Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bliss, day, god, sufi, thirst, wine on January 16, 2020| 2 Comments »
The Sufis had it right—
the day is a glass of wine.
It matters not what kind
of vessel it’s poured into—
chipped clay or crystal
or wooden cup. There
is divinity in it regardless—
the chance to dance alongside
the rational, logical self
and fall in love. It brings
the potential for bliss,
for persuasiveness, for imagination,
for spontaneous and riotous
laughter. And you, perhaps,
like I, are beginning to realize
just how dry the mouth,
just how thirsty the heart.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bliss, joy ride, poem, poetry, shame on January 24, 2018| Leave a Comment »
No, this time Shame suggests
you take the driver’s seat,
and though you’re nervous at first,
it’s so fun—your hands
on the wheel, your foot
heavy with bliss—you split
the scene so fast
that Shame begs you to pull over,
leaps from the car, then tries
to hitch a ride home.
Meanwhile you speed
toward the sunrise as it
crooks its long pink fingers
at you, tugging on the hood,
making the whole world
blush. Yeah, you think,
it’s nice this way.
Out the window, the birds
are just beginning to sing.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bliss, ego, loss of the separate self, poem, poetry on October 16, 2015| 3 Comments »
a glimpse of bliss
knowing myself as starlit night
and wild expansiveness—
no coincidence my ego
wasn’t there to enjoy it
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged alter ego, Art, bliss, painting, poem, poetry on February 24, 2015| 2 Comments »
She starts with marigold.
She pours the paint into a cup and selects the fattest brush.
The paint drips all over the floor as she moves toward the canvas.
She doesn’t care about the mess.
She drags huge pulls of marigold onto the blank, stroke after stroke after stroke.
There is no pattern, no purpose, no why.
More paint, she says to no one, more paint!
And she opens the ochre, the navy, the pomegranate, the plum.
She forgets about cups and pours the paint
directly into her hands. Then it’s hurl of paint, smash of paint,
fist and smear and splat of paint. Long slow pinky fingered tease of paint.
Puddles of paint. Great rainbowed pools.
She rolls in the paint and then rolls her body against the walls, the doors,
every inch of the virgin floor.
Every part of her is color now, and there is nothing
she’s not ready to touch.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged awe, blessing, bliss, poem, poetry, sky on October 26, 2013| 3 Comments »
I did not choose
awe today, but the big
pink sky chose me
and steeped me
in fantastic joy—
a drenching of miracle,
an overdose of amazement,
a wild indulgence of bliss—
oh such pink! layers
of rose and deeper rose,
and I did not earn it,
did not first prove my worthiness,
did not beg nor kneel nor fast
nor renounce my name
nor pull the strings
of the lyre nor sing,
all I had to do
was step outside
out of my own way
and open my eyes
and let myself
be gifted.
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bliss, haiku, poem, tanka on December 2, 2012| 2 Comments »
bliss stands
in the center of the field
sticking out her tongue
laughing her head off
that I can’t see her
*
scent of quince—
how many other great pleasures
I never considered
*
dry river bed
not one rock
out of place
Posted in Uncategorized, tagged bliss, datura, haiku, weed on August 14, 2012| 1 Comment »
amdist the weeds
waist-high datura
one scrap of bliss