Notes Before The Blue Moon

 30 October 2020

The moon is bright enough to sing drunk or sober.

Watch how the range grass responds to the lover wind.

An owl is hooting, so musical after dark when all else is still.

Nothing is as it seems because we see only what seems to be.

We think of disappearing without thinking about

what disappearing means when existence ends. 

I would love to roll with the inside of a fragrance,

then I’d know what a fragrance really is.

The grasslands are always fragrant— 

I would be that; it would be me.

Of forgetting and disappearing, The Watcher says, 

Don’t forget that stuff. You might need it.

From: A Rambly Search for Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub. MS p. 10

This Morning

Early September

Sitting in my gazebo under a cloudy sky,

thunder grumbles down 

the pink Huachuca Mountain slopes

toward the San Pedro River.

Wind, you are as restless as the grassland. 

I miss what messages you could bring,

but I have my coffee and poems by Mary Oliver.

Waiting will not be a problem.

Life isn’t short. It’s long.

Make it short by wasting time.

Obstacles are not deterrents.

The dust of sorrow will always settle.

From: Shorts: Short Poems On How We Ramble

Unpub. MS p. 57

A Question Of Madness

No one has a right to say that no water babies exist 

till they have seen no water babies existing, which is, 

mind, quite a different thing from not seeing water babies.  

~Charles Kingsley

To awaken and then to disappear 

into something beautiful

saturates our hearts and minds with wonder.

Waves never go to the center of the sea.

The oceans do not forget that bearers of pain

find solace at the turbulent edge of the world.

The wind on the grasslands whispers to us

that everything possesses music,

but if you listen for it, you won’t hear it.

The failure to speak

in the voice of the invisible 

will render your heart barren of vision.

If never allowing for uncertainty,

for possibilities beyond light and darkness, 

then our spirits languish.

The question of madness is always present.

I would not argue against it being 

the highest form of intelligence.

From: Finding My Way: A Meandering Journey

Seeking the Sacred Mysteries

Through Memory, Time, and Place

2010 - Present

Unpub. MS p. 15

Sacred Realm

Nature is a sacred realm. Lightning strikes where 

it needs to. Nature knows how to make her point. 

There are a hundred paths in your eyes. 

Each one can take you to the Divine Presence.

Age is upon me, but I am not frightened by that. 

More than ever, I crave the essence of all things.

One night the grasslands awakened me, No one 

has seen such trumpery grip the throat of a nation.

I meditate and remember my blessings. 

It’s the righteous mobs that terrify me. 

From: A Rambly Search For Innocence, Time, and Love

Unpub MS p. 4

Grassland Sonata

There is a cold air breeze, 

softly on the dusky grassland,

leading me down time’s easy path

until a five-year-old child looks up

in wonderment, and the lyrical, 

untuned piano played by his grandmother 

brightens the evening sky.

The chilly air takes me back 

into that five-year-old’s warm heart,

into a world seen through his eyes,

innocence that I think I remember so well.

The noises of that day, the dusty street, 

and my off-key singing mingle 

with my grandmother’s rendering 

of a long forgotten piece. 

That sliver of a sweet memory, 

carried gently on the evening’s 

cold air silence, meanders, merging 

into an airy stream of memories

of what was, of what could have been,

constantly flowing, fleeting, leaving me longing 

for the wonders of childhood’s innocence.