Rock Solid

The peaks are covered with
the softest white blanket,
the baby blue heaven is
streaked with cotton candy,
then slowly, like red peaches,
sun slipping into sleep.

How long have the mountains
been here?
When did they arrive, when
will they leave?
Silent sentries, steadfast,
moving ever so slowly,
with conviction.

And we have been here longer.
We will survive the survivors.
We are anchored to the very
center of the earth, rock solid,
while at the same time birthing
the furthest constellations.

The peaceful snow scene,
the tiny sparkling mirrors,
the thin, luminous arc of a
moon, like a quick brushstroke-
these lovely, silent messengers,
reminding us.

What we are is deeply,
and irrevocably
what is.


Wanting What I Am

This is not dry, barren
or indifferent,
unless it is..

This is also bone-crushing,
tidal waving desire.

Storms of want,
raining in torrents,
mysterious, wonderful, amazing
shocks of feeling,
dragging us, dumbstruck,
into the well.

Walking in the desert for so long,
it is tempting to miss the water,
to forget to drink.

Diving deep,
travelling down,
into the beginning
of nothing,
up is down,
out is in,
body breaking,
tears pouring,
earth splitting,
quaking open,
and nobody cares
what happens
there is


containing absolutely
everything and anything
we never knew we wanted.

the origin and
fulfillment of every
imaginable yearning,
the balm for every
hurt, the silent answer
to every question.

A wildly precious
this is what Love
gives to Itself.

The desert can be beautiful.

So can a hurricane.


Story Time

Tell me the life of your story,
and I'll tell you mine.
Tell me about love, happiness, and heartbreak,
chocolate, science, and rainbows.

Tell me about One, looking like two,
or about One being nothing,
and everything.

Nothing doesn't stop something from appearing.

Does Being prefer a smile to a tear?
I don't think so,
not unless you do..

Whatever you want
is wanting.

Whomever you love,
is already love.

Whenever you hurt, Being is there.

The very fabric of your story, my story,
is the sweet breath of Being, loving to be.

No possibility of wanting something else,
unless you do..
No desire to alter what is,
unless you do..

The "me" and the "you" are the absolute
expressions of what is, right now.

Oneness loving to be, as you, as me.

Cherished, welcomed, loved and desired.
Not as an object, but as the very essence of
unavoidable, irresistible.

There is no escaping.
However Beingness appears is exactly how it must appear.
Until appearing as something else.

In the swirling kaleidoscope of what seems to be,
nothing is really happening,
what seems to change is changelessness.

Inside of that secret, the life of the story might
churn and burn.

It's really all right.
No one wants to stop it,
because we can only BE it.

No other choice but
absolute freedom.


Not Far From the Moon

Not far from the moon,
Jupiter winked back,
and I started to fly,
up and higher
stretching out to darkness,
wanting to go in,
longing to vanish in cool
blackness peppered with


The journey continued,
bright star super nova
approaching, engulfing,
each piece of illusion
burned into comet tails,
there I go again, oh
lost another one.

Then renaissance,
blazing eruption
here I am again,
another blast off,
another star birth,
zooming toward earth.

Landing with grace and ease,
peaceful arrival,
I'm captured again,
but laugh as I'm held,
smile as I play
cosmic dramas,
always safe,
always peace,

And still,
I love stars.



Come here.
I'm going to become the widest ocean,
darkness and silence,
penetrating all barriers,


the story of you,
Loving you,
no other.

as you turn yourself
inside out
and outside in again.
Never knowing
exactly what or
who or why.

No matter.
The deepest sea cannot unwelcome,
cannot reject Itself.
It can only be

And that's when you forget,
and you disappear,
and the ocean remembers..

We Are The Way

I thought I was a sprinter
it turns out I'm an
endurance runner

that's how god dreamed me

burnt up
broken open
washed and died

shatter me

shatter me

so that I can drown
in the liquid gold
from pale pink

that never were

rising up
everything is new
and I know

joyful relief, it is
that heals, after all

we didn't know
we are innocent
there is really nothing there

and yet

here we are

swirling in twisted ecstasy
posing as grief
loss separation

and love



no choice but to be

lightning searches
for the ground

it'll find a way

we are the way


In a Nutshell

what we are is so irresistible,
so magnetic and love-loaded,

that the only thing happening here
is a limitless, ecstatic, kaleidoscopic
rainbow dreamscape explosion of

there is nothing else.

anybody have a problem with that? ;-)




my bones are singing.
a silent chorus,
vibrating stillness.

something is listening

breathing is the pulsing of space,
my heartbeat
the baseline of
humming Beingness.

this body is a collection
of nothing,

utterly free
and open

sensation gliding fluidly
sometimes bursting into
or flame !
sometimes knocking gently,
sliding under the door.

something is feeling

one hundred percent Isness,
the body as the sweet nectar
of unending Love,
utterly One,
Being itself.

no inside
no outside

no here
no there

these invisible pillars of support,
holding vulnerable flesh and
quivering muscle,
my bones are singing
the only love song there is..


something is listening




is the vibrating, shimmering plane of experiencing

in which nothing arises or disappears,

timeless and spaceless, without beginning or end.

There are no separate objects

being experienced by a separate subject.

There is only the seamless,

no-distance-from-Being experience-ing.

Feeling feet and seeing windows occur here.

There is no there, away from This.

There can't be, there is only This.

The experiencing of "window"

at a distance from the experiencing

of "body" is all happening at zero distance

from what I am.

