A small stream sings softly
to itself and the green world
as it turns this way and that
always down, flows fast and slow
around boulders and branches
always down
merging with the sea
always down
when were the choices made
Trump World
I have become addicted
to the dark of hand and voice.
Every day I challenge the limits
of my outrage
but it continues to elude me.
There seems to be no end
to my shock and pain
at the anger of the world.
Will the next nightmare
be the last one
Will there be a last one?
The language of distance
Photo by Dan Fraser
My tongue searches
for the language of distance
in the iron grip of near
inside out, turned around
looking
my eyes naked fire in space
in the grip of distance
the very near distance
looking
The slender path of words
Following the slender path of words
I see a misty silver line
turning and twisting
down the rocky face in my mirror
do they whisper in the voice of stars
are they silent like the blink of eye
The blank page
The blank page
the struggle for meaning
reaching for the voice of the heart
the scent of touch
the ache of being
daninmaya 