Tag Archives: authenticity



In the belly of all beginning, big as a pea, is the child inside;
rolling salt of the spume, of tears, of the sea, is the child inside.

The trouble with floating?  Habits accrue against floating, they
grow like barnacles, heavy, sinking the glee of the child inside.

The dark in a stranger much older, much larger, manipulates,
teaches a sorrow, impresses a dark tyranny on the child inside.

Replace the true face, deface with tattoo, learn what to do, and
for others change or cover the caged agony of the child inside.

Even the seemingly suave may be suddenly taken with urges
unkempt to disrupt Miss Manners At Tea, by the child inside.

A tiny detector of bogus, though paused or muted at times,
still writhes against snake oil and hyperbole in the child inside.

Call me by name, please notice I came, I was here
I am me!… persists the perennial plea of the child inside.

Toddle first, toddle last, time siphons the juice from the bloom;
still there, still at work, is the sweet bumble-be of the child inside.



The Muse is usually a she
according to art history.
More than once I’ve
served in that capacity.

I’ve also known it as a he
a love, an ardent kind
of sustenance, a boon
to heart and mind.

In the end I think
it is a voice inside
wherever the best
part of me abides.

It is ancient, bardic,
will not be cajoled
or come when called
or do as it is told.

“Do the work,” it says,
“and leave the door ajar.
Do not worry.
I know where you are.”



for J.C.

For many years you don’t get it.
You know you haven’t gotten it.
But there’s still time and
maybe you’ll get it.

You cultivate the persons, places,
things that appear to have it.
What you get there is proof
that you still don’t get it.

It’s above you, beyond you.
It’s all Greek, which you don’t speak.
You need more experience,
you need more education.

You need the magic formula,
the password, the key.
You need a teacher, a mentor,
a confidante, confessor, referee.

You have tried hard,
been nice to people–
maybe nicer than you should.
How long can this go on?

Until you don’t care anymore.
Then in a desert breeze,
a written word, a flower’s heart,
you hear the temple gong:

you already have it,
you’ve had it all along.

Originally posted in July 2013



Chalky smudges danced
across the big black wall
unreadable. Clarity
grew only in the very near
and inner space.
Therapy was called-for.
Since then I have worn
windows on my face.

So came a sharper world
cleanly to be judged by
yes or no; each thing quite
separate from the other.
Words to prove it so
were written on the wall
in ruled straight lines
of signs all in a row.

Still, by naked sight
the edges softened,
sometimes even disappeared.
And bright small prisms—
oh, so good—of teardrops
cornered in the eye
made all things clearer
than correctives ever could.

Perhaps some visions need
to be correct, clean-cut,
while others only need to seem.
By day, I usually wear
what is expected, but
by night I take my glasses off.
I’ve never needed them
to see a dream.