I will not write a poem
each and every time
I have a little epiphany,
or a whiff of awakening.

Sometimes
I will just enjoy it,
letting my mind rest
from its endless commentary,
bathing in the moment,
simply savoring its richness,
letting my thoughts
float away.

All beings on this earth
share at least
a bit of consciousness;
enough, at least,
to sense their place
in the order of things.

A tree does not aspire
to be more than a tree;
nor does a cat or dog strive
to be anything but itself.

So
perhaps it is this
that makes us human:
that we can imagine a self
that is different
from the way we are,
or imagine this world
becoming different
from the way it is.

And so, we try to change ourselves,
and to change the world,
for better, or for worse,
ignoring our true nature,
and the nature of our home.

And the more we try to change,
the less we may remember
the perfection we were born with,
and the bounty and magnificence
that is all around us.

Sometimes,
I hear a little whine
pass through me,
saying: “Does anybody care
how I feel?”,
and I say gently
“No, not even me!

I’m just sitting here,
watching peacefully,
as these thoughts and feelings flow by,
like flotsam and jetsam
floating in a stream
beside me.”

With thanks to Bill Bryson for “A Short History of Nearly Everything”,
which may be the best book ever written about what we are and how we got here

There are trillions
of living entities
inside my body
which allow me
to be “me”.

Each human cell
is a citizen
of the great nation
of “me”,
each doing it’s part
to sustain my life.

Each microorganism
which lives inside me
is an immigrant,
some of them
thieves and murderers,
but most of them partners
in the task of keeping me alive.

They go on about their business
without thinking of me,
intent on their own survival.

Sometimes they send me messages,
of wellbeing or pain,
and I do my best to listen.

And when I think of them,
I send them my love,
thanking them for the gift
of being alive
in this body.

Relax into the “isness”
of the business
you are doing,
and you will find relief
from all the grief
that resisting it
has brought you.

Music is the universal language.

It speaks directly
to the heart and soul
of all that lives,
all cultures,
all species.

It brings comfort
to the savage beast,
even to the uneasy plant,
reminding everything alive
that we are not separate,
that we are,
in our essence,
all the same.

reflections on the 50th anniversary theatrical re-release of Yellow Submarine

Fifty years ago,
I sat gobsmacked,
bathed in this exuberant spirit,
this flood of fantasmagoria
streaming off the screen,
the music’s mysterious power
suffusing me.

My young mind
was mesmerized,
awash in this beautiful fable
of love and music
conquering all.

It was a naive dream,
a perfect salve
for the flower children
of a privileged generation,
not yet exposed
to the relentless reality
of human suffering.

Fifty years later,
I am again gobsmacked,
bowled over by the richness
of this sense memory,
revived in all its glory,
and the truth,
rekindled by its brilliance,
that it still conveys:

In a world of suffering
and violence,
all you ever really need
is love.

With deep gratitude to Pema Chodron,
for her earthy, cogent, and compassionate teachings

Most of our thoughts
are just the burps and farts
of a restless mind,
stewing in it’s own turmoil.

They are like noxious gases
which foul our inner world,
for as long as we hold on to them.

They will fester and ripen,
like a fart in a space suit,
unless we let them go,
to dissipate in the open air.

And so it is,
that these suits we weave around us
(to protect our inner space
from imagined dangers)
do little more than stifle us,
as we slowly suffocate
in our own emotional waste.

But to smell this stench
can be all impetus we need
to jump outside
of what we thought we were
(this costume, this little mind,
this imaginary person),
into the magnificent freedom
of what we truly are,
and the sweet smell
of reality.

We are all ignorant,
in one way or another.

There are those of us
who are unaware
of their own ignorance,
and those who are complacent
in their ignorance.

And there are those
who revel in their ignorance,
and some who promote
the ignorance of others.

Ignorance is comfortable,
until it is examined;
we are either part of the problem,
or part of the solution.

Laughter
is our joyful recognition
of our own fallibility,
and of our desperate attempts
to conceal it.