Her passionate eyes
held mine as she elegantly
voiced her heart’s intent.
When she looked away
I snuck a peek into her cleavage
and immediately looked up,
embarrassed, apologizing
to the sky and all
the women in my heart.
But I chanced another glance as soon as I could.
(top: entertainment.ie; bottom foap.com)
The mirror barks
a noiseless disdain;
the backward eyes
shadow quiet despair;
a vacancy of intent, where
a blink hides nothing.
(image: the americanconservative.com)
The dog catches my eye
and whines his question:
“Now, Boss, now?”
An idea: the smell of salt
opens my mind.
I laugh and nod.
He stands with a clatter
of claws on hardwood,
tail high and boisterous, as
he prances around the couch.
His eager head presses through
the red leash harness
and we’re out the door,
through the dunes,
onto the moor,
hearts on the fly in
our amble du jour.
Consciousness,
the universe is–
a way to understand
and make small enough
a vastness into parts.
Your mind will never
grasp the whole, no,
that is a feeling
for your soul
to warm when
cold clasps your heart
and galaxies never seen
seem almost familiar
and close enough
to nod acquaintance.
Understanding is
accepting you cannot.
Birds play tag:
close-drill flitting,
chasers suddenly chased
at the flick of a feather.
I laugh;
my mind flips like they do,
but without their agility.
I am honored to watch,
bathed in their game,
humored with their compassion.
(photo: avopix.com)
(for William Stafford)
Your poems run the gamut;
you have blessed us with music
of realization and understanding.
Many of those poems were born
on your couch, lying on your back,
looking up at your journal.
Really? Their birth is as
astonishing as their venerable lives.
(Here's an example of a the beginning of a daily writing session.
Initially, I made no edits. But I couldn't stand it, so now it's
trying to become a poem. I've changed the original, so my first
effort has been subverted. Silly me. I'll probably keep editing it
until the work no longer feels like creation. Once the start is in
ink,the important thing is to keep going. jrs)
Blood moon coming tomorrow;
eyes all on high, hoping for
clear enough and no rain.
A dramatic sky—clouds and
patches of stars—would be fine,
maybe even preferred,
like daily obstacles that
educe a story with grit and
a voice like an old friend
with a mug of steaming coffee
come by to visit for no particular reason
other than coffee and to breathe
the same air listening to the sea.
Stories can do that:
come alive and show you how they need to be.
A story will not lie to you
unless it becomes your lie.
Daily writing does not require approval.
All it needs is a curious heart.
Anger finds my heart
unreceptive to the pull
of self indulgence;
it is not the time
for self righteous behavior
and losing my way.
My heart knows the way
when my mind is distracted.
I am who I am.
I know where I need
to be–in a gratitude
so deeply profound
that the future of
my existence is ordained
by the love in me.
(water: fineartamerica.com; elk: narble.blog)
The wind hurls itself
across my roof in big waves
as I hold my breath.
The skylights receive
a violent drum solo;
I receive the awe.
The house bravely waits
for the next real world onslaught;
my faith is a gift.
(damage: usatoday.com; lighthouse wave: katu.com)
I hope everyone reading this is having (or had) a special wonderful day. Gratitude is a driving power in the Universe. We all should exercise it more often. Every. Single. Day.
This is from Michael Murphy, author of Golf in the Kingdom:
“True gravity connotes the joining of awareness, delight, and embracing-force. But our modern world and its dominant philosophies work to separate them. True gravity is an experiential reality; a force-at-large in the world, the omnipresent heart power or feeling-force that permeates all things.”
~M. Murphy
(Looking southeast from between the 12th green and the 13th tee box at Gearhart Golf Links, the oldest golf course west of the Mississippi. Taken by yours truly.)
The audiobook is live!
Narble Furt Lives 