POEM: Cloud Life

i watch the drifting clouds
and my mind synchs to their speed
and i wonder whether i'm the cloud
or the cloud is me
and i know that i'm not moving
and yet i feel i am
and i know that i'm not weightless
and yet i feel i am
and i know i can't live aimlessly
and yet i feel i can

POEM: We Are The Dead

There are those who hold marked places,
and those whose place is in the sky.
Most have long forgotten faces,
and a few never said goodbye.

There are those who rose in thick smoke,
from fires whose flames were fanned by hand
and cautiously, carefully stoked
while, to the last coal, they were manned.

There are those whose stones grew mossy -
keepers now buried at their side.
And those with headstones so glossy
who've only just finished their ride.

And all will vanish in due time,
there's only the fortunes to say
whose tales will be told at bedtimes,
and who will vanish to smoke gray. 

POEM: Frozen Waterfall [Sonnet]

The world stands like a frozen waterfall,
a river paralyzed, impossibly.
And silence replaces its rushing call.
In stillness, it spurns gabbling audibly.

How can a cataract become so hush,
its business being unceasing motion,
spending its days, constantly in a rush,
dispatching raindrops back to the ocean?

Yet, now it's a tower - still as a stone -
that looms like it's never known transience.
Its icy curtain, hard as a shinbone,
offers a wholly different ambience.

I can see its beauty, but am still sad,
thinking the falls should be beyond the fads.

POEM: Geologic Time

The boulders' slothful migration
inched them down the hillside.
They moved so slow you'd never know
they were in leaden landslide.

POEM: Enough is Enough

The question asked:

"Am I enough?"

Which begs the questions:
-enough for whom?
-enough for what?

What would it mean
to not be enough?

The Economist in me
says no one ever
acknowledges when 
enough is enough.

[That's what we are
taught as baby Economists:
that the fundamental 
condition of human existence
is that people's 
wants are endless,
but resources are limited.]

In yoga, we have
Santosha & Tapas
[contentment & discipline,]
which seemed at odds 
to me for a long time --
until I considered 
that being happy 
with who one is 
is only in conflict 
with efforts to be
a better version
of oneself
if one makes some
pretty f***ed up
assumptions. 

I've been told,
on occasion,
that I'm "too much."

I don't know whether
this is better, worse,
or morally equivalent to 
being not enough.

POEM: Evergreens

Evergreens line the trail,
transporting me to a place --
higher and harder --
where one might expect trees
that refuse to yield for seasons.

POEM: Downstream Movement

everything is one thing.
the way we are rivers.
and all things are nothing;
as takers are givers.

i'm flow-er and flow-ee --
twisting as I'm drifting,
not fancy or showy 
nor highly uplifting.

just a leaf on a stream,
bumping into others,
gliding through a fond dream
with sisters and brothers.

Milky Glow Tanka

boulder churned
water sloshes to mist,
sunlit white --
its milky glow rounds
the gentle riverbend