Trees and ideas are simply Being,

tree-ing and idea-ing.

Or we could say they are simply the act of experience-ing.

Only verbs here,

though nothing is happening.

So-called objects are made up of the experiencing

of them.

All is always only Oneness -

no boundaries, no separation.

Whatever seems to exist is a happening

in the placeless here and the timeless now.

And it's not an event, it's just what we are.

No separation,

no subject/object,

no time,

no space,


The flower is flower-ing.


This Is What We Want

There is something soft inside all of us.
Each doubt, each challenge, each hateful
refusal is met with an opening..

A tender leaf unfurling, always
fresh, always Spring.

And stronger than granite.

There is nowhere to go, but here.
Nothing to meet, but this melting

No use fighting it, for fighting
is helpless, handcuffed, arrested,
against the forces of tenderness.

A delicate smile cracks mountains,
rock shards tumbling into
deep wells of benevolence.

Always embraced, pains
and tears are honored company,
no one rejects the rejecting.

Can't stay here.
Can't leave here.

This is what here is.

Searching for love, we find
love searching.

And that is quite enough.

Crashing into unknown bliss,
peace holds us gently.

Diving into free-fall,
love is pulling out the

What we thought we wanted
is a fading ghost.

If tears are shed, all good.
They wash away dusty memories,
and water the bud of now.


The Story is Grace

There is something exquisitely okay
about the story appearing now.
The yes to what is,
is so powerful and so solid,
whatever appears
is drowned in its own source.

A heart might be burning with perceived harm,
a head might be dreaming of devils and angels,
and all the while, the center doesn't move.
There is no flinching at flinching.
There can't even be a sliver of a crack in what we are.
Separation is the muse of the inseparable.

Even resistance is unresisted.
Inside what appears to be a no!
is the supreme YES,
always here
always being and allowing,
a soft caress in a hurricane.

Nothing can be rejected anymore,
not even rejection.
The appearance of a "me" is not a problem.
It never was.
How could a phantom cause any harm?
To whom?
To what?

There is only delight, loving-to-be.
Tears of joy
and of pain,
the shivering of fear
and excitement,
all hold the same revered status.

Immense gratitude arising for the story,
which is simply Being, story-ing.

There has been no gift given,
to be thankful for..
and yet
we could say that THIS is one
deeply unfathomable,
enormously compassionate,
fantastically love-ing

Love loving Love loving Love loving Love loving Love loving Love loving



I Am The Sky

I am the Sky.

Wings slash through me,
tickling my heart,

Leaves swirl in circles inside me,
flipping and flopping,

Tall building rise up like trunks
inside my legs,

I am the Sky.

I have no body,
no heart, no mind.

Concepts are born, from cracked eggs.
They disappear in ashes.

Stories float, leap, fall and dive,
inside the open, empty field that
I am.

So vast,
so beyond,
so burst open!

An idea is like a tiny cloud,
swimming silently, lonely, inside
the first and only One.

Words squiggle their way
through my imaginary bloodstream,

And I watch,
I delight.

I am the Sky,
and I am not.

Even Absolute Freedom
is a wisp of smoke
in what I am.


Peace Is the Given

Many of us are seeking a feeling of bliss, peace, oneness, or joy.
We want that feeling to be constant, and when that happens, it means we are enlightened.

But this is not at all the message being pointed to.
THIS is not a feeling at all.
Feelings arise like everything else. They move, change, come and stay for awhile, then move, change, and seemingly disappear.

What we ARE is not a feeling. What we ARE does not come, go, or change.
If we are waiting for a permanent feeling to overtake us, we could be waiting a lifetime.

The "peace that passeth understanding" is not a feeling. It is the way we describe, very poorly with words, the perfume of Beingness. It is how Beingness is described through the filter of a "me" and "mind." It's the closest we can get, using language.

The supreme "okayness" of THIS is not a feeling which comes or goes. It remains, always. Roiling emotions or calm feelings appear on/in the background of pure peace. This deep contentment, allowing, compassion, bliss - whatever word we want to use - is the ground upon which everything appears, from which everything is "made."

What we think we feel is simply Isness is-ing. And we say that Isness feels like peace, but it is beyond feeling, before feeling, before even the concept of "Isness," "peace," or "feeling."

What This is, is a deep, deep okayness, limitless compassion and acceptance, a profound inner "yes" to what is. This is not a feeling. Any feeling can appear in This, and This Peace remains, unaltered. Same with experiences, "spiritual" or otherwise. Words will always fail, but they seem to come forth nonetheless!

Chasing a feeling is an activity that may seem to be happening, and there is nothing wrong with it, but a simple feeling is not really what is being searched for, is it? THIS is much more than that. So subtle that it seems to hide behind dramatic emotions, thoughts and experiences. And it IS those things, as well. But not only.

Every feeling arises in and as This. The peace (okayness) that we are is the given. The feelings that arise are the variables.

We don't "feel" peaceful all the time.
But we ARE the peace beyond the mind's idea, which doesn't come or go.
Always here and now. No matter the feelings or experiences arising.


To The Bone

Something just melted in the story of me.
Like a warm balm, the softness spread
over muscles and bone and fascia,

Whispering, "It's okay, it's okay..."

The mantle of knowing slipping
off shoulders, the sweet relief
of no judgement, no opinion, no idea.

What is good or wrong?
I cannot say, not even for "me,"

And this is the deep solace of emptiness,
Full of tender sigh, deep breath,
grateful tear.

I cannot know,
I cannot know.

And the gratitude explodes silently again...