Exhalation, ejaculation, excretion.
These are the sacred doors
to the temple of Loss.
No one overflows who is not empty.
Pump the harmonium
to get the music.
No out, no in.
Prepare the oracle broth
of a trillion sisters, menstrual mead.
The air in the drum of non-duality
cannot be breathed.
To catch the ocean
of silence in your net,
just let the waves break into song.
Only plankton get through,
yet they feed everything.
Become small and intensely
green now, because that's what
will happen to you anyway.
What vessel can you cling to?
The grail won't take you over
this sea of wine.
The ghee lamp won't contain
your last prayer.
No need for anointed kings:
everyone has a throne in the bathroom.
Enlightenment without catastrophe
is the twinkling of garbage
in a clogged sink.
Who shattered the crystal cup
and threw it in with husks
of garlic and purple onion?
How many spiritual techniques
can you thread on one breath?
The seed gets burnt up
in the flower.
Flames of love annihilate
your eyes, your tongue, your
nipples and fingertips.
Where there are vital organs,
there are holes.
Unplugging drains is soul work.
Flush light through.
Even your crown is an anus.
The bottoms of your feet are mouths.
Each pore of skin ejaculates the sap
of what manure becomes
when it smolders into ashes
of grace.
You are neither the oil can
nor the spark,
neither hollow stem nor
risen juice.
Be glad you're covered in compost.
Become the combustion,
the whole disaster
flinging her petals at the moon.
You are the snake who leaves
her crinkled skin on a black stone,
libation for an April sunbeam.
You are the purest fire of Gehenna,
not an incinerated bone
of Jesus' body.
You are the misfortune
of whatever has a name.
You are the comedy of silence.
Don't mean anything.
Just become food.


Between darkness and light,
a tear...
Between silence and song,
a breath...
From the earth to the sky
my spine is hollow,
waiting to be filled
like a butterfly's tongue
that yearns
for the honeysuckle's sap.
Yet I would be filled
from the blackest soil
to the star of emptiness
not with the food of flowers
but with your lightning,
O Shambo, Lord
of sweet annihilation.

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


You Are Cordially Invited
To the Cotillion
of Your Imperfections.
Please Bring Your
Most Beautiful Disaster
In a Sparkling Gown
So that We may Honor Her
As the Living Gateway
To Love.

Beyond My Prayers

Beyond my prayers and fears
I'm grateful for a caterpillar's fuzz,
grateful for the smell of rain
on fallen golden alder leaf,
and for this well of tears;
for the gift of breath not taken
but received, my heart's refrain;
for a time of love, a time of grief,
a kiss of wind, the dark solace
of early sunset through bare trees,
the falling southward sound of geese;
grateful for what is
no longer filtered
through what was;
and for a body to awaken
in the miracle of Presence,
making all things new...
Come with me and be wildered.
Are you not the silent radiance
you've been praying to?

First Flower

ever-ending pilgrimage
to a snow drop, now.

All Things Being Equal

Taking the first breath
with outrageous delight.
Organizing 700,000 protesters
to march for justice.
Knitting a wool blanket
for a baby.
Building a sustainable
earth-friendly outhouse.
Painting plum blossoms in April.
The final exhalation
gratefully offered.
All things being equal,
all sacraments, and all
mirages in the still blue sky
of attention,
I've given up searching
for vast significance.
I look for the great
in the small.
On my fingertip
the dissolving beauty
of innumerable suns
in a snowflake.
The galaxy we're lost in
on a snail's back.
In a moth wing, the silver-blue
pin-wheel nebula.
A horoscope of frost
at my window
telling ancient stories,
foreshadowing the shape
of eternity.
And at the moment of my death,
a ladybug.
I am lying in the grass
on a summer afternoon.
My heart, which has been
breaking for decades,
finally pries itself open.
Ladybug lands on a weed,
bending it down for a bridge.
I gaze into unfathomable green
as she gathers my last breath
into her crimson stole,
starred with imperial
black opals,
and carries me gently across,
not into another world but
deeper into this one.

