for my friends Rob Sacks, whose first girl friend in high school was born on this same day, Aja Thomas, whose birthday is the 29th of April, and for Rick Lehman who was born on July 26, 1950.


I know well the bitter wine that Jesus bled
when he cut his foot on pot shards
stepping in the Jordan.

When the dove of light opened its wings and the sky
bled with him the many voices of our Fathers
their hands all hard and oily on the backs of our heads
trying to bless us.

Underneath our fingernails, the dirt not washed clean
by the river
is there to remind us where we came from
what we are.



Posted in honor of the twelfth visit to America by His Holiness, Baba Shiva Rudra Balayogi Maharaj, Shivabalayogi’s only monastic disciple.

Baba and Shivabalayogi

Baba and Shivabalayogi

There is happiness
like a bee hive humming inside the black locust tree
where the orphaned squirrel makes his home among thorns.

No one can fill what has never been empty
nor displace what is always full
but when love sits down in your heart
it overflows.

Some look at my face and see a slammed door
locked against the cold
but inside this empty room I am always calling your name.

In rapture, the little white dog watches his master’s face for half an hour
wondering if the light around her head
is edible.

Now in the middle of the night I am awake
watching the moon blossom in that cloud shaped like the palm of an open hand.
Between two locust trees where someone has strung a drying line
a thousand ants are walking.

Each one carries in its jaws a white petal
round as the moon.


APRIL 2015


April 1

The sweet pain
when we fall in love
becoming more like the quiet
we wake to
alone in the middle of the night.
The way the earth is alone, even with a billion
suns around it.
That sweet pain and this heart are all I have
to offer you.

April 2

Ten thousand doors open into heaven
or to a prison cell.
Generosity is withheld from those we cannot bear
to look in the eye
when we forget there is no Other.

April 3

We may be locked inside of rooms
but all we need do is lean against a wall.
Effortlessness, whether in suffering or joy
creates space between atoms.
Knowing this, we pass through.

April 4

Fourth of April
I wake to rain and backache. Pain in left elbow
become chronic.
In the crown of my head
wood doves mated for life are cooing
over their first eggs.
Your face is where I come to live, to die and be
born again.
I look at you and see the world from a thousand open windows.
Doves flying out of them!
How the old are always making love
with their eyes.

April 5

You may be tired now but you won’t be tired then.
You may believe you are joyless but you are filled
and over flowing.
You are standing on tip toes trying not to drown in waves
of an ocean of joy.

I give you my word on it.

April 6

Drops of blood streaming down my arm
follow the same course the River Jordan does

The power to receive energy from light
to release it
without effort or intention
is there.
The power to deceive, to corrupt and be corrupted
to believe that nothing we do has any consequences
is also there in the human heart.

Where does it all come from?
God finds it too elementary to explain.
We go on like this until our hearts understand
how to give back what we hope for

April 7

My preference is that God look exactly like the one I love
and answer to her name.
Or like the stranger I pass without acknowledging.
The orphaned squirrel who came to the toe of my boot
calling for his mother
or every leaf of every tree I have seen or not seen.
The sparkling emptiness between stars.
Your right hand taking hold of mine.
My own face in a spoonful of water or your face right now.

April 8

I would like to have something of my Grandfather’s
small enough to hold in the hand.
He always told me
“To be intoxicated with God is alright
but it is still an intensity of ego
just as joy and rage are both intensities of Awe.
Here, where we are now
is where the love is.”

April 9

Life is the stone we break our hearts upon.
You are luckier than most.
You have wasted your opportunities in the world
thrown your many talents into dust.
It is now and has always been broken hearted love
that is the source, the goal and the perfection
of every life lived well.

April 10

There is a hollow in which I live.
A creek running through it that will flood
from time to time.
I can allow a heart to take form inside of emptiness
to open and accept every face as my own.
First pretend to be a person
then feel a Presence separate from your self.
Begin to love this Presence as if it is another.
All to make an opening, so what is Real
can enter as breath
that blows away every structure of belief.
Allows the Real to be perceived and held
to what extent a human being can.
As Robin Williamson sings, “Whatever you think
it’s more than that.”

April 11

There is an Existence alive and conscious of itself
moving within the single wide trailer of the self.
It comes as great wind
taking down walls, breaking windows
blowing doors off of their hinges.
For those who have ears, it speaks. For those who have eyes, it appears.
For those with heart, it opens inside them
a blossom whose nectar is blood.




As they were walking along and talking together, suddenly a chariot of fire and horses of fire appeared and separated the two of them, and Elijah went up to heaven in a whirlwind.
2 Kings 2:11

for Carol and for David Spero

There is quivering in the creek water
like the flanks of a mare in heat.

In the pasture behind the log barn, there is vibration in the blood
of the seed bull.
Circling the moon, two hawks are watching
him lift himself on to the backs of heifers.
Laying his head between their shoulder blades to smell the quiet
in their sweat.

Now in air thick and damp as a lover’s tongue
there are tremolos of fireflies, teeming wings of mosquitoes!
A million gnats too small to be seen are carried over treetops
in heated waves of air.

I am joined in this air by web worms
by flying spiders climbing into oak trees to make sails of their silk.
Together, we throw ourselves into the sky
while the moon is naked as a dancer’s breast!

Moonlight the color of skin is stretched wide across the bottom land
where the ground slopes back to Stephens Creek
and javelinas come to rut.

