North Star

when you can walk
that road alone,
that road
which is the edge
of many worlds,
morphing
into each other,
not two or three

where you walk
as if on water,
between
needing me
and yourself
and the world

when you walk there,
where you find yourself
lost
without a map
that's charted
by a hysteria
to get somewhere and fast,

then,
and only then,
call out to me,
and I will be there
with you,
as you proceed
to walk that road
alone.

Walking on Knives

and I learn the art
of walking on knives,
where every prick
touches the folds
of a white rose,
opening herself up
to hold up my feet
with her thorns.

The Way

and I watch them go,
as I watch the waves
parting
from the stolid shore,
knowing that they leave
but not knowing
when they will return
in another form,
revealing the ground
that appears
for me to walk on now,
as I take the next step,
only the next one,
into the emptiness
of walking with myself,
alone.

The Shrine

the pilgrims arrive
sometimes one by one,
or in waves
washing through
the silent corridors
of the shrine,
cleansing
every nook
and crevice
as they leave
with the light
they came to light.

Staying Close

sometimes I wonder
what is home?
is it the dark earth
that holds my roots,
and helped me once
to push my way out
for that lingering gaze
upon a blazing sun,
or the restful darkness
of a quiet, starry night?
what is home?
is it to wallow and curl up
in the blissful womb?
or is it to break open
the hardened shell
to birth myself?
or is it to grow tirelessly
out of my skin
over and over again?
what is home?
is it to know
that I can unearth myself
only when I am far away
or even when I am close?
or is it to know
that no matter where I go,
what I do,
or who I become,
I am always close,
I am always walking home,
I am always home.

This Morning

and she rose again
this morning,
forgiving herself
and her kin
for all trespasses
that brought
her and them
to life.

Fellow Traveller

Where did you come from
O little fly?
To rest on this window
that races with the wind?
Where is your home?
Where are your friends?
Do you have a family?
You who wash your face
with your folded hands,
You who brush your wings,
readying them for flight,
Is that your prayer? I wonder;
Who made you so fearless,
so carefree, so present?
I wonder,
as my heart flutters,
then stills,
upon your restful wings;
And I give thanks
to this moment
as we journey together,
and I ask myself -
What would it be like
to make a home
in each moment
and passing space,
of emptiness
within emptiness?
What would I do
differently
if I lived like you,
with my one, precious,
maverick life?

* We were driving along the highway, and after a brief stop to have a picnic lunch, this little fly joined us  on our journey. I watched him for a long time, as he sat beside me and washed his face, and brushed his wings, until our next stop, when he flew away as the door was opened. He was the inspiration for this poem and my fellow traveler, who taught me a thing or two about living Life.

In The Blind

I once crouched
in a corner
with my face
buried
in cupped hands,
terrified of
the tidal wave
of darkness
swirling around,
blind
and deaf
to the sight
and sound
of my own heart.

Today,
I am still
in the blind;
yet stand up
with my feet
planted on a
shifting ground;
I cannot see
where I am going,
but I can feel
and hear
my heart singing;
I can touch
darkness
and feel its warmth,
while I hold on
to that thin
thread of trust
in myself
and life,
which I know
will guide me
to where I need to go.

The Little Sailboat

the little sailboat
rides the swell
of a tipsy ocean
sprawled out
beneath
a sober neon sky.

its destiny
is written
not by the
parched white sails
of defiance
billowing and
cutting through
waves and wind,

but rather
in knowing that
when it is
absolutely still,
the breath
of the whole cosmos
fills its sails,
and guides it
towards
the distant horizon.

strength lies
in knowing
when to be still,
so you are moved.

Wanderlust

clouds
quilled upon
a lucid sky,
gather
and part
at will,

a wandering heart
flies out
into
the rolling emptiness,
pinning dreams
onto a fast-changing
canvas,

only a heart
that's empty
of itself
can hear
their song
of primordial silence,

the source
which blows
dream-laden clouds
towards
elusive
destinations.

Falling into Yourself

you don't need
a parachute
to free fall
into yourself;
cut off the strings
that bind you,
slow you down,
and keep you away
from plunging into
the black nothingness,
with a throbbing heart
ripped wide open,
now ready
to be swallowed
by the fear -
of not having
a safe, firm ground
to land and rest on,
or the possibility
of a hopeful end.

Being in the Business of Life

We are born
to live,
and we live
to die,
to be born again...
What we do in between
is our own business -
Mine.
And yours.
How we go about it
is up to each of us.
If on this journey
and this business of Life,
we do meet in passing,
let us shake hands,
give each other a hug,
and greet each other
with a knowing smile -
that all is well
and exactly how it should be;
Let us mind our own business
and walk along
or walk away,
holding love in our hearts.