The perfect puzzle

I wear the skin of living

to contain the tumult within

it presses at the edges

of escape

I speak the sound of words

to give us comfort in the drone

of illusion

we shake the hands of meaning

and walk off shaped like pieces

in the perfect puzzle

of our lives

My Christmas poem

A hundred of this

two of that

the season turns

who can count the leaves

a thousand of this

one of that

son of god

who breathes and speaks

of love

the seasons turn

the leaves fall

pain and darkness don’t go away

but sunshine waits

under every leaf

Swallowed whole

What do you swallow

when the world

goes down your throat


what do you eat

when the world

is inside you


what do you see

when the world

is in your eyes


what do you think

when the world

is in your thoughts


who can you be

when the world

is in your mirror

You know that

Did you ever come to know something

then discover that you have always

known that

or maybe you realized

that you should have always

known that

or you could have always

known that

or you wish you had known that

fifty years ago

maybe it has been tapping you

on the shoulder for fifty years

trying to get your attention

and you’ve been saying

stop bugging me

I already know that

An original way

There is no original way

to pass through doorways

in the dark

it has already been done

in every dream

that can be dreamed

desperate people

have fought for their passage

with armed guardians

of the Same

everything that seemed so new

and exciting

is soon frayed at the edges

is there a rot that grows

from the inside out

or the certain cycle of death

and renewal

on the planet ships

cruising among the stars


The roaring silence

The roaring silence

fills my inner windstorm

as I sway from side to side

bouncing off the invisible blue walls

of my bulging world

there appears to be a direction

up and down and flat

with many corners

thank god for the quiet

soothing havens in the dark



The sadness and the joy

of small precious things

on a shelf in the dining room

a collection

pink flowers on a tea cup

and a tiny dancing horse

carefully arranged

to show the neighbour

the niece the granddaughter

or the moving company


If there was a line

between the perfect

and  imperfect

how could you ever cross it


If there was a space

without a place

how could you be there


If there was knowledge

without information

how could you know it


If you were a being

without a body

how could you be


If there was an answer

without a question

how could it be asked


A kind of invitation