I’m ready to dust off a few dreams

dreams ride the wind through
windows I’ve thrown wide open
no pillow needed100_1484

I feel that time is running out and it’s now or never to dust off a few dreams and follow them.

So, I turned in my notice today.  I’m retiring from the day job come  March 30.

I only go in 4 days a week, but it’s a stressful 4 days for me now.  Maybe it’s age, but I think it’s more than that.  I feel caged in – It’s like spring fever, but for a whole year now.

Whatever the reason, it’s the job not my coworkers.  They’re good, sweet, ethical, hardworking folks.  It is I.  I have to move on for me and for no other reason.

My entitlement (and I am entitled to it) is more than enough to cover monthly bills. My income from all my sidelines will be gravy.

I’m working at various income streams. Beyond the e-books, the first of which will launch end of this month, there’s my painting and freelance work.

I used to sell my art regularly.  Having lost ev100_1490erything in the fire, though, I’ve had to buy supplies and start from scratch.  I’ve started on a series of colored pieces for now in various media.  I’ll need at least 3 or 4 to pitch to galleries and a least a dozen to hang a show.

We are immortal

I was there with the first myth makers and monks who made up your stories… -Rilke’s Book of Hours

I believe that’s true.  We all were there then, before, and since.  These 100_1452bodies we don, through our seasons of evolution, are garments of varying size, color, style.

The universe, one song, goddess, gods, god’us, allah, yahweh, and many more names long forgotten through time out of mind live in each of us.

At our core, that thing called soul connects us with everything that is, was or ever will be.  We, unlike our bodies, are immortal.

Where did the rabbit go?

why and whither toalice-2

show me now that child’s eye view

someone put it out

I’ll take any clue

to reclaim that carelessly

lost gem from the wood

when the sun breaks through

its glimmer teases then clouds

hide my path again

The hunt begins

we laid the altar
lit fires gathered in circle
faced each direction
made the signs in air
cast words to the elements
the wild hunt begins


Pole Shift

a third motion of our earth
back to caves for man

one more time into
the prehistoric abyss
then to wobble on.


No longer tight in the bud

poet of no meanDSCF0008

proportion short-lived van gogh

of words bent to self

destruction on paths

to knowing raw pleasure love

parallel of hate

lips a line drawn thin

no resemblance to a mouth

dry laughter dying

pall not here at all

lids distort the sound of eye

winter’s brittle bones

break on siren’s rocks

desperate to leave the bud

finally blossom

Always questions

I moved soundlessly20121218-230220.jpg

yet ears perked at the gates swing

whooo whooo sounded near

who’s not the question

better to ask why instead

I’m not sure old one

yellow eyes took flight

winging up the small hillside

without wings I walked

No smooth stone

no smooth stone I am
hewn from deep crags all edges
one rough diamond


Childish questions

far away and long
ago there’s a child I used
to know with wide eyes
asking why inside
not out loud but just the same
why we live why die


Fine wine

I would taste of you
deep as mountain spring water
vintage manly wine


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