to make a sound.
Cover the holes
to make it smooth and sweet
and round.

Tap foot,
keep time,
hold heart and mind
more deep
than worded reason
or its clever rhyme.

Without wry shapes
of face or mouth,
your fingers, breath,
and body held within
the shifting now
through you,
the Universe to sing. . .

And maybe yet,
you’ll give and get
all that you came here for,
in union grand and circular. . .

And not only
do things that didn’t,
start to click,
what was hid or puzzling
now, like resounding peeling bells
above the fuzzy, cloudy din,
rises and unveils itself
in one melodious ring.

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The harmony
to hum,
just one,
a move
in nature’s symphony.

The dissonance
to be just me
in solitude
amid a multitude.
In anger, grief and fear,
a stirred
but most unsavory misery.

The rub–
how to compose
or reconcile
these worlds two
so that they blend
into a larger still
and happier

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You have been cut.


You feel as though you’ve had enough.
No shred of oomph
to think of triumph
and go on,
like one of scruff,
to do the things
you know
could make it better. . .

So instead, where
it has its natural way
itself to heal,
you’d rather stop
and just be stuck,
so as
not to have
to tackle stuff
that’s new to you
(that might be tough).

that way
it sits and chafes
and maybe blisters,
maybe oozes,
maybe festers. . .

‘Tis that way everybody loses,
you, the ones or things
that moved to hurt you,
and the whole wide world together. . .

‘Cuz all that stuff
you came to do
gets lost
as if ’twere turned
to dust,

Just like
might in a war
a stray love letter.

Who’s there to help?
Well, there’s plenty folks
and books upon
yours or somebody’s shelf.

But ’tis you must lead
the cunning, mighty team
to free yourself,

to live and work and play
and be
your dream,

for though your legion imperfections
loom like wolves with teeth that gleam,

come jaw to jaw,
and claw to claw,
none in the world that any ever saw
better than you
to be the one
to be,
by day or night,
in peace or conflict,
day or night,
your own best bester.

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Notice it. . .
though you may embrace it,
at the thought of stopping
you court down dirty struggle
in the wrangling and pain
of un-pluggle,
which will strain, burn and chafe you
before you can ever
come even so close as to chafe it.

Ya gotta extract it–
though maybe in pride
you’d prefer
to flaunt it and flash it
freed from all restriction,
but, in shreds or intact–
it has just got to go,
pushed out by your love
for yourself,
and your vision and dream
of who you will be living free,
held in steady conviction.

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Making sense.
Making nonsense.

Making sense out of nonsense.
Nonsense out of sense.
Nonsense out of nonsense. . .

and when we’re really
really lucky,
at our best,
we’re making sense
out of somewhere hidden sense.

When we make nonsense out of sense,
sometimes we later need to cry,
to grieve that chance
gone flown right by,
for which we’ll ne’er
see recompense.

if we keep love and sense
in our heart
and our mind’s eye,
and fathom how
at least to try,

by and by,
we’ll manage to
enjoy the music
and the dance.
For now, and maybe
ever hence.

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Hocus pocus. . .
There is none such
that you can name
or see or feel or touch–

Unless you count
the simple power
our upright bodies
and our rippled, wriggly, winding brains
have to truly focus.

If we’ve got a dream
we’d like from little seed
to swell,

we could choose
to put it in a pumpkin shell,
and with luck, there
we’d maybe keep it very well,

but with that wet and dark and still inside,
it might not live and thrive
its best
in that specific locus.

If we want a dream
to shape into a plan
and actuality,
we need to limit
what we let enter
in our mind’s reality,

but air it, feed it,
give it light,
so we can see it,
tweak it
to give it its best chance at flight,
seeming to our existing life
more a bonus than an onus.

Our focus
lives and gives
from our mentality,
which forms the things
we think and do,
that that tend stick to us like glue,

So that with the appropriate,
associated follow-through,
we can transform ourselves
perhaps as if we’d waved
a starry magic wand,
or else,
pricked wee doll limbs
with nasty pins
that act as sure
to cause us wicked pain
as expert, pinpoint voodoo.

But, if we want to cultivate
ourselves’ best bloom,
large, fair and bright
like flower of lotus,
we best to root
and grow ourselves,
through times of sun
and frost and rain,

in happy dreams,
and the soft and solid nurturing
we only get from
our native given
soaring vision,
and sustained, sustaining focus.

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Gentle gentle gentle
That. Good. Night.

Knock wood. Knock wood.

Turned inside out,
the body-mind
the heaven-earth
the flesh, the soul
is understood.

Physical, mental
challenged, doing things
it never knew
it never ever till now could,

exhale, inhale of beauty,
love, and joy
along with sunshine, air and water
as sustaining,
raining food.

And we can stand right there
with God,
and gaze on all that we’ve so far
blessingly received and made,

and see and say
how wonderful,
along with earth and moon and star,
and how very, very, very good.

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