Hear a reading: LINK


All this yearning springs
from a hollow seed
containing every
branch and fruit.
Gratitude for this breath
is the secret
force of creation.
Meet me in the silence
between songs.

Spirit Guide

My spirit guide has moved
from his flower pot on my porch
to a skunk cabbage in the wetland,
joining his chorus of friends
on their first night of
Spring practice.
The song they are singing is called,
'Love is Greener than the Kiss of a Raindrop
and Sadder than Sunrise in a Mist of Roses
If You Are a Frog.'


The Goddess whispered to my heart,
You are not here to suffer.

Learn from the bee.
You are here to make honey.

Visit dark sticky places
In everything that blossoms.

A poem from 'Wounded Bud.' Someone sent me a podcast from a radio program called 'Body Trust' where this poem was read to illustrate the healing power of short poems memorized. Thank you, Body Trust.


The crossroad is pathless
here, at the center of your body,
where one breath pours into another.
Meet me here and I will change you
like a beam refracted through a lens of sap.
Meet me here and you will change me
like a meson colliding
with the dark particle of its other self.
This circle is already full
before it becomes the world.
Find your way home, get lost
in all directions at once:
this is called the center.
I will let you wander through me.
May I wander through you?
This is called the heart.
Arrive, speaking the master's words.
Depart, singing your own song.

(A Poem from my book, 'Wounded Bud')



My generation looked Eastward,
traveled to Rishikesh, Kyoto, Katmandu,
brought home gifts of Yoga, Vedanta,
meditation, pranayam -
thank you, thank you.
This generation looks Southward,
travels to Cusco, Volcano Poaz, the Amazon,
brings home gifts of the Shaman,
songs of the forest -
thank you, thank you.
Where will the next generation go?
Perhaps they'll look Omward,
travel into the heart,
bring back gifts of Presence -
this moment, this body, this breath.
Thank you.

Wild Iris

To be is perfect joy.
is why flowers are speechless.
Each petal reveals the ancient secret.
Creation is not a Word.

You could be a wild iris seeded by stray wind,
bursting by a ruined fence beyond the empty barn
where pigeons startle and flash in dusty sunbeams
stuttered through chinks of warped cedar.

Don't try to say it.
The passion in the fragrance of evening shadows
is all that matters, boding good rain.

There is a gaze through whom silence spills
from mirror to mirror its useless beauty
in streams of not pretending to know.
Be like this.

At day's end, feign no more wisdom

than when you awoke.
Trellised on that ruined fence,
bend under graces of weightless sky,
entwined with every weed of revelation.
Flower without trying, and be wild.


A flash out of the void
a vanishing
you said it wasn't real
you said that clinging 
to it was sorrow 
you attended long lectures
about its non-existence
weekend retreats to get
rid of what wasn't there
but at night alone you
often admitted to having
no idea what it is
where it comes from or
what this luminous darkness
means that fills you not
with dread so much as
ineffable yearning all you
really know is that your  
life is the flash the perpetual

echo after image in the eye 
that cannot see out of its
own dazzled blindness ripe
and desperate now why not
confess how much you need
the Beloved?


As soon as I speak your Name, I lie.
And if I call you Nameless, I lie.
If I say Thou I lie, if I say Me I lie.
If I say Two, it is almost the greatest lie.
But One is the mother of lies.
Let my lies reveal the truth.
Let my lies reveal the tiny blue violet of your face
blossoming through the dark fissure,
splitting the stone.
Let my lies reveal the warm brown hills
and valleys of your body.
Let my lies reveal the flash of your grin
in the warrior's sword, the scent of milk
in the bundled softness of an infant's lips.
Let my lies be the eyes of God gazing on the world.
Shiva, Shiva, Shiva, this world of lies!
This poem of lies!

Yoga Teacher: A Poem from 'Savor Eternity'

“A baby is a yoga teacher.” ~Sri Sri Ravi Shankar

A baby is a yoga teacher.
A flower is a yoga teacher,
the morning glory, here and gone.

A raindrop is a yoga teacher.
A teardrop, the ocean and moon.

Why? Because
they achieve loveliness
through aloneness, eternity
through impermanence.

