A Travel Guide for One

What a gift it is to
feel blood stream from
heart to hand to pen, now
staining this page with
my very being

I can hardly help myself
and yet I must since
no-one else can and
so after bleeding ink
on paper I practice
the augury of
ancient days.

I wind my way into
the labyrinth I am and
so finally settle into myself;
where I write a travel guide
for one.

Deep calls me deep

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Lake Superior, near the Pictographs


This silver on blue – sun
kissing inland sea –
undoes me. My breath is
taken away like
air by flame and
I am oddly afloat.
What is this lake
It works
me profoundly:
deep calls me deep and
I feel its swells in
portending and subterranean
ways – waves of watching wash
me free from not-seeing
this sea, this greatest lake
that measures me:
I am found
more of it,
of its Maker.

Slip into Life

Write please write.
Push the pen until it bursts
solar flares on white;
bend it
until it leaks God
until it bleeds sky and soil.

Do not be content with
anything less than what
blinds you. Gaze
beyond your reach
waiting on shades to teach
your eyes your soul your fingertips
to feel for what is needed.

for a time
in the dark
and breath
rhythmically. In
your breath is
an echo of
death and
on hearing it
you slip

Here and Aloft

Another summer has come
undone; with undue
hurry, harried clouds
rush autumn along.

I sit unsettled
by this season’s evaporation:
time’s rising like water
now made mist, the
ungraspable ever
more evasive yet
grasping me.

Even so, squirreled away nuts and seeds
remind me of my pantry and that I too
am both root and fog, both
here and aloft.

Creek’s Side in December

Slipping over pebbled bed
liquid lauds.
With a patter perceived only by ears of faith
snow hymns.
Pine needles point beyond trunks true
to truth, and banks,
oh banks,
so snowy soft they escape description
describe mercy.
I can see my breath even while
because mine in this moment is Breath,
hallowed here at
creek’s side in December.