Who Do You Think You Are?

Image courtesy clashot.com

Image courtesy clashot.com

Let me put it this way

We lose a civilization

With every extinction


Has the wisdom of society

Even if we only see

With our narrow minds

Their purpose relative to us






Lives marked

If survived

By our reactions

To convenience

Or inconvenience


We never will

As everyone collides

Millions and millions of galaxies worth

Of us

Species, families, kingdoms


Call them what you want

Put them in silly categories

The birds would laugh

If they could or would

Pull focus

On the tiny speck

Of humanity’s rationale

It’s absurd

This obsession

Running away

From what we don’t know

By making up stories

Of what we think we do

You will get so much further

Watching, listening, whispering


To your territory

Your dharma

And wide amazement

To all others’

Art, Poetry/Prose


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You can’t be homesick

Without a home

In unison

The guy hiding

All his funny feelings

Behind those shades

Dropped the beat

In the mouths

Of our silent screams

To the winking sunset

Bowing its head

As the sky shook hands

Over and over and over

With the rolling sea

We are not orphans

Except to the outsider

And we are not outsiders


In fact we relish

(Not the kind on a hotdog)

Being adrift

(Not the kind that’s worried)

Never quite comfortable

To call a place home


Is everywhere

And you just can’t be homesick

Without a home

Nobody says goodbye

To everywhere

Unless it’s somewhere

And then we ask:

Who needs it?!

You can’t be homesick

Without a home


Who needs it


Phalaenopsis’ Song


photo (3) (1)

Photo/art credit–mine


I know what you feel

More than you


The crushing weight

Of watching you fly

In denial’s wind

Nothing to hold

Here in “me”

In another life

I was once a bee

Smelling perfection

In lover’s projection

Intense grief

The Earth turned her face

Smiled at me

I bowed to witness

Her holy game

Driving each one of us, deeper

Oh nature

When you fall for me

We both die

To who we once were

Six feet under

Reaching roots

My heart

My deepest love

All that I am

From the deep I beg:

Turn away from me

Rule the air around you

These man’s world winds

Only gust more

Never caring

As much as you

Find a flower


Find a shelter


The validity

Earth’s fruits

Your banquet since birth

Dearest one

Projections never nourish

Embrace the one

Feeding you

Laughing at your doubts

Easing your mind


We are together


Needing what we know

Knowing what we feel

But sometimes

I can feel what you feel

More than you

When I am the orchid

And you are the bee

Now disappearing

To your confused flight

Only from a distance

You will see who I was

A projection

Your deepest longings

Alive in a mirror

Never one to love

More than yourself

I hold anyone truly


On sacred command


Trapped in their longing

Camouflaged pain

Fertilizes my life

Now, now

If anything were spoken

From the deepest Earth

All the root-feeding death

I tell you surely


The self

I’ve known so many times

Through such sacred deception

That lured my deepest love

Back to my own heart


What if We’re All Adopted?

What if I’m like the most people in the world who was raised in a broken home or broken country or broken economical system or broken broke festival?

What if not being raised in a broken home was a handicap that caused one to live in a delusional state, expecting everything to be within a relatively rigid set of norms their whole life long?

What if when you got older, you stopped calling the humans who gave you their sperm and egg DNA, love and attention (no matter if they were coddling, attentive, overbearing or sending you to a baby sitter, drunk or self-absorbed … whatever they gave you) parents?

What if you started calling them Mary and Jack, or Peggy and Martin, or, in my case, Alesia and Gregory?

What if the words parental figures meant those who supported everyone, constantly?

What if you had an epiphany that the Earth and Sun are actually your parents?

What if you suddenly realized yourself as an adult and Alesia and Gregory became people instead of what your unconscious was programmed to think of them as: gods?

What if Alesia faced overwhelming odds against the development of her self esteem to create a colorful life for herself, even if she couldn’t be there as a mother in many ways?

What if Gregory came from an academic home, wherein his father was a renowned and well-loved professor on campus but a cruel and ruthless grouch to those closest to him, behind closed doors?

What if Gregory raised his kids mostly by himself and sometimes had an Irish temper but really, over the long-run, did an amazing job?

What if all the ways that Alesia and Gregory disappointed their kids was a story that could be dropped when the kids became adults? Even the most disappointing things?

What if the kids decided to hold on to the stories forever and expect these people to be more than people, in fact, to be like gods so that they could worship deranged stories based in the past and never come fully into the present or envision a future they could create?

What if you thought of everything/everyone you eat, wear, walk around on and in, look through, watch, listen to, soak in, bump into, lie down on, make love to, sing into, drink, breath, type on, kiss, pet, touch, see and smell as a gift made by the Earth and the Sun.

What if you are old enough to see that you write the story of how life is?

What if life is asking you to be its co-author?

What if you decided that the story you started to write was too much like that of people like Alesia and Gregory or Sarah and Jeff or …?

Wouldn’t that be plagiarism, anyway?

What if you wanted to write a different story?

What if you wanted it to be a damn good story?

Like a Pulitzer?

What if those people who gave you your genes and tended to you while you grew were also children of the Sun and the Earth?

What if we did a super-conscious dance with them whereby, over the years, we turned with the table, became chummy and then assumed the role as their caretakers?

What if humans found a million lines of conversation unspoken in nibbles on raw spinach … the unscripted cacophony of birdsongs … the foam and tiny crab dens left just moments after the retreat of a broken wave … the movement of clouds that almost makes us a bit dizzy as we relax into the grassy earth under our backs … ?

What if the Earth and the Sun produced the perfect food for us?

What if we didn’t need to refine, fix, package, market the perfect symbiosis we enjoy?

What if we did it anyway and the sense of separation made us instead feel like we had no parents at all?

What if this symbiosis surpasses any form of true love?

What if this is a necessary prerequisite for the luxury of thinking hours on end about what true love is?

What if us making it this far, with intelligence in tact, was against amazing odds?

What if just our zygote form was millions of times less likely to happen than a baby sea turtle making its way through trappings in the dark to the sea and growing three decades old through constant threat of predation?

What if you realized that the Sun and the Earth would never judge you, or anyone?

What if you recalled every time in your life where you felt alone and realized that they could never leave you … and you could never leave them … that you are inseparable? That we are all of the same parents, in the end?

What if we’re all just adopted?