Time is a yoga teacher if
you watch it because
it is not really here.
Between rocks in a mountain stream,
the flash of a vanishing trout.

Or the electricity of a cat doing nothing.
Or the current in a wire birds love
to perch on that would kill you.

Anger is a yoga teacher
if you gently stay with it
in your belly and watch
the alchemy of bullet lead
dissolving into sorrow,
the mercury of tears
into peace.

Your mother's death is a yoga teacher.
When she is gone, she is
the soil itself and whatever
is green.

Now listen to the most
distant sound you can hear.
That is your yoga teacher
bearing you into silence
with a graceful gesture,
the posture of annihilation.

One breath is the price you pay
to enter his ashram.
It costs more than you could ever keep.

Give everything away
to your yoga teacher
who stands in the doorway
of the next inhalation.

His classroom is the stillness
between heartbeats.
Formlessness his perfect asana.

A sip of fresh water is your yoga teacher,
a mouthful of bread
melting into a smile for no reason,
gratitude for dust,
a groundless falling through your chest
into the radiant emptiness
at the center of all
these swirling stars.


The miracle is
always in the soft, the small,
the momentary.


I poured out this jug of emptiness
until the world was full.

The night in my cup overflowed
with stars of ecstasy.

Brother, we got drunk
when we were still each other.

That was long before we became two.
We still can't tell the difference

between darkness and light.
All we do now is sing.

Endangered pods swim through our eyes
seeking sanctuary in other gazes.

The old earth dissolves into this one
every time we blink.

There is a sound that roses make
when they blossom at midnight

at the touch of the moon's fingers.
We hear it when we breathe.

Remind me, inebriated friend,
what the password is for entering
the kingdom of silence.

Words To Say Love

We don't have enough words to say "love,"
that is why we have hands.
We don't have enough deeds to do love,
that is why we have tears.
We don't have enough tears to feel love,
so we have silence.
We don't have enough wonder to contain love,
so we surrender.
Now the soft morning rain is over.
  A tiny broken sun trembles
on the tip of every fern.

The vireo returns to heal the earth
with a song.


Earth our waitress comes
to the table in her rumpled apron
stained with a hundred juices.
"What will it be this morning?"
"Let's start with some mist
in one of those green valleys,
and a cup of black loam with
a single tree frog.
"Then fallen apples over easy
with extra worms,
a side of scattered leaves
in a caramelized sunbeam." 
"That comes with Summer's last
abandoned bird's nest salad," she says.
Or soup of the day, fern bog with
skunk cabbage and blue chanterelles." 
"I'll take the soup,
a half carafe of Autumn rain 
and a cruller the shape
of a groundhog's hole."
She remembers your order by heart.
She knows what you love.
Old ones come back to this place.
Then they bring grandchildren.
There's a line to get in.
Sometimes it seems
we have to wait a year,
but its worth it.
Published in 'Clementine Unbound,'
A Journal of Juicy Poetry,' Winter 2016


Blessed are you when you stumble
into your perfect dance.
Blessed are you when you trip
and fall into your planting.
God does not apologize for her mistakes.
The footprint of the lost becomes a path
and the apple tree offers her first fruit to worms.
Of a thousand scattered seeds, only one grows.
Ruthlessly forgive yourself.
Chance every moment.
This rambunctious thistle was a milkweed thread
spinning in the breath of the unknown.
Sprawl into blossom, tumble back to seed.
Curled in frozen darkness, ferment
all Winter in your white hot potency
until she wakens you, whispering,
"Whirl again, little one,
there are no mistakes!"

Poem from my first book, 'Wounded Bud.'


The flower of
is the play of lover
and beloved.
Every perception
is a deeper kiss.
Just to be awake
is the great romance.
Why not hear
a sparrow at dawn?
Why not scent a wild
hyacinth and fall
in love again?


Trembling pale
seeds of unknowing
dream of a golden tree.
Imbolc, one veil.
Summer wears three.
Winter was naked and thin.
Dance now, our seduction,


The beginning
and end
of every path
is to rest
the mind
in the heart...
Drop the seed
of your despair
into a softer
deeper furrow.
Cradled in night,
become the moon.
Don't you know,
your Winter silence
is the Mother of
all that swirls
into green fire?

