only One, playing two.
This is why the full moon
makes you take off all your clothes
and dance in the wet grass
at midnight.

Give Joy

You give vast joy to the Master
when you give a little joy
to the small and voiceless.
Who dips the full moon
in the chalice of night?
Who tastes the wine of darkness?
You do.
It is very simple, friend, this mystery.
We are here to receive pleasures
the way still waters receive
ripples from the wind,
and then to give
ten thousand times
more pleasure than we received.
By reflecting the whole sky
in a teardrop.
Grow old, look back, rejoice.

Little Dog

This little dog is my teacher.
I love the dusty footprints
he brings to sheets and pillows.
I love the fur, the scent
of unwashed presence.
I love the way he runs in his sleep
and yelps at dream hounds.
It reminds me of people
who think they are awake.
I love his disobedience.
Through loving him
I learn how the Divine
loves me...