What is real

To avoid the crush

of thinking

what is real

I practice looking

in every other direction

Racoons

There must be some alternative

to the kitchen chair in the street light

maybe the couch in the dark living room

or standing still at the window

looking for the silent racoons

on the tattered grass where they hunt

for their lives

with curious humour and flexible intent

 

The face of wisdom

Where my eyes go looking

my attention follows

I told them not to go there

and I pull them back

but where my attention goes

other eyes can sense

and they go and their attention goes

when I pull my attention back to me

other’s attention is pulled to me

we can see each other

what do we see

do we see who we are

I don’t think so

not with these eyes

they are constantly flitting here and there

drawn to whatever momentary attraction

touches the radar of out of control eyes

quickly let’s put together a face of illusion

to show people

we can fool them

we can even look wise can’t we

 

Avalanche

An avalanche is falling

in my head without a sound

there are no cars speeding

through the highway in my eyes

my stairway doesn’t have

a bottom or a top

time has never come

to the party of my silence

the alarm whispers softly

so no one will awake

Forgiven

Forgiven for loving
when anger was the owner of the sky
forgiven for living
when endings fell in frightened rain
forgiven for being
when pieces broke up pieces into pieces
forgiven for open
when closing pulled the tears from stone
forgiven for silence
when distance was the measurement of touch

The great fear

Photo by Dan Fraser

When the great fear comes

I turn my eyes away

and force it down

into the never empty box

but pushing down is a kind of rain

that gives nourishment to grow again

my great fear is not of dying

it is of living

The illusion of choices

Photo by Dan Fraser

 

Unforeseen consequence of breathing

failure to attempt to lift the planet

wobbling on its knees

opening eyes wider and wider

seeing less and less

the measuring equipment

seized with rust and ice

tossed into the rolling ocean of existence

crushed by the illusion of choices

seeking joy hands up

sliding down the ski slope of the heart

Empty

When I moved into empty

the place that sends me poems

lost my address

so I wrote this note

to let them know

there was someone still awake

in the void