There is a tingling in every cell where the captive has been locked
so long inside of freedom.
I am ready now
for the moon to take me in waves
over pine thickets, over rivers dammed the colors of coiling snakes.

I am flying!

I am carried from the San Jacinto River, north to Palestine, Texas
and beyond!

I am flying!

Anyone who welcomes me now, I welcome as my own self
and give myself in return.
As the heart of a man should be
mine is!





I will lean into your voice as a willow leans into wind.
The terror of your nails!
The meat of your presence!

The seed bull enters his herd with a trumpet.
Grackles fly out of maple trees, shaking their limbs like a seizure
and the magnificent Eye that sees all creatures afloat in itself
sees me!

Let me run my hands along the nylon over your void. Let me call
your name.


Standing on a lake, playing his flute,
golden dhoti giving birth to wheat fields in the air.
Worlds, men and women tangled with stars
are streaming from the flute!

He speaks his own name and universes leap into being.
He keeps quiet and everything melts back into his Being.
He stops playing and eats a mango!

Over the sourceless, sounding lake he walks
every footstep leaving a child waking up in water.
We are praising you Krsna,
praising you Krsna,


I look in the infinite directions of the Eye.
See your face upon the Earth,
the circle of your mouth,
your teeth like white geese whose beaks point toward the sun.
Hear a caravan of wind, a shipment of breezes,
thunder carrying your Voice over the farms.
You are the ark and the creator of the ark.

I am calling you like a young tree frog.
I am calling like a cricket to the moon.

I want to be stripped of limitation, forced full of lights.
I want to be a raining presence of affection,
to stand naked before you
and give myself wholly to the river off your glance.



I enter through a wound
going down into the world
where fire walks, embodied in blood.

I walk into the fire and I burn
upside down in a suit of ashes.

Near midnight
I drink words from a broken cistern,
words and ashes mixed together.

I want the earth never to have existed!
I want colors going back into light!
I am afraid of little breezes touching my arm!
See wings made of moon light beating in the dark!

Something in me wants the iris to float out of my eyes,
wants me to be old, to surrender to the sky,
give up to the floating scenery I am described by.
I want that too!
I want to disappear, become all this.
I want to be with you and know you won’t get tired of me.

Come down to this pasture where long eared donkeys bray.
Come down from the tower of the trees
or bring me up.


Hearing tree frogs in the rain, I draw back curtains,
let their clear syllables fall across my boots.

Last night we slept together touching ankles.
Now I stand at the window
holding in my hands the green light of cedars.


I speak through a cylinder of foam
birds raging in my throat.
A season of nails falls from my hands,
my feet.
The sky slides into my shoulders.

I am not this, I am not that!
The hundred angles of my smile attach to light.
I speak of the new birth!
Nothing is tangled.
The star is a star after all.
The coil is a river and the river is myself.

Watch for me, where I fly in the body of an oriole,
an answer without a question!


I want to be touched by the nameless Presence.
I want my lips to be leaves of fire!
But there are flies on the surface of the cattle tank.
A mare with a belly like a church house has come down
to drink the water.
From where I sit, I  see
the jawbone of a cow that bloated and died.
And a blue jay, everything eaten but its feathers!

I hold my hands up against the land, the sky, oak trees
without end.

Lord Krishna Bewilders Brahma


“Verily, he is victorious who has conquered himself.” Hazrat Inayat Khan


I have heard about the courage of a child who found her alcoholic mother lying unconscious in her own vomit, again. How she left the mother there, years later coming to forgive her, looking all the way through the mother’s face to see her own.

I was 8, riding bareback through the woods on an old mare, grey as bark, when I came upon my cousin, who had been adopted at 12 and was then around 15. I was told her mother was a drunk, who’d  had her daughter out of wedlock. Later they say my cousin went that way herself. Where ever she is now, I trust and believe she is happy and has found peace. That day, my cousin rode Aunt Cle’s red mare under a low hanging oak and got her hair tangled in its branches. Just like Absalom had in the Bible.

I knew well the pride and arrogance of Absalom. That day, unseen by my cousin, I sat my horse and watched her struggle, hung by her long hair, red as the horse’s mane.  That day, I heard her crying for help and felt a coldness come up in me like a thousand light years of space. Then I turned my horse and rode away, telling no one until now.

It wasn’t long after that our grey mare was kicked by the red one, breaking a back left leg and hip. She was on the ground, struggling to get up, all her yellow teeth showing but not making a sound. So I ran to my father and uncle, who were drinking coffee and reluctant to come. When they did come and saw what had happened, one of them finished off the grey mare with a shotgun that had a hickory stock carved by hand after the War of Northern Aggression. Then they harnessed the red mare that kicked her and drug the grey off into the woods. The grey mare’s name was Bess. The girl was Ginny.

All the years behind me are a quiet pool of rain water. Easy now to look into that pool and see a face that is no longer mine. To notice it, forgive and bless it, to leave it there, riding on.



“There ain’t no shortage of storage room for advice you never asked for, in the place where the sun don’t shine.” Chuck from Dime Box, Texas


My advice, since you didn’t ask for it

is to be sad and angry as you need to be.
When your heart heals and opens
welcome it back as your friend.
You know as well as I do how dumb men are.
God has a body composed of 37 trillion cells.
Every cell is well lit and has a comfortable chair
where God sits in front of a mirror
watching himself brush out 100,000 strands of hair
each one long as a river.

When it comes to the universe, God has no idea
how he does it.