Tuesday, May 12, 2015


Wind Poppies, Tarweed

I found a clearing on a ridge between two streams. 
Gazing at the canyon far below, I glimpsed
the Native American site next to the river
near the washed out bridge. I hiked a path

down to a stream and stood still
next to water threading down the stone 
even during drought. Wind poppies mingled
with Chinese houses and tarweed in the shade

Wind Poppy

of an embankment. As a boy I never noticed
flowers or birds, never discovered a path 
next to a stream meandering down the hillside, 
never found a pounding stone. Back then,

a strange voice claimed that I’d find something
Native American near the river. The same voice said 
I’d return years later to the foundation of a house 
in the river bottom. Since then, I’ve found village sites 

in the watershed and unexpectedly returned 
to the foundation, but in that clearing I was not hearing 
the mysterious voice. I was not feeling like a boy again. 
I was not finding artifacts or experiencing great insights. 

Wind Poppies, Chinese Houses, Tarweed

Ravished by the flowers, I simply stopped worrying.
Past and future vanished in the breeze and heat, 
the gurgling water sliding down slick, mossy rock. 
I found a small, secluded Eden with the last 

wind poppies and Chinese houses and tarweed
and lazuli buntings. Let me take you there.

Monday, March 16, 2015




  we have waded

through fire,

the heatless



and each hour

               of the season,

the hues of


                              baby blue eyes,

mingling with these


that burn

               time away,

so that an instant

or an age

is of no importance,

and moving

             we are like them,


burning quietly.

Saturday, February 14, 2015


Mushrooms by the Stream
(To hear a concept album with many love songs inspired by my wife, click on the title below.)

For Sylvia

We have found the sublime
in so many things, but nothing
as much as the stream that veins
the grass near pounding stones

and tiny mushrooms, threading
through rocks blanketed
by deep velvet moss, its song
so quiet and measureless 

that we stay still and silent 
for a long time, closing 
our eyes, listening as it flows
into the quiet, down

the chasm into the valley
far below:  Somehow 
our love flows with it 
and rains quietly down.