Find Your Revolution

Where we are most hollow,
we are most full.
Each of us must find
the revolution
that is true to our wound.
Some clamor for disruption
and resistance,
making chaos create.
Others stir the honey
of silence
in a golden embryo.
All I know is,
a wand of poisonous
devil's claw has roots
that brew down
into healing tea,
and a hyacinth
springs out of snow,
releasing the fragrance
of April.

Each Fragment The Whole

I read these short poems from my books, pausing for silence
between each one, as a single guided meditation, each fragment
returning us to the wholeness of Presence...
You Are Cordially Invited
To the Cotillion
of Your Imperfections.
Please Bring Your
Most Beautiful Disaster
In a Sparkling Gown
So that We may Honor Her
As the Living Gateway
To Love.

What the bud calls a wound

we call blossoming.
This is how the angels see
our gashed and broken places.
They keep singing,
"Stay open, stay open!"
Don't you know that through your tears
that world flows as light
into this one?

The Goddess whispered to my heart,

you are not here to suffer.
Learn from the bee.

You are here to ferment the nectar.
Visit dark sticky places

in everything that blossoms.

God meant to drop this mirror,

shattering into countless images her perfect gaze.
This is why we meet in clefts and gouges,
putting ourselves together again
through each other,
until we recognize one face
with seven billion reasons
for astonishment.

Of your mother and father
all that remains is you.
Of the bee and flower, just honey.
Of the master and disciple
only a quivering braid of cream
poured from bowl to cup.
Why ask if there are one or two?
Compare us, my beauty, to melting snow.
Give up perfection, take up
laughter and tears.

My soul has nothing to do
with believing.
My essence is intensely
playful silence,
free of opinions
about anything.
I will meet you here
in a flash
of astonishment.
The bee doesn't ask,
"What kind of flower
are you?"
He is only interested
in the shock and sweetness
of connecting.

Peel away another layer of the dream.
Disappear without a trace
into the inconceivable vastness
of the next moment.

This is how God becomes dust.
Touch your forehead to the earth,
bow down to the light in your body.
When the light within lifts up your head
crying, "Do not worship me, for I am you,"
bow down, bow down.
All around you, dripping with quietness,
flowers are doing this to rain.
The golden moth that lives one day
does this to a flame, the moon
to the sun. One breath
does it to another.
Receive yourself.
Bow down and drink.
Be the mother of your heart.
This is how dust becomes God.

There's a heart within your heart.
When this one beats
that one sings about light,
the gong in the atom’s hollow,
photons echoing a golden bell
never struck.
This sound could only mean one thing:
a Lover whispering your name
before you were conceived.
Why should your flesh be filled with
anything but music?

You crave sensations
of earth, air, fire, water,
touch, smell, hearing, sight -
yet the only sensation
that can ever fulfill you
is the motionless unscented
invisible opening
of the rose in your chest.

As many times as there are stars
I asked “Why?”
The night was silent.
Then just once I said,
“Your love.”
The night became a song.
A stillness blossomed
deep in my body,
another and more secret sky.
Your touch was a blade
so whetted and
deadly soft
my heart barely knew
it had been severed
into I and Thou.

Blossoms don’t open themselves.
It takes a sunbeam to ignite the rose.
I was asleep until you placed
a ruby on my chest
awakening the expiration
of this gentle song, the whisper
of Spring in a Winter garden.
So’ham, So’ham, So’ham...
One breath pours wine into
the burnished cup of another.
Some say that this is just
a sound without meaning.
I say it means the Magdalene
has met Jesus
in the bridal chamber
of the heart.

Liken the present moment
to a dogwood blossom,
petals unfolding in stillness,
silence, generosity, peace,
four petals, four signs
of the heart,
and at the core an
infinitesimal pistil
with a secret fragrance
we might call love,
known only to the drunken one
who visits on wings
that hum and sing.
It's evening
and April after all,
but any moment will do
if you are truly here.