For every delicate loving bird

there seems to be a dark stone

thrown at this precious creature.

For every loved, cherished child

there seems to be another – shaken,

beaten and wounded to continue

a cycle of darkness.

But with study & loving-kindness

i am trying to sell the world

to the young and broken

That they might take

God’s brush and paint a

sacred world with softness, compassion

And Light.

before you

before youbefore you

slid into my life

my quest for love

was like trying

to harvest fog.

with you

i climb

timber hills

on the side

of angels.

affection

streams from

your quiet

blue eyes.

together,

we are divine stone

and a

cyclone of

good fortune.

Sitting in peace

I touch

Sleeping parabolas

Avoiding the icy wind

Of “reality”

Knowing

And feeling

That I am more,

I avoid icy wind

And so our house

Sparkles in gratitude

Finding

Loving silence

In urban expanse

Allowing

The ever changing

Breeze

To whistle

Through bone.

I know

That I am

Much more

Than atoms

As I move,

As if,

Without gravity

Rising above

An ecology

Of locks.

Blue water

Flies

Finding

Grass, spring trees

Leaving behind

A paradise

Of fugitive

Dust.

Bella jumps repeatedly

As though she is

Watching

Private sparkling

Explosions

So I let her out

To run around

The messy yard –

She is excited

And amazed,

Barking and playing

Finding, perhaps,

Moonlight in

Early spring

Afternoon

Urban expanse,

Running back in

My arms,

Now, carefully

Prancing

As if avoiding

Imaginary

Splintered glass

Then, she jumps

On my lap

To help me

Write this poem.

She slides to the

Living room

Daylight deep

In old windows

Greeting

A homeless man

Who sings

In the street.

She glides back

To the office

Nudging my arm

Asking me

To watch this man

Who makes

Eye contact

With me

And has a hunger

For understanding

So I trip

Down awkward steps

To give him money

Before he gets away –

Still singing

His thanks

He leaves,

And I hope

He gets Something to eat –

I suppose

My heart

Is a misty

Rose

Worrying about him,

But perhaps

There is

Holiness

In eating alone –

A Zen Sort of peace

To mask

Loneliness.

Thunderclouds

Rumble up

The horizon.

Thinking

Of the man,

I almost cry,

As though I have

Marble arms.