What Hope Brings

I have traveled throughout 

the western states, and I have seen 

some breathtaking scenery

from Yosemite, the Cascades,

Snake River, the Grand Canyon,

to the turbulence of the Pacific Ocean

where it meets the Columbia River.

I have seen magnificent sunrises and sunsets,

Roosevelt Elk grazing outside my tent;

eagles, hawks, ravens, gulls, and breeching whales.

All of these things made my chest ache,

my breath deepen, my arms stretch out,

wanting to take all of it in to my body.

I have a notion that true love,

however defined, would be like that, 

and that lovers would look at each other 

like they would look at the beauty of nature;

their chests would ache, pulses quicken,

breaths deepen, and their arms would

wrap around each other in a way 

that says, I will never let you go.

Such is my fancy, my dream, my hope,

and hope will always bring good things.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere

Unpub MS p. 44

From Where Love

Three Short, Related Meditations

I.

To know more than just things,

words are not enough.

There must also be shivering

within our souls like surf 

that endlessly swirls and frets

around piles of rocks, water worn.

II.

A shortened life is never more

than half a breath away.

Our knowledge of sorrow will take us

into the depth of kindness,

calming rough-edged lives.

It isn’t possessing that matters.

For millennia, many have chosen

to make the best of love.

III. 

Earth changes.

Marsh water rises gently into mist.

Ah, look, there are other ways to wander.

Regardless the speed of our feet,

the wings of a falcon,

or clouds before the release

of water made new,

let us wander gritty and well-tempered

with a gentler step upon this suffering earth.

From: Memories Of Things Left Behind

Unpub. MS p. 28

The Same Trump

 ...and Trump posted a video depicting the Obamas as apes.

This is the same Trump who mocked disabled people;

the same Trump who said that because he's famous

he can grab women by the "pussy";

the same Trump who encouraged a takeover

of the Congress of the United States that ultimately KILLED five people;

the same Trump who didn't bat an eye when the mob

wanted to hang Vice President Mike Pense;

the same Trump who, on his first day in office in 2025,

pardoned those same people who stormed Congress;

the same Trump who has dispensed with morality and civility

and allows thugs with badges, guns, and face maskes

to arrest a five year old child.

And how much richer is he now than when he took office

a year ago?

Have people lost their shit detectors?

Have people lost their ability to be sickened by this behavior?

Have people lost their ability to recognize immoral actions?

Have we lost any sense of mercy, justice, and generosity?

Oh, dear God, awaken us.

Words On Fire

We need words 

rampaging back and forth,

up and down from everywhere, 

like blood drained from an opened vein.

Words that carry life and death,

danger and challenge, risk and terror,

love and kindness, fearful and brave,

wandering in the heart of darkness,

feckless and undaunted;

searing, razor sharp words slicing

the reigns of blind stupidity,

mediocrity, and tyranny,

shredding all of them

into millions of pieces.

In the end what we really need are words

of blazing love, blistering fire unleashed;

unabashed, bare, vulnerable, indomitable,

ready to ignite a fearful heart 

and go bravely into the wild passions.

From: Small Places, Big Places, Everywhere

Unpub. MS p. 28

I Alone

On a dual-tracked road

through the Coronado grassland,

the border wall stares down hard,

yet the mountain shines above it

with the first and last light of the day.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 11

Twelve Strings

While Leo Kottke’s music pranced about the room,

I thought about sunlight in all its forms.

I thought about a cat named Zeke;

a dog named Cooper;

rain storms, lightning, owls, ravens, 

and the Pacific a mile away.

I thought about the mystery

infusing the ebb and flow of tides,

a mystery that’s in my blood and marrow,

but I don’t know how to name it.

All anyone will say is,

Just dance to it.

From: How We Wander:

Short Poems in 75 Words or Less

Unpub. MS p. 27

Pen

My fountain pen is sometimes a snout, 

sniffing paper, poking here and there,

leaving a trail of random thoughts 

with quick trips down a rabbit hole.

Its discoveries are kept secret from me 

despite my hand’s guidance.  

There is persistent resistance

from it, like teenage angst.

When I want to write some thoughts 

about the nine different colors on my walls

(and darned if I know which to choose), 

or to wonder if I am as old as I really am

(just yesterday I was ten or fourteen or something),

I am harassed with irritating, ill-tempered penmanship 

and drawings of geometrics that appear in the margins.

My revenge is to recap the rebellious snout,

to let it lie on the pad in darkness,

expecting better behaviors

the next time it’s freed

from its solitary 

confinement.

From: Getting There

Unpub. MS p. 10