The world shimmers, strange textures
called Belief.

It blooms in the untouchable depth of oceans,
disperses through the flowing rivers,
the stagnant pools of blood.

We are there now,
even as we scratch at dry earth,
even as we scream out for darkness,
we are the wild play of light.

Based on experiences in Peru, 2015.


May we melt into the Earth
Like the ebbing flames
Of a fire raging
Too long now.

earth and leaf

And tree above –
branch, branch, branch, branch…
smaller and smaller –

And tree above –
limb, limb, limb, limb…
larger and larger –

A branch is a limb.
A limb is a branch.

But Earth is Earth,
And Leaf is Leaf,


Is a pale blue mist.

Everything speaks.
Everything spins.

All extends through all
In a trans-dimensional space.

Meaning is movement
Is spin
Is relationship.
Yet each instant reveals the whole.

Is Big.

Very, very, Big.


Your whole world
— the Universe at large —
Not an atom
Of an atom
Of an atom.


Light the purple fire
Burn the trembling tree
Build the furnace higher
Set the embers free. 


Last night
In a dream
A distant lover
From years ago
Lay next to me.

She didn’t speak.

She held me
In silence
And let me find my own outline
Against her body.

You are welcome.

Sit with me.

Press against my skin
And know yourself
At last.


everything is hidden.

as you open your eyes
dreams, holy places, the world as it is,
dissolve into a mist
that leaks silently, with each breath,
through the skin
to slough away
like saw dust
as you move against the oppressive grain
of a lonely, numb, insistent kind of belonging.


this is where I stand.
where else could I be?
this signal has traveled
since the beginning of time.

November, 2017

poetry as a key, a seed

This was my feeling today.

When spiritual experience compels a poet to write, her task is to sculpt a finite, discrete, material artefact out of a sprawling, unbounded, non-material object. The goal in producing such work is not to provide the reader with a replica of the inner experience, nor to make an absolute statement of truth. This is neither possible nor desirable. However rich her words and phrasing, they cannot hope to compare with the mystical dimensionality of the inwardly felt sensation, emotion, texture, movement, relationship; and to pretend that they might is intellectually and spiritually dishonest.

Rather, the goal of writing is to lovingly craft a signpost to the ineffable. To invite the reader to soften into feeling states far beyond the holding capacity of language. To extend safe passage to a personal experience of the Sublime.

Poetry – or let’s say, Art – serves as a humble key which, at the right moment, might grant access to an expansive, unspeakable room. A tiny seed that might take root in the soil of one’s bones and grow into an inner tree that branches out, and through, pulling one into more tender, loving, exquisite entwinement with the swirling, ever-blossoming wholeness of Life.

Through her focus and study, the artist knows something about the power of a humble key, a tiny seed, however imperfectly fashioned. She can say nothing, though, of what rooms or trees or wholeness might await the reader on their journey. Her special knowledge is only that such mysterious and beautiful allies Do await, that Nature’s breathtaking vastness permeates and illuminates us all, and that we are each of us deserving of the fertile soil beckoning to us from beneath our weary feet.

October 2018