Wednesday, April 29, 2009


I sit in a cool
triangle of shade
beside a sunny lake,
overtaken here and there
by lily pads, accented
with white blossoms sitting
in the lotus position.

I imagine gold fish,
as big as Buddha,
resting in the tangle
of roots below -
in silent meditation.

I remove my sandals and
walk along the grassy edge
of the lake, holy ground,
where clear water puddles
and pools in silence.

Suddenly, a sparrow lands
on a willow tree branch,
just above my head.
She sings and points
with a delicate wing
to the gibbous moon,
mysterious and pale,
in the late morning sky.

It is her gift to me.
What else can she give?
What more could I want?

Wednesday, April 22, 2009


Art by Donald Axleroad


In the dead chill of emptiness
where sound cannot vibrate
alone I remember being sick
in the mountains almost always

Corners were cut close then
beside daffodil elixirs spilling
over onto chimney stones pitched
on the sides of steep hills burnt by

I wonder now if those monsters
were merely chimaeras welcoming
me into paradise standing under
the flutter of peacock wings and

Or did they breathe and roar
and grow hair just for the travelers
who would pass them at light speed
rejoicing only to slump back again

Tuesday, April 14, 2009


Painting by Cash Garrison


In the hollow of the mountain,
thunder booms and reverberates
like the sound of kettledrums,
- rising and falling -
resonating over the maidenhair
ferns and wild orchids,
blowing chaotically in the wind.

Searing flashes separate
darkness from light,
and, for a split second, we
see the crown of the mountain
looming high above us,
and below us the bright
rush of the creek water.

In the explosion of light,
the tall pitch pines seem
newly created – then,
quick to disappear again,
they leave us only with
their brilliant negatives.

Our faces press the windowpane
to feel the notes of the rain
and the percussion of thunder
- a crescendo -
exhilarating, yet, terrifying.

As the storm passes,
we listen to the eerie melody
rumbling down the corridor
of Appalachian rock
in a haunting echo.

Deep in our sleep, we dream
about the music of the storm.
We remember being a drop of rain
in the torrent – becoming one
with this primitive world,
still in the making.