Fair Play

Hi readers
if you're out there,
I want to hear from you.
Send me a word, a sentence,
a shape, a blank space,
a poem...no matter.
Let me know where you 
are with nothingness and
We all know there is 
nothing to say about it,
so please,
say nothing
in your own special way. 
Let me see you, 
in the comments.
It'll warm my heart.



The river of experience flows
like a bloodstream
pumped by Being, each
scarlet tendril reaching back
like a finger toward Self.

I am untouched by the rains

that saturate the growing 
grounds, and yet, 
the sweet taste of berry
I know well.

I am Love loving itself, 
constantly, rhythmically, 
over stones and rocks,
sand and dirt.
Nothing can mar my 
unyielding glory.
Death is a cool pebble 
in my stream, 
romantic love a colorful, 
slippery fish that somersaults
for my amusement. 

I rise above all, and descend
deeper than anything.

Beauty is happening,
and it appears without
my interference, yet
only exists as me.

The act of personhood 

is my most elaborate 
unfolding, precious and
meaningless, reflecting
profound delight 
that has no reason.

Life is my spilling over joy, 

and needs no one to be. 
The deep acceptance that I am 
splits cells and pushes them
onward to their destiny 
of appearing and disappearing.

I remain, pure, 

the cosmic smile,
watching Life move through me,
the fathomless mystery,
basking in the only ever now.


Life Is

many of us
want to feel better
we search for

when it doesn't work
we look for enlightenment
for permanent bliss
no more pain
big love

when stories arise
and swirl into solids
we think we've lost
we always are

peace needs no
joy doesn't discriminate
against sadness

this is the embrace
of all
including what we
don't like and
don't want and
try to push away

we can't push away life
it is fresher than
waking up

while we're looking for
a better time

life is

beating our hearts



Meaningless and Beautiful

Trying to live life is
like trying to write a poem -
totally fruitless.

There is no secret to life.
Living is the secret, 
and that is enough.

We can let lines
gently perk up 
from their dreamy soil,
and write them down,

likewise allowing life to
do its thing - you know
it will anyway -

so no need to grab
and rip the shoots out
like weeds.

Perhaps writing and 
living can both be
tended kindly,
with a heart

like that garden of
rainbow blooms 
whose names
I don't even know.

I don't really know 
about life either, or 
about dying or loving.

I only know 
that this tiny seed
is also the decaying log, 
deep in the green forest 
of hanging tendrils,
billowing softly
in the breeze 
of silence.

The mystery of what is,
incapable of being written,
nevertheless shines 
in the marriage of letters,
in their offspring - words -
like windblown

senseless, meaningless,
and beautiful.


Sweet Spot

When did a single deep breath equal ecstasy?

When did the tender aches of the body
become sweet comfort?

When did the fatigue of personhood
transform into fathomless gratitude?

When did imagination bow
to universal truth?

When did *I* rise up as nothing?

When did love have no meaning
and was everything?


In between starting and ending,
I am.


What If

Were you on your knees?
Was hope a puddle on the floor?

Did you drown in the story,
or fly away to the non person?

Have you found the softness of
your deepest being?
In other words -
the velvet of your skin,
the crinkles at your eyes
when you smile,
the heat of fresh tears
and is there a difference?

Are you looking for you,
and finding other,
or maybe -
the other way around?

What if

This is the journey to
And this is all there is.
And it's okay not to know.
And you haven't done anything


What if

You are literally made of
vibrating goodness.

What about that?

Maybe we'll all be on our knees,