Arbitrator

 Life or death
good and bad
pendulum swings
arcing wide
and so judgmentally
we arbitrate
Plowing through
the drifts of our days
deciding
parting reality into
left and right
this way and that
defining
sorting
naming
categorizing
and faulting.

Seems a bit of a curse
perhaps,
says I,
Who has no one else
to blame.

Soap Bubbles

I'm probably the only one at this moment
who is thinking of Ernie.
Of the 7 billion humans who awake to see this day
I am the one;
The perpetuator
The bearer of memories
The transmitter of genes.

It is said that after you are dead
you live on in the memories
and the mind wanderings of those who loved you
-A kind and selfish hope-
as all of us will surely follow him.
But in a generation or two
these ties will wear thin
Stretched, with the elastic that draws us
growing weaker and slacked
And then finally
...snap...

So then perhaps we are truly free
of all that has bound us to our life,
Our human form, such a temporary state:
We are soap bubbles rising
straining to exist
then at last
failing and fading and finally
invisible to the eye and mind and heart,
but never truly gone.

Honu

We meet at the edge Honu,
Old ones who have just now crossed paths.
You have roamed the ocean
  many days and years
  swam and swam...
  so what do you know, Kumu?
-I watch and wait
  and smile-
To be strong and quiet and steady?
Such a marvel.
And to meet today for a lunch:
You some shoreline algae
Me an apple banana.
Both with sunshine on our backs
Both with our feet in the water.


What I know of you Honu,
  of your struggles and triumphs,
  is because you have the courage and the will
  to come to this shore
  and to share your wisdom and way.
-Sometimes you rest quietly in the warm sun
-Sometimes you paddle strong against the tide
and storms
-Sometimes you move with the greater flow.

I know of these ways too Honu,
And to see you today
  shows me this truth,
  reminds me of these lessons,
  refreshes me,
As I wait and watch and smile.

Podcasts in the Dark

Waking in the cold and dark
nudged from sleep by the rain
which drums for a measure or two
its part well rehearsed
and worth a listen
if ever I should so choose,
but not tonight
there is no comfort in this storm
and being alone
and suddenly awakened from a queer dream
I put the buds of the music player into my ears
looking for comfort and companionship
and the relative safety of stranger's voices
because their distant words can refocus my thoughts
lull me
distract me into a better place
or at least guide me somewhere safe from mid-night thoughts
which spin an anxious fabric
and then as quickly unravel
into the fog of fear
found too easily in regretful dreams looking back

and night visions searching blindly into some dim future.

I hear the podcast voices talking and telling their stories
of how they came to be themselves
through journeys of gender, color, location, and fate
and so I think
-prompted by their examples
 on this soon so sleepless night-
of my tale
of things that I have said to others and myself
trying to explain
hoping to lay easy claim to my own identity
the compilation of my times, thoughts, and experiences
of what I chose for myself
what I declined
and others things that were forced upon me
All of it
the will and the way

the making of a man.

And sometimes I offer a simple glimpse
to others
by explaining
Where I live and where home truly is
Noting the differences between my residence
and my roots
revealing a little
and maybe at the same time saying nothing much
a small confession to all that listen
wanting for both you and me
to know some of it
the who I am
and how I got to be this way
and why it matters;
it is both a game of show and tell
and hide and seek.

And as my mind wanders on the edge of returning to sleep
I am somehow reminded of standing on the January ice
of a nearby beaver pond
Solid and almost clear as glass
Looking down
and knowing there is more there than can be seen
below the cold transparent surface
that there is in the depth
murk churning
dormant and potential
strata that has issued from above in the years past
and decades before
filtering down and now below
mostly hidden
waiting to be revealed
-or not-
knowing that I may someday celebrate the dragonflies of spring
witness the methane bubbles rise
and revel in the frogs, the turtles, the watery minutia
by probing the mud and mire
looking closely
and perhaps even to sculpt the muck into something new
while looking closely to learn the secreted ways of the past
and how it has made today
this day
-or-
more fearfully
out of habit and instinct
I may just shiver and glance away
staying at some safe distance
cautiously peering through the scratch-glass lens
surviving in the neutrality found in the late gray day
leaving it all
well enough alone.

Just Fine

The recipe:

Early on a slow morning
  let's say 7 AM,
Seasoned by Spring,

  it is still new,

The sun dancing rainbows on the
  wooden floor,
A cup of steaming coffee

  sweetened with smoky dark chocolate,

Two slices of multi-grain toast
  crispy, warm, buttered

  with a drizzle of honey

  dusted with twinklings of kosher salt,

A rocking chair near the open window

  a morning breeze delivering

  the chants of nearby birds,

On time.
Ah...
Om...
Just fine.

Waking

There is something to waking up slowly
into the sunshine
like a garden bound bumble bee
at first
too cold and stiff to stir.

It is a soulful rise
a fire rekindled
a reunion with our ancient source
massaging deep within the cells and tissues
soaking into our very souls
pleasing the ancestral memory through light
through heat
through energy that has always been
that warmed a billion bees to life
and grew untold cells of green glory.

Stepping into the light
saluting the new day
we are gifted with the power,
and so we are the power.