Lost and Found

I lost my religion…

…and found God

I put down the book
too many words flew at me
I read it through
sought their meaning
tried to unscramble code
designed by those
who deem themselves
the only ones who know

I stepped out of grey clouds
covering me with verity
I knew the rules
followed the letter of the law
ignored with guilt and hid
from those who judge
right from wrong

I took off my watch
too much time
spent in

I let walls crumble
my lifted ego dropped
fractured into shards

A pause for breath
boundless freedom found
I don’t have to be
but me

Now I peel layers
to reach the epicenter
one fragrant petal
at a time

There awaits
one canon for all

My beating heart
my dearest friend
my Beloved
always there

There the source
no addendums
no middle men to confer grace
no fear of doing something wrong
no ceremony where perfect words
grapple in contention
where right dogmas altercate
where gods’ egos clash

It is as simple
as yes and no
no shades of in between and
more difficult than it seems

As the gentlest shaman offered
…remember the root command
love one another…

I now know how to stand
begin anew
one simple movement
one simple thought

love God
love others
love myself

As I breathe out,
God breathes in
an immutable espousal

here I begin…




Author’s Note:

For more on this poem, visit JOURNEY/lex.



Here’s what you get in today’s news:
“Rotterdam considers roads made out of plastic”
A celebrated accomplishment, indeed

I wonder how that might work here in the Sonoran Desert
where sun bakes earth into hard crusted sweeps
to allow only bravest of green to push through
with its pricks and brambles and rocks where lizards laze
and Narnia bugs’ noxious spray defends their guard
on sweet-juice prickly pear

Would our transformed waste, Rotterdam’s fascination,
bear our transport across bone-dry wild where scorpions
hustle, vultures celebrate the fallen, and tarantulas samba

Let me take the guesswork out of Rotterdam’s conclusion,
something to fit your schedule so not to keep you too long
from your daily occupation

We fill our world with our creations, not a worry
of how long they will live their life once we are gone,
or the space they fill in perpetuity with our wants

Wouldn’t we better ourselves if we were to sit
under Sonoran sun with beasts and bugs
to pause in wonder

Might this be somehow be enough for us?

Author’s Note:

Our delightful writing group gathered this afternoon for laughs and sighs from end-of-school-year tired.

We each received phrases from a prompt suggesting a sales pitch. Mine were:

here’s what you get
fits your schedule
take the guess work out

However and true to my form, I needed a bit more inspiration. So I went to my e-mail and took the first subject line. It was from Project Journal: Rotterdam Considers Roads Made of Recycled Plastic.

These communions fill my soul. Thank you, ladies.


Photo of Sonoran Desert courtesy of Wallpapers.




Spring awakens a childish impatience.
Cool moist soil calls for roots
to grow deeply, nourish
stem and vine.

My thoughts focus forward
on that first luscious bite,
a juicy veneer down my chin,
the cardinal tomato chaw.

I am revived each harvest
after officiating the seeding.
But it doesn’t start with seed
or harvest’s nosh.

It is not the action, movements
I repeat presupposing I create.
I step back, return within,
Earth issues the design.

Roots compelled to dig deeply,
take hold and fill themselves
to thicken stem to tenure leaves
to pop sweet buds where bloom
will ensue to offer fruit
to fill my belly.

It begins where I cannot see,
but where I yield.

The work is compulsory
not for product, but benevolence
for season of bird and insect,
tree and star – each morsel magnified
by one rooted slip.

I cannot propagate, help or heal
unless I have cultivated Me.

It is not what I do for the world to
see, ego pressing me on.
It is not bold and righteous
indignations, ego standing tall.

It is my small quivering voice
answering Your call that I
may fall in love with Me,
the one You created,
deeply and passionately.

In consummation ego will abandon
its lien and You will outbloom
my tender.


Author’s Note:

I am beginning to understand that it is not what I do but how deeply I love that will attend the shift. It does no good to step out armed with ego’s chatter to change the world. Too many are injured when ego is in control.

It is hard to quiet ego, keep it at bay. But when it can be wrangled into a bit of rest, leaving it aside, there is room for roots to take hold. Roots that will grow deeply and thrive in Love.

Even more difficult is where I have to start. That place can only be with learning to love myself. For if I am vessel for the Divine, there is only one way for me to honor that. I must love myself first, as I am loved. Then the Divine flows from me, not in my way, but in full compassion for all – even to those who are formidable. I must remember, they are containers, too.





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Today’s photos, the crow and the seashell, don’t seem kindred to the text. They are. My trip to Seattle a few weeks ago gave me a freedom to discover much in myself. Crow flew by me as I drove to beaches and along lush roadways, sat by me as I rested on driftwood, walked with me in small town harbors. I was alone for two days on this journey, yet crow was there at each turn.

The shell and tiny flowers sat at the edge of a forested area near a harbor on a handrail. It was a Sunday and the altar was set by someone, it seemed just for me and my ceremony.

There I confirmed my call to nature is the ocean, not mountain. Surprising since I am a Denver “native.” I will head the call.



There is weight in the word “carry”11216587_10206478118263683_3028741297045237260_n
exhaustion, a heaviness that heaves a sigh

Today I set down my garden
Oh, not completely, never completely

I will let beds unto themselves, allow a give
and take of seasons passing

I will empty pots, crumbled and
weathered over years of trusted work

I will carry simplicity and nurture
abundance only within my reach

Today I set down past hurt, yes,
no need to make room for such folly

I cannot amend ghosts who
ride beside me, whispering their call

I set down their reins, release the
tether, no longer will I carry

Today I set down my fear
a weighted bundle of nihility

I will preside in the here and now
in light of day, depth of night

I will smile of me and in gratitude
of grace sweetly poured

I will walk with you and with those
I am given, animal and insect, too


Today I will set down my titles
for I am sixty and begin anew


I will let wind name me
I will let rain purify me
I will let earth ordain me
I will let sun commission me


May I carry that which gives life
May I carry thanksgiving in my stride
May I carry Light for my path


Amen. Amen. Amen.



It is said fire cleanses
but it is a brutal way

Engulfed in passion or
friendship or promises
flames lick, rise to ignite
then destroy all in it’s path

Trust crumbles into blackened ash
Love is lifted away in thick grey smoke
What was once a surety, now glowing embers

I stand alone
long to hear you through the inferno

May your flame light in me
strength and hope






The largest coral reef
in the continental U.S.
is dissolving into the ocean

like a sugar cube dropped
into a glass of water

Coral skeletons
rebuild themselves
over time
if there is enough time present
before they are no more

we press on
our acidic ways leaking
into ocean tides of our souls
spillage of damage

Sixty years I have stepped on this earth
and once more under
a Taurean New Moon
I rise to remake myself

Given time and big sea tears
I wash away
become new again

Author’s Note:

In a few days I will turn sixty.  It seems implausible. I don’t feel “sixty.”

I will take this lovely number with its roundness and curves. There are no rough edges or points, something that comes with age, refinement through weathering, loosening, learning to flow not demand a fit, but allow for imperfections, a curvy road along the path, arms holding, a sigh.

Yes, 60 will be good.