Maybe I’m seeing things,
But I’m always seeing these things,
Little signs,
Innocuous to the untrained
Or uninterested or uninitiated eye.
Can’t help myself,
They’re always there,
Guiding my way,
“Stay on your path,”
They seem to say.
As if I could ever
Do anything other than
See reflected in
The outer physical world
That which resonates
So strongly within
My spirit-emotional realm.
As above, so below.
The fool’s journey,
Got that beginner’s mind flow.

The Problem


the irony here
is not lost on me, however,
at least, sometimes,
this is true.
i love words,
more than i love
most people,
most of the time.
and maybe that is part
of the problem.
i love to get lost in words,
but every so often,
i just want the whole world to
shut up and listen to the music
and kiss and dance and make
love and revel in the sculptures
and paintings and sunrises and
sunsets, feel the wind and the
earth beneath our feet, eat,
drink, and be merry — maybe
then things might be different.
the world would be a different
place, a space at peace. we
need to put ourselves in another
place-frame-of-mind to get it
right. sit in silence and seal our
mouths tight. slow down the
pace. let the smile bloom on
your lips, let that grin grow
ear-to-ear until it almost hurts
your face. grace overtakes
the kind-hearted kindred. shh,
i’m evolving in the quiet
moments of solitude which
amplify the best qualities of our
human race.

Pathless Pleasures

This really isn’t
The right path for me, but I
Pursue it out of a sense of
Obligation, of duty.
Snakes spring forth from my
Third eye, a third of my life
Passed by in the wrong lane at
The wrong time.
I had a quarter-life crisis, now a
Third-life crisis, it’s just one
Existential question after
Another, isn’t it?
Never been the type to think in
Simple terms, always had to
Overdose on overused abused
Words. In the last five years
I might have shaved off a
Decade from my lifespan,
Worries alone have wearied
My wingspan. Fuck it, man…
Same as it ever was, I could
Spend all day writing poems
And taking pictures and cooking
Dinner, daydreaming, over-
Thinking, over-spending,
Too much drinking. No magnum
Opus in the works, no patent
Pending. Only feeling.
Empty pockets all I have to show
For my life’s work. Well,
What do you know!
Too much money
In the bank’s called hoarding,
And clutter’s not my thing,
So, there you go.
All I recall is
How to live life too slow.



Happy birthday to me,
I just turned twenty-three,
Just kid-ding, I’m 32,
Happy birthday to you!
[The kind of birthday song you sing yourself in the mirror.
Songs of days birthing selves seeing so much clearer.
The kind of birthday for kindness from here on ever after,
Through the looking glass, place-time in space flipped, parts disassembled-reattached-misremembered.
Who is me, and am I you? Oh, you mean it’s your birthday, too!
What’s ten years, give or take a few?
We’ve both been here before, tell me something new…]
Déjà vu.
I knew this place,
Was it, (un?)lucky 13 years ago? I was
Lucky about a decade past,
Blessed to be a mother,
Now I’ve brought my
Children here, but it feels
We’ve crossed some
Invisible barrier
Through which
It feels strange to pass.
Walls, though
Repainted and the
Carpets new-blue,
Haunt the amenities,
Whispering their melodies, and
Only the ocean remains
Unchanged in hue.
High times, hard times for
Me to lie low while
Tides pull at our moon.
(Time, time moves in mad
Ways as we unravel
Through age and
Unusual truths.)
[Revel in the labyrinth,
Traveling mystics,
Here is the dawning
Of the heart-mage.]
Om Mani Padme Hum