It’s a long slow progression into the day. A balancing act, like shifting our weight from one foot to the other, to choose the thoughts we’ll follow. It’s possible to see a thing two ways, or a myriad more even, sometimes it’s a weighing and discarding of a thing that doesn’t further. Sometimes its choosing … More A Poem: Balancing

The heart is always praying, and we, as we might telephone a loved one we’ve not seen, are to take a moment to check in. To take the pulse, to register the key in which our heart is speaking; to remember how prayer, although it might be a discipline, is also something within. The centre … More A Poem: Praying

Today I hear not to fix so much as trust. When have I ever attempted to fix a thing that has not tried to wrest itself from grasp. The things that are mine to touch, they’ve already formed themselves into good without persuasion. Yes, sometimes it is better to defer an opinion. Today I heard … More A Poem: Fixing

Ah, we must make nests. Life is a bare limbed branch through which the winds move, or a flute hollowed out for music, or a ravine, open at each end, that the wind finds its singing voice. Yes, life, in its various stages of undress, is as a tree exposed to the elements, or a … More A Poem: Nests

Sometimes we need the quiet constant things. Like water that flows, ripples over pebbles, in eddies and currents of a stream. Sometimes it’s the certain things, the sure and solid things, like rock. Or it’s the translucent things, the clear fluidity of water running over stone. Sometimes we need the message, unspoken but clear, in … More A Poem: Constancy

Its how we live, like poetry. We start with a word, maybe two, but not too many that the flow is restricted. And then we follow, the constant thread, as a river looks for the lowest point, or as blossoms open under a warming sun. There is nothing that looks too much like force. Have … More A Poem: The Weight of Water

I have a sweet spot. It’s in the centre of a poem, threads coming together in the mystery of unfolding. There’s the wait, breath in and breath out, an awareness like antennae combing the airwaves. Its like standing on a precipice, the edge before the jump, where the winds meet. It’s like being in prayer. … More A Poem: The Sweet Spot

I never saw a rose I did not love. No two alike in colour, in shape, in their ways of unfolding. Some with petals curled in precision, others flushed and open, as dancers alighting from a floor. Some so translucent, delicate, we refrain from the picking, and watch the petals fan out, fade and fall. … More A Poem